1 Dead. 1 Acquitted. 1 Euphoric.

It's been 18 months since I've "published" anything here on my blog. Work gets hectic, life gets strange, family issues weigh you down. Everyone knows these feelings. But last Thursday morning, something clicked. And I need to reinstate a creative outlet to my life. I need to write. And so, I write.

1 Dead. 1 Acquitted. 1 Euphoric.

A couple weeks ago, I found out an old acquaintance of mine from high school commited suicide. 1 handgun and 1 lost soul later, there's a dead young man. And alot of questions. And a much more sordid history to his family. Greg Marchese and I played drums together back in high school, but probably hadn't seen each other in 20 years, basically since graduation. I saw Greg's Dad, Carl, a little over 5 years ago at the funeral of one of my close friend's Dad. I asked Mr. Marchese how Greg was doing. He humbly stated they had a falling out years before and had not spoken to nor seen each other in that time. Wow, I was speechless.

During high school, I remember Greg was a good guy. Involved in theater and music, he was a "fringe" guy in the stereotypical world of the Long Island mainstream (eg - high school sports and academia). But a good guy. While we were in high school together 20+ years ago, his older brother Chris also took his own life (or so it was speculated). Within a year or so of Chris' death, they lost their Mother to cancer. All this is horrific in its own right, but Greg's Dad is still alive, back in Mineola. He has to deal with all of this. Might I add to this that Mr. Marchese remarried many years ago, so he did have someone close to spend his time with and share life's ups and downs. Tragically, his second wife passed a year or so ago from illness. And now his youngest son has taken his own life. The timing is eerie - his first wife and oldest son pass within a year or so of each other. More than a score later, his second wife and youngest son pass within a year or so of each other.

Life is short, but not worthless. We all have our troubles and tribulations. And we all have someone out there to listen to us and lean on. And those are the ones that are left alive after you senselessly take your own life. Mr. Marchese - you are very much on my mind and in my thoughts. May you find peace and calm in this tumultuous, horrific time.

1 Dead. 1 Acquitted. 1 Euphoric.

So, last Thursday was my first day back at work since Monday (MLK Day). Why? Jury Duty!!! I had been called thrice before - once in NY and twice out here in CO and always managed a postponement. Not this time. The dreaded Courts summons served via the almost-outdated USPS with no fanfare, just wrapped in with all the junkmail and unsolicited solicitations in the soon-to-be-antiquated physical mailbox. YOU have been selected!! Woo-HOO!! How comes it's never the winning Publisher's Clearinghouse entry? Anyway, I showed up at the Courthouse in Boulder as instructed last Tuesday morning. I'd guess there were about 75 of us. I brought one of my favorite re-reads of all time, A Walk In the Woods from Bill Bryson. I figured I'd get through about 3 or 4 chapters, questioned, dismissed as another long-haired idealist from hippieville, and that's it. The Clerk brought us up to speed on the day's fun: 3 new trials (one criminal, two civil) needing a total of 25 jurors. "Cool, odds are with me today." Or so I thought.

First up, the criminal case - Christian, the law clerk for Judge Gwyneth Whalen called 35 names. And up I stood along with 34 other lucky Boulder County residents. After some instructions, a background on the case, a little legal song-and-dance, and a strange, almost old-fashioned "passing-of-the-list-of-names-on-not-so-old-parchment" by each of the lawyers, they had their list of 13. By now, I'd say there were 25 or so of us left. I still have a 50-50 shot to be outta here by lunchtime I thought. The Judge read off the names..... Mr. Butler..... huh, WHAT?!? But this is a gun case! I have cousins who are lawmen and police officers, judges and lawyers! I told them that. I have long hair and a pseudo-goatee and an earring! I didn't have to tell them that. Isn't the defense counsel afraid of what someone like me means for him and his soon-to-be-convicted client?!?!?! Well, apparently I was deemed impartial. And so it went. We sat for just shy of 2 days listenting to the courts, the defense, the prosecutor, 4 witnesses, looked at a gun and a rough sketch of apartment life, listened to the 911 call. Mom has 16-year old son, mom remarries, stepdad is a gun "enthusiast." Less than 6 months after the vows and the empty promise of "till death do us part," stepdad is accused of pointing his .45 at his new stepson. Cops are called, lives are forever changed on both sides. Thankfully, no shot was fired, no one was physically injured or killed. All lives were left on this Earth in this instance, but lives were changed and a different outlook will be had by those involved.

Ultimately, the burden of proof proved to be too burdensome, in this humble juror's opinion. As it did also in my 11 other temporary peers. But it was not lost on me that as I sat there with 11 other strangers-from-yesterday, we discussed a man's fate. Seriously?!? We could send this guy down the river or we could disappoint societal norms and send him on his not-so-merry way. And we talked. And we argued. And we discussed again. After a little under 2 hours we unanimously agreed - this guy ain't gonna win stepfather-of-the-year award, nor model citizen, nor was he exactly a role model to the new teenager in his life. But by our legal standards and the instructions of the honorable Judge Whalen, we found him not guilty. Acquitted.

1 Dead. 1 Acquitted. 1 Euphoric.

And so it was less than 12 hours after I was 1/12 of the entity that acquitted a man who allegedly pointed his pistol at his stepson b/c he loved to tote guns around with him (including from his bedroom to his living room, just in case), and so it was a week after I found out about Greg's premature and violent death at his own hand, that I was lying awake at 2:30 in the morning, snow had just stopped falling peacefully outside, and the fucking snow removal company scraping and plowing our deck and sidewalks waking me out of a sound fucking sleep. Morons. You need an ATV with a plow to clear our 3-foot wide sidewalk. Really?!? Lazy asses. At least wait until 5 am or so, just so I'm not losing half my night's sleep. As I started wasting time playing on-line Texas Hold 'Em at no-man's-hour, I thought to myself, WTF am I doing here?!? Death, guns, war here and there, and a fake online card game. Fuck this. Stop the self-pity you monkey! There's a full moon out there being wasted.

Checked the temperature - 14 degrees.

Hmmmm...... donned my running pants (a rarity for those that have run with me, usually with me wearing shorts, regardless of temps), two base layers and an outershirt, and my fave green Windstopper jacket scored at TransRockies 2010. Grabbed by Brooks Cascadia 5s, checked the clock - 4:55am, and stepped out into the frigid late night/early morning air. I figured to go out for 30-40 minute to wake myself up - a brief jaunt around Wonderland Lake, perhaps out towards Mt. Sanitas. And I started running.

Then something happened.

All of the shit that goes through one's mind and builds and builds and builds over time, came out. Maybe it was the crisp temps, maybe the jury thing, maybe Greg's suicide, maybe the early hour, maybe the full moon. I thought of many of the people I've known and lost - lost to cancer, lost to their jobs, lost to drugs, lost to inner conflict and battle, lost to life. And it came out. And I howled at the moon. And I kept running, all over the snow-covered trails and landscape. It was practically as bright as day outside and my inner being was lit up from here to somewhere far, far away. It was magnificent. No, it was FUCKING magnificent. And as I was heading back in 45 minutes or so later, I bumped into Jamie and Terry out for their early Thursday morning romp. So, I turned around and ran with them for a few more minutes. But them bastards were too fast for me this fine morning, so I turned around to head back in. And as I approached the Old Kiln Trail, there were no tracks on the way up it. None. Not a human, not an animal, not any spirit known to this world. So, I did what any self-respecting runner would do. I made them first tracks for my own benefit. And I kept running. Up and Up and Up. In and out of the moon falling behind the foothills. Bright, dark, bright, dark. And I kept running. And I got to the top overlooking Lee Hill Rd. And I howled at the moon again, and again, and again. All that emotion and realization coming out in many magnificent bursts on this finest of mornings.

It was getting bright in the eastern sky. Back to the real world I thought. So, I headed back down, crossed Lee Hill Rd.......... but I didn't make the turn back to our place. I headed back into the foothills for more and howled some more.

Eventually, of course, I did go back home. A little shy of 6:30 at that point. But time is irrelevant. Mileage definitely irrelevant. Heart rate? Absolutely irrelevant. Sense of place and spirit and experience? And complete euphoria? Relevant.

1 Dead. 1 Acquitted. 1 Euphoric.

Yup, that's why I do this thing called trail-running - to get a grasp on life. Attempt to keep it within my realm of reality. For that once-in-awhile glance SO deep into your inner self and soul that euphoria overtakes you. And your outlook on life is changed forever. But it is still life.

VERY happy trails to you all - thanks for reading.

A New Beginning, to Prevail

So, I've been a work in progress the last several months, not to mention this little blog thing I got going here. Hence, no time, no energy for this kind of thing. But there should be, right?!? There has to be. Work and life can be all-consuming, so what happens when an example for a creative outlet (this) also tends to become all work and life? I dunno. Perhaps it's a question that shouldn't even be posed.

Regardless, I have decided to ditch all the "works-in-progress" - save a few for potential future consumption and revision - and simply not stress about them. But more race reports, adventures, and soapbox-y type are to follow.

Over the last many months since I have seriously written anything, many things have happened. Only some are worth mentioning. And without belittling life's lessons and many curve balls, I shall attempt to bring you up to speed on me, and hopefully this boring, but truthful, outpouring may inspire my brain to spew some stuff over the next few months and years. Unfortunately, it will only cover one topic, OK 2 - death and cancer.

Cancer, cancer, cancer. The word alone never agreed with me, but now it's personal. As many of you know, I lost my father to cancer just over 5 years ago, in May 2004. He was on the wrong side of 70 years young. I wrote about him earlier on, many times, and you can find one here. But love prevailed. We lost our dear, sweet feline Stink, last October 2008. She was on the wrong side of 10 years young. We found out she had lymphoma last August and she did not even make it three months. Watching a poor defenseless, sweet creature like a house cat suffer for even three months is brutal. It made me wonder, over and over again, how my mother took such incredible care of my Dad. And love prevailed. My dear friend Stuart Kent, who I used to work with at may last job at Earth Tech, passed in late January after a 5+ year battle with renal cancer. He was on the wrong side of 50 years young. He was the kindest, gentlest soul imaginable. He was also a Baltimore Orioles fan, which I will never hold against him :) In fact that was a basis for our friendship, baseball. He will be missed by all that knew and loved him. So, love prevailed.

Cancer has now taken my Dad, one of my first 2 cats, a dear friend, my paternal grandpa, aunts, uncles, other friends and neighbors, and countless others who I never knew, nor ever will. But should we get mad or angry? It seems as if we can be more constructive working with passion as opposed to anger or frustration. Donate, volunteer, work with others, take care of yourself, and let love prevail.

And lastly, thankfully not a death, or a cancer, but a life and a tribute to a good, long, healthy life: 109 years ago today, my maternal grandfather was born. Joe Sheehan was born on May 14, 1900 and what a dude he was. When he passed away in March 1996, many, many lives - young and old - were affected. Family, friends, neighbors, etc. But it comes down to good people and good healthy, fulfilling lives. Can we all strive for more? Perhaps. But have that good effect on your human cohorts at the very least.

While I mainly speak of cancer here, do what you can to combat anything that can have a negative or detrimental, a stressful or dire impact, on your life. Do it now, take a stand, be one of the good ones, let a new beginning, and life, to prevail.

Realization, Part 1

As I looked back upon my entries for the last few months (OK, most of this year), I had a realization. Most of my posts are about some outdoorsy-type fun (mainly runs or races)...... which means I'm severely limiting my potential readers (not to mention the attention spans of those I love and want to also keep in contact with). Brilliant conclusion, eh? But then I realized, it hasn't been writer's block (like earlier in my stellar blogging career), so much as time? No. Money? Definitely not. Work? Well, that always gets in the way.

Anyway, the realization of diversity hit me. And not just in concept or symbolism. In one's life. And not what the current moral/political/media-driven/societal norms environment says. In one's life. Your own life. Independant, thought-driven practice. Imagine that. It seems to me that while catching headlines of the latest celebrity scandal or star-gone-mad that we are seriously drained as a world, a society, a community. Perhaps community would thrive again if we stopped paying any mind to the expected world drivel and moved on with our own train of thought?

OK, now I'm just rambling, but I wonder about me and about diversity. And how specific interests or thought-du-jour can drive our lives, unknowingly and definitely unwittingly. What else is out there? How does one discover? By adventure, by reading, by discussion, by travel. Life goes on and time ticks by, no matter our small-world distractions. Live! Life!! Feel!!!

MS150 Ride -- 2008 Version

Multiple Sclerosis (MS) is one of those all-too-common things many hear, but few know about or understand. I figure between now and when I die, me or someone I know and love, will be diagnosed with MS, or cancer, or CP, or a host of many other brutal diseases and debilitating conditions that inhibit one's life and ability to live. While we are healthy and able, let's do something. Make a donation, volunteer, speak out, raise money, make a positive difference any way you can and know how. Every year across the US, thousands ride their bikes one weekend out of the year in cities east and west, north and south, to raise money for MS.

Last year, Veener did this ride. This year, I am joining her. We are riding on the same team, Left Hand Brewing with Captain Mick.

Please click on this link to simply educate yourself about MS. If you are so inclined to donate, thank you. If not, I understand - but do educate yourself, please.

To donate, please click on this link:

And then click on my name.

Thanks for reading, donating, and being educated!

Dave

PS - If I get $500. in donations, I will do the Century Option (100 miles instead of 75) on one of the 2 days. If I raise $1,000. or more, I will do the Century Option BOTH days. Make me work people!

Home? Or Home?

So, the lady and I returned from a New Year's trip to New York back in January and I started this post not long after. New York is the state where we were both born and raised. I left New York in 1995 when I was 23 years old. At the time, I simply needed to experience something more than "The City that never sleeps." Or the Island that sleeps in lieu of New York City. Anyway, here I still live, two time zones and 1,818 miles away (according to Google Maps).

One of the most common questions I seem to hear is, "Don't you miss the ocean?" And the honest answer is no, I do not. The ocean is magnificent, beautiful, and powerful. I appreciate it when I see it. And I dare not speak to the negative about the qualities of growing up on Long Island - it's a great place to grow up. But I can honestly say, I LOVE being landlocked here in Colorado.

The second most common question I seem to hear is, "Do you ever get homesick?" Hmmmmm, I thought I was home here in Colorado. We own our home here. We work here and pay taxes here. I thought this is home. Or is it? Where is home? What is home? And is "it" what you make it? In this day and age of folks jet-setting and moving to and fro all willy-nilly, one cannot help but wonder, where is home anymore? And is "it" truly what you make it?

I thought this post was going to be much longer and require a whole bunch more thought - philosophical or otherwise. But perhaps not. Perhaps you can just toss your thoughts this way. Start one of them good ol'-fashioned discussions.

So, where are you from? And where exactly is "home?"

Still here.....

..... I hit that all-perfect, all-knowing perfect storm of blogging and running: I got sick, work's been crazy, and oh yeah - not to mention the writer's block. Oh, the writer's block. I sit at the computer staring at the screen like a jackal without prey (I know, poor analogy - see what I mean?).

Apparently my gray matter has taken a hit in addition to my alveoli. Hopefully it'll all return soon. But first I gotta stop hacking!!! Which is why I missed my first 2 scheduled races this year - Frosty's and the Screamin' Snowman Crap. Anyway, this weekend is a beautiful Hall Ranch run. Perhaps I'll hack up that final bit of particulate matter that's been inhibiting my full lung capacity lately and be on my merry way. And be back on my merry blog. Cheerio!

Happiness, Part 2: Ode to Father: Some More Happiness

Tears of laughter and tears of joy. Such the contradiction.

Anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles - thank you George Bailey. Always a journey life is. And thank you dear Father of mine, Matthew Anthony, such a journey your life was - you are missed every day and night, weekend and weekday, year in and year out, holidays. And your memory always makes me Smile. And Cry. And you can always make me think a bit more. Still. To this day.

Tears of laughter and tears of joy. Such the contradiction. Such the confusion.

It's a bit odd at times to move forward in life mustering the energy to do the mundane over and over and over again. Why do we do it? And for what? Pride or a point? A paycheck or a pittance? But you taught me something. Happiness is unsurpassed. Somehow. Me, the stubborn one you taught. And you stood by me with knowledge unsurpassed. And patience unfailing. Always push on to do your best. And never let down on your principles.

Thanks Dad. For all the happiness your instilled in our lives. Still. To this day.

Happiness, Part 1. What Makes YOU Happy?

So, I sit here pondering nothing in particular. Because I can. And I'm not ready for bed. The Gomez song "See the World" just came on and made me smile. Then came Jimi's "Voodoo Child" and I got chills. Is there a better intro to a song than that guitar riff?!? Top 5, all-time for sure. And now Sugar's "Going Home?" Very cool. But it's not just about music. Though music surely does speak volumes, and on many levels. So many emotions. So little time.

What makes YOU happy? Besides music and the arts? Me, I dunno - lots of things:

Warm weather with a cool breeze and cool weather with a warm breeze.
A packed meeting hall with familiar faces and a vacant remnant reminiscent of days gone-by.
A wide open trail with activity abound and a deserted single track where nary a soul exists for hours.
A sunrise stroll and a moonlit run.
A sunrise run and a moonlit strool.
Sweet summer rain and light 'n' fluffy winter snow.
A long weekend's outing and a short month's vacation.
The crack of a bat and the smell of freshly cut infield grass.
A perfectly-poured pint of Guinness and a fizzy, frothy hefeweizen (with lemon).
The buzz of a city and the hum-drum calm of a long, country road.
A calm, cobalt-blue ocean and an ominous, black&stormy sky.
A fresh plate of homemade pasta from Gondolier on Pearl (formerly Cafe Gondolier). That's it - just pasta. It is SO good, you can eat it by itself.

This could probably go on forever. But now slumber does call. It's always nice to put pleasant thoughts out there for sharing. And for sleeping. Sweet dreams to all, however that comes to be for one and all.

The snow, the snow, the snow.....

I am not some sort of crazed snow bunny - waiting all year to hit the slopes with the first snow or first tracks even. Nope, but I love the first snow. And the second. And the third. Etc., etc., etc. The fog looms a bit longer, the sun must work harder to warm our bones. But the solitude and the peaceful nature of the hills and sky. Ahhhhhhh........... the calm. The always soothing calm. Just lovin' the change in seasons.

And I'm particularly looking forward to my run in the morning. It will be bone-chilling cold. They're predicting a low in the single digits overnight. Hopefully the clouds will lift tonight pulling the warm cover off the landscape and a nice north wind will kick up to boot as sunrise approaches.

And I'll be wearing shorts. Excellent. See you on the trails.

Innocence Lost

December 7 has been a day that has lived in infamy since 1941. While the importance and magnitude of that day has never (or should have never) subsided, it took on a new meaning and brand new, unwelcome infamy in 1993 in the New York metropolitan area.

I grew up in the Village of Mineola, NY, on Long Island, about 25 miles outside of Manhattan. It was a great place to grow up. I was able to safely walk to every school I attended from K-12, into the village for a loaf of bread and milk. The local pizza place was also accessible by foot. And, as the years went on, so were several fun local watering holes also available without driving - beers and wings every Sunday while watching Sunday night baseball or football. Not too bad a place at all.

One of my main hobbies while growing up in Mineola was playing drums - stage band, concert band, pit orchestra, marching band. Yup, I was a band nerd. But I was a drummer, so it didn't matter, cause I was freakin' cool. DRUMS!!! While many people (parents, brother, teachers, peers) were supportive and helped nurture my musical life, one person showed me a particularly impassioned view of them. DRUMS!!! Rich Nettleton. That dude could hit a drum louder and harder, and more rhythmically comprehensive than many folks twice our age who had been playing for all those extra years. He was my brother's age, so three years older - in fact, he and my brother were great friends growing up. When I was a freshman, he and my brother were seniors, so thankfully I had my own protector squad as a little freshman. Alas, I was still shy, still vulnerable. But with the nurturing and love of a brother, Rich pushed me and pressed all the right buttons to get me to be a drummer, a leader, a lover of all things drums. DRUMS!!! He freakin' rocked.

So, on December 7, 1993, the day that I found out my band (Nuclear Cream Cheese) scored our first gig at the now-defunct Right Track Inn in Freeport, NY, after telling my brother and parents, I had one person to call: Rich. At the time, my Dad was also commuting into and out of the city, but was already home by the time I went to call Rich. I knew something had happened, but did not understand the severity of it. I remember it vividly, my heart beating in anticipation of his reaction, trying to think ahead a couple weeks to the night of the show. His Dad answered. He sounded a but flummoxed and asked me to call back, because of..... the thing..... you know Dave, the thing on the train. He hung up. It took me a minute or two to comprehend what may have (did?) happened..... Rich was on the 5:33 out of Penn Station. Oh.... my.... god. That kind of thing doesn't happen in our little bit of suburbia, does it?!? No way. Oh, how naive I was. How ignorant and unaware I was. How innocent.

And 14 years ago today, December 10, 1993, we were all trying to come to grips with what had happened. Rich had been killed along with 5 other innocent humans. 19 others were injured before 3 good, scared (I'd figure) samaritans tackled the crazed gunmen down to the floor. Wakes and funerals abound. Tears and disbelief. Sorrow and pain. My (everyone's?) innocence gone. A horrible dose of reality that still stings to this day. The anger and hostility is thankfully long gone, though I fought with those emotions for a long time after that. It just did not make sense then and still does not make sense now. These were people simply commuting home from New York City after another day of work, like they had done for many days, weeks, months, years before. Some were probably sleeping when the first shots rang out. Others had no or minimal time to react. Uggghhhhh, the anguish of many because of the rage of one.

And my innocence was lost on that December day in 1993. Gone. Poof. But my life goes on; all our lives go on. And we must cope. And we must make ourselves better people. And hope that others are able to do the same. Some days are full of hope and others are horrible reminders of the fact that people still are enraged, or insane, or have simply lost hope - like last week in Omaha or this past weekend here at 2 different churches in Colorado.

It seems like it may follow only you, but it follows everyone regardless of the geographic locations of these horrific events. And we must all move on, and work at tirelessly, and hope that perhaps someday, the world you once wished for to live in for yourself, is available for your children and grandchildren. Perhaps someday. A brilliant songwriter once wrote and sang, "Imagine." How tragically ironic the way his life ended as well, almost to the day, 13 years apart, of another impassioned and incredible musician that I knew and loved personally.

Imagine people. Imagine.

Grand Canyon R2 (or R3?) - October 2007, Part 1

This is Part 1 of my written account (penned on Halloween night) of a Grand Canyon R3 attempt on October 26, 2007. Due to its length, I've split it into 3 separate posts.

And then there was one……..
October 31, 2007

When I started running in July 2005, I had modest goals: lose some weight, get out a little more, get in better shape. I had lost my way a bit in life, losing some focus of the important “stuff.” I’d just gone through 14 difficult months – emotionally, physically, mentally - after my Dad had passed away from cancer in May 2004. Other than that, I had no huge complaints. I had a wonderful lady at my side. We had just moved into a new place in a fantastically vibrant North Boulder neighborhood 3 blocks from trail access. There were great neighbors everywhere. I had a good job, though too far from home for a reasonable daily commute. Then I started trail running utilizing the close proximity to the beauty of the Foothills to regain focus and reground myself. I was never good with patience, but I knew I would need to commit to the long haul (literally and figuratively) for this trail running thing to work out. Patience, not one of my stronger suits.

So, it was with great amazement that less than a week ago I found myself at the Grand Canyon, in the parking lot of the South Kaibab (SK) Trail at 2am on Friday, October 26, 2007 under a full moon. 40 degrees or so, no wind to speak of, starry-bright sky - perfection. Standing there with 2 former co-workers, Kirk and Chris, we were about to set out on all our first R3 attempts.

We had water and a varied assortment of runner’s nutrition and energy products with fun names like GU, shot blocks and Clif Bars. If successful, we would cover about 45 miles each. We would descend over 10,000’ total; and more daunting was the fact that we would ascend about the same. I figured we were looking at somewhere between 12 and 18 hours. But how would I know? I’d never done anything quite like this before. The longest run I’d been on was about 5 - 6 hours, though I’d been on 10 – 12-hour day hikes before. I’d been over 12- & 13,000’ mountain passes and 14,000’ peaks. And I had just finished 2 12-day stints in Oklahoma for work in a little over a month’s time; I figured I was on my feet for upwards of 12 hours most of those days. All those places were/are familiar – I knew what to expect; friends, peers, coaches had brought me through all those experiences – slow and methodical. That should prepare me, right?

Kirk and I started running around the same time, and he’s developed into a phenomenally talented runner taking full advantage of some incredible natural abilities. Chris has been running a bit longer and is the beneficiary of good genes (his Dad was an ultrarunner) and a recent finisher of the Bulldog 50K Ultra in Malibu, CA. Me, sure I’d done 20+ miles a few times. I had done a couple back-to-back 15+ mile training runs over the last couple months tacking on 30+ miles in a weekend. I had fooled around with hydration and nutrition and pace and breaks during these training runs, but no watches or monitors. A techno-gadget guy I am not. More stuff to concern myself with – I have trouble enough with hydration and nutrition.

Grand Canyon R2 (or R3?) - October 2007, Part 2

So there I was, 650 miles from the familiar surroundings of Boulder and its hinterland. After some encouraging words from Veener, my wife, (e.g. – “Good luck, be careful, way to go!!!!” and “You guys are nuts, but enjoy – I’m going back to bed.”), we were close to departure. The Grand Canyon. Unbelievable. And here I was, ready to “run” it (or at least cross it, on foot, within a fairly short time frame.) The full moon was out, lighting up everything around.

It's 2am. Under a full moon.

The mules were restless from these human intruders disturbing their rest. Oh, the mules – never will one forget that smell. After a few pictures (see Part 1), we were off, down the SK Trail. The steepness of the SK Trail was about what I’d expected. The distance of the steps however, was unfamiliar and disturbing – they were built for mules. Too long for 1 human step, too short for 2 full steps. I developed a foreign stutter step that made it difficult to establish a rhythm. As downhills have always been comfortable for me, I was already using a little more energy than I’d hoped. Oh well, enjoy the place. Few eyes greet this great abyss under such circumstances. We played with our headlamps – clicking them on and off to conserve the batteries as well as absorb the moonlight naturally. We were able to enjoy several sections with no artificial light polluting our paths. Chris scared some deer or sheep off the trail a bit above the Black Bridge. By about 3:30 or so, we were approaching and crossing the Black Bridge over the mighty Colorado River.

I stopped mid-span to soak it all in. Looking downstream, the moon seemed to have perfectly centered itself over the river just for us – lighting up the walls and the river – casting its light for all to see. Well, for all those who were awake and here at that point in time. Not too many I figured. We watered up at the Phantom Ranch campground and continued on our way. We only saw one person stirring at Phantom Ranch. Ahhhhhhhhh, solitude, I could get used to this.

MMMMmmmmmmm……………. Bacon... 3:45 am, the Ranch-hands are up and cooking as we swing by another mule barn. It took a lot out of me not to stop, introduce myself, and join them for breakfast. I could always continue later, right? But, onward-forward; on to the flattest section of the trail we went between Phantom Ranch and Cottonwood, slowly rolling, ascending and descending gradually, along Bright Angel Creek on the North Kaibab Trail. 2 more folks were passed in the Cottonwood area – brief pleasantries were exchanged as we all continued on our respective ways.

Soon, the Canyon reasserts its magnitude – immensely high walls giving way to no person and seemingly nothing at all, although water will always have its way, given enough time. Almost 2 billion years of geology and history has been exposed through here. Absolutely remarkable when you realize who you are. Though in the moment, we are small creatures, insecure and inadequate in size and significance. We are now at the mercy of everything: a turned ankle or a faulty step; an errant rock or agitated wild beast; fatigue and faulty nerves. The enormity of this whole venture hit me as Kirk muscled on ahead and Chris and I were taking it easy. I was getting tired – probably haven’t been drinking or eating enough I thought. We stopped for some strange semblance of breakfast – some GU and shot blocks, some Accelerade-laced water. Almost gourmet here in the Canyon. I’ll save dessert for later – my sport jelly beans.

It was now about 5am or so. On we go.

Chris now moved out, easily, in front of me. In the high distance, Kirk flashed his light – progress. Venus was higher above us still, but the angle was such that it looked like it was sitting on top of one of the cliffs – it felt like Venus was closer to the North Rim than I was. Perhaps it was? I kept moving. But for the first time, I felt uneasy. I was enjoying the solitude now, but my legs started talking to me – and not in a pleasant tone. I kept going, pushing and exerting more and more energy. Definitely not eating or drinking enough – I popped 2 more electrolyte tablets and a couple of shot blocks. We were well past Cottonwood so I figured we “only” had about 4-5 miles left to the top of the North Rim. What’s 4-5 miles when you’ve already done 16+? And it was getting light out – sunrise. I was able to permanently douse my lights; at least until my return, if it lasted past sunset. That was definitely a possibility considering my physical state. Plus, I knew our two cohorts, Linda and Travis were probably on top, close to the start of their North-to-South R2 attempts. When the Canyon bests me, they will at least be by soon to push me the final few miles. And Johnny O (hubby of Linda) was waiting at the top with his bum hip, selflessly acting as our savior and willing aid station volunteer, radio and camera in hand, cooler in trunk, bananas and precious real food waiting for consumption. Only a matter of time before I arrived there.

But the cramps, oh the cramps. Calves, quads – 2 important muscles to get UP (and down). Ouch. They started controlling me now. My breaks became more frequent, stretching took the place of looking around absorbing the views, the geology, the beauty.

Who’s that up above? Am I about to pass someone? A lone hiker, apparently down for a view of the sunrise a few miles down. His words: “If you’re with those 2 you all are doing pretty darn OK. I’ll definitely lose this race uphill.” Ahhhhhhhh, the always welcome mental boost. Onward, forward - there’s Travis coming on down – fresh and vibrant. He hands me Chris’ radio, we talk for about 2 or 3 minutes. I watch him bomb downhill and over the bridge. I yell out a hoot and a cheer – progress. Soon thereafter, here’s Linda. Same exchange – pleasant and uplifting.

She tells me I’m almost at Supai Tunnel which will mark 2 miles to go – on the first half of my trip. I can do this. Or not. My walking has become increasingly labored and I’m swinging my legs out to get up some of the steeper stairs in the interest of not encouraging my calf cramps – they won’t take no for an answer. Three more very healthy-looking, light-traveling R3-er’s are now heading down my way. I find out later they’re in from Idaho, though I swore I recognized two of them from the Boulder area – the mind games continue. And there is the Supai Tunnel – 2 miles left. I swear the last 2 miles have taken the better part of 2 hours.

It’s now a touch past 7am.

Grand Canyon R2 (or R3?) - October 2007, Part 3

I look up to the lighter shades of the shales and sandstones of the North Rim – still have to move through an entire geologic period; I hope it doesn’t last that long….. or perhaps I do. Some sections flatten out – I run for 10 yards here, 20 yards there – on the downhills and flats. No chance on the uphills – back to “power” hiking. Not here, it’s turned into a survival walk. The human contact has increased and the temperature has decreased as I near the top. Just keep moving I tell myself, though I realize I haven’t been in the mood to eat since well below the Supai Tunnel. But I notice the trail widen as the flora changes ever-so-slightly. What’s that sound??? A truck. I’m near a road. The North Rim parking lot and entry road? Oh, has civilization ever sounded better? I think not.

And suddenly, a trailhead sign, an entrance sign, a port-a-potty, and a familiar face – Johnny O. And I’m done, for today. It’s about 8:40am.

I decide to call it good at a successful R2. I’ve made it 21 miles, down about 4,700 vertical feet, then up almost 5,700 vertical feet. I’m cramped and cold. I am only able to stretch about 3 or 4 minutes until I start shivering. I take to the warm confines of John’s car. Kirk arrived around 8am and also decided to call it a day; he was crashed in the front seat. Chris arrived at about 8:20. As I got in the back seat next to Chris, he had a banana in one hand, Gatorade in the other, he was recharging his Garmin battery, and had a look on his face that I could not fathom nor comprehend at that moment in time. Without saying a word, he told me he was heading back out to complete his R3. At about 9am, he re-entered the sometimes friendly, sometimes ominous, always Grand environs of the Grand Canyon via the North Rim on the North Kaibab Trail once more – this time reversing everything he’d done over the previous 7 hours.

John then drove off with 2 very tired, but safe, R2 finishers, on our way back to the South Rim 200+ miles away by vehicle (10 miles as the crow flies). And oh, what a ride. We arrived back by about 2:00 or so, I ate some – limped around a bit trying to loosen up. And there in the South Rim parking lot were those 3 R3-ers from Idaho looking rather chipper considering what they’d just done – their first half. We exchanged some gleeful banter (they thought I’d turned around and finished already – that was a momentary ego boost). I ‘fessed up on my successful R2/unsuccessful R3 and they offered some positive words of encouragement for me to keep in mind when I decide to try this divine madness again. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the ladies that we took the Sag Wagon back, Veener had already headed down the Bright Angel Trail to bring me back up the last few miles. The first couple water stops on the trail had been turned off, and being the sensible one she is, had already headed back up. I bumped into her around ½ - ¾ mile down the trail and she did a double-take and couldn’t quite figure how I’d passed her. I was too mentally drained to perpetuate the joke, so I came clean with my one-way-only-journey and we proceeded back up to the top of the South Rim.

I watched The Idaho R3’ers head out and back down the Bright Angel Trail on the second half of their journey – they were making it look easy. Back to our group, I will let Chris fill in his own details of the hours between 9am and 5:30pm, but, as John and I stood on the South Rim, we successfully greeted Travis at about 5pm and at about 5:15 or 5:20, Chris came into view. Gone were his running tights, replaced by shorts (the Canyon floor reached about 90 degrees that afternoon), and a yellow shirt and hat. A successful R3 was had. Linda successfully came in around 8:45 that night as John hiked down to meet her soon after Chris’ triumphant re-entrance to the South Rim at 5:30 or so. All safe, all tired, all sore, all successful. As far as the R3, and then there was one………… congrats Chris!

What went through my head on top the North Rim? I’m pretty sure I could have made it back down the North Rim. I may have made it back to Cottonwood Campground. There was a slight possibility of actually walking back into Phantom Ranch. But then there’s this climb back up the Bright Angel Trail – another 9 or 10 miles covering about 4,300 vertical feet to get back atop the South Rim. That was not happening. The thing is – all those parts are a package deal; if any part of that is not a sure thing (nothing truly is down there), or there is more doubt than realistic confidence, you don’t go back. Period. The Canyon is a beautiful and unforgiving place. If you’re lucky, it will chew you up and spit you out on your own 2 feet with all (most) mental capacity still intact. If you’re unlucky, the Rangers or Search and Rescue will find you and you spend an unhappy night at a campground somewhere. There’s no reason to venture beyond the limits of the former. The employees and volunteers who assist, rescue, or worse – recover – those who were unprepared or simply unlucky, have a hard enough job. It is each individual’s duty to ensure those good people don’t have to assist or rescue you. But to push your own limits, within reasonable boundaries, is fine – just stay in regimented control as long as you can. Oh, by the way, I will be making another R3 attempt next year. And next time, I’ll almost know what to expect, having been there before. But anything goes in the Canyon and one must be prepared.

Happy Trails!

My Blog De-Virginizing

Well, well, well, here I am. Unaware and unbeheld. Strange feeling really. Never felt I'd have the "need" to feel so vulnerable. But I suppose that's what life tends towards. So, why not grasp it and hang on for the ride? Enjoy it - though you may not comprehend at that moment in time. Nor am I figuring on what I am getting in to. Very strange.

My creative outlet(s) has taken a turn for the nothing in recent years thanks in large part to that so-called "work" thing. The client must be satisfied, much like many different types of situations - it is rarely you that comes first. Not a bad thing. Just a thing that one must come to realize is the norm. And when you get your proper due, have at it. Enjoy it.

Anyway, I plan on writing about many different topics through this outlet, but the majority will be focused on trail running and outdoorsy "stuff" as those are my favorite things to do. In addition, music and general entertainment, social commentary (I'll try and keep that one to a minimum), and travel will also be peppered in here. Plus your gratuitous miscellaneous stuffs when those somewhat out-of-the-ordinary-things-may-occur will surface as well.

Might I infringe upon your many liberties and you share your own as we venture through this thing called life? OK then. After all, we're all in it together.