Friday, November 28, 2014
Fading
Sun light cuts across the tree tops throwing broken rays through the open field I'm crossing. A murder of crows beat the sky. Over a deafening silence, the sound of the breeze crawls it's way into my ears. Dry wind pours softly through the meadow. I raise my arms and run both my hands through the high, dry grass. My eyes are glazed and weary, squinting from the fading sun. Bringing a heavy arm in front of my face I read my GPS watch. It's dead. My own grasp of time, much like the watch's, has begun to slip away. The frequent and insidious flow of thoughts that I experience in the everyday has slowed like that of a dwindling faucet. I've slid into an ubiquitous existence. At times hours blow by like minutes. At others a single moment hangs seemingly forever. This is what I came for I tell myself. With each step greater pain sweeps up my legs, offset by a subtle and growing elation in spirit. The wind falls away and the meadow slows it's dance. Silence and the tree line re-swallow me.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Briarcliff Peekskill FKT: Lost, Dehydrated, and Stoked
Matt cut the engine of his F150. We got out, stripped off our layers and figured out what bare essentials we needed to bring. The plan was to yo-yo the Briarcliff Peekskill Trailway, starting at Watch Hill Road. We would run the subscribed 12 miles down to Ryder Road, and then repeat the process in reverse order back to the truck. The trail wasn’t too tough to find so we synced our watches and set off. Following green diamond blazes, we quickly realized how poorly marked the trail was, and how the fallen leaves had obscured any semblance of a worn-in footpath. Tripping on roots and rocks were a necessity we accepted as our heads and eyes were always up and alert, looking for the next blaze. The trail goes through an old rural section of New York east of the Hudson River, and crosses winding back roads many times. These intersections with dirt and asphalt were where navigation proved difficult. Few roads were blazed, so many times we had to guess if we were on the right road or not. Using the small map I brought, we guessed right most of the time, but the brief moments of deliberation and occasional wrong guesses lost us time and momentum. Perhaps the most scenic section of the trail was the crossing of a large dam. The reservoir was half-lit by the cloudy sky and provided us some inspiration after some frustrating road crossings. The rest of the way to Ryder Road went without trouble, expect for a 0.25 section that was extremely overgrown with briar. Forced to a walk, we slowly navigated through the thorns and popped out at Ryder Road 1hr35min32sec from start time. To our surprise however, both watches read that we had had covered only 10 miles, rather than the 12 that every website and pamphlet I read had stated. Our knees and calves were cut up, but physically we felt fine at the halfway point.
The return trip to the truck was mentally exhausting. Somehow we got off the trail and ended having to take a road back to an intersection we remembered. Thank God I had signal on my iPhone. Dehydrated and tired we made several wrong turns on the return trip. Blazes and intersections that were obvious to us on the way South, became vague and blurry in our depleted state heading North. We reached the truck with a return split of 1hr45min; 10 minutes slower but we added at least of mile of mistakes. Total running time worked out to be 3hr21min21sec, but mistakes and all we were on our feet for 4hr6min4sec and reached the truck right before it got dark. The last couple miles had taken a lot out of us. There were no cheers or high fives at the end. We stripped our vests and sat in the bed of Matt’s truck, silent, wondering why we do this to ourselves. After five minutes of silence Matt asked me, “You ready?” I said, “Yea.” And that was it. We took the winding road back to school.
Fastest Known Time (FKT) is what it sounds like; a way of keeping track of the quickest times on various trails around the country that do not have races associated with them. This is mostly due to national park regulations that limit the impact of large groups on their trails. In a world of paying $120 to run a marathon, Spartan Races, and other hyper-commercialized events, FKT’s distill running to its purest form. No aid stations, no sponsors, no medals, no stickers to put on your car. Just you and your watch.
I found the trail on the FKT ProBoards website. There was no FKT for the trail so I guess we now have it with our Southern split of 1hr35min32sec. I’ m sure someone with more experience in this area can beat this and I hope they do. My Strava data is below for anyone interested in planning a run or looking at the mistakes we made.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Recollections from the Ridge
2:43 am. I'm shivering. The night breeze blows its coldness into my bones. I take a uneasy step onto the aluminum ladder. The crevasse is too long to jump. A deep breathe and silence. I'm across. I steal a glance upwards. First to the sky. The universe puts on a show for us, thousands upon thousands of stars ignited. Their light with the moon turns the glacier into broken glass. The faint ghostly ribbon of the Milky Way stands smeared across the horizon. My eyes travel down to earth and this stubborn ridge. Above me dance the headlamps of other climbers, strung out, as if on a line, we wind our way steadily up. The airs thin. A dull pressure builds behind my eyes. A step, a breath, and then another. I kick loose a stone. It tumbles, haphazardly, oblivious to it's fate off the steeps behind me. 1000ft it tumbles. I become more conscious of the 9mm rope holding me to my brother and of the crampons grinding and scratching their way into the rocky, icy spine of the Disappointment Cleaver. Like a skeletons back it cuts up the glacier. A rocky ladder. A gravel gauntlet. Tension builds in the line and in my stomach. A deep breath, a step, and then another. Cold air swims down my collar. The light of my headlamp bounces in front of my eyes, illuminating the others roped to me. All of us sharing the risk, sharing the experience. And still we snake our way up. 20 steps I count, another 20 more. I slip into a hypnotic delusion. The figure 8 knot in my harness reflects the knot in my gut. I drink in the air, my lungs always thirsty. Never quenched. Another 20 steps another breath. My head's splitting now. The silence envelops us. Red glow spills over the horizon. A fleeting glance behind me reveals our altitude. Adams, St. Helens, Hood. All shadowed on the horizon. All welcoming morning. The rope comes taunt. My axe whines as I pull it from the snow. I steal a final glance upwards. A grin on my brother's face. Heart pounding in my chest, I count my last steps to the summit.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Solitary Journeys
I am walking through a narrow crowded alley a block and a half off De Wallen, the red light district in the heart of Amsterdam. A few euros clang in my pockets. I pass coffee shop after coffee shop, their guests lighting twisted joints. The smell of pot hangs heavy in the November air. Shop signs hang hodgepodge over the road advertising their variety of magic mushrooms, endorsing their nude shows, exhibiting their collection of bizarre pipes. The wind is stiff and damp and grey. My pack is heavy. I fumble for my passport and train ticket. Am I going the right way? Turning a corner the ancient architecture of the station comes into view. I throw myself onto a bench and wait for the coming train. Cigarette smoke blows in with the breeze. I am alone with my thoughts, happy to be on the road, content to be in a new strange place. This was my first real experience traveling alone, the novelty of it I'll never forget.
A few weeks ago, waiting to board a connecting flight I sat on the floor in Phoenix Sky Harbor eating a handful of combos. Looking out on the runway I watched planes land and takeoff. The rhythm of it all placed me in hypnotic glaze. That familiar feeling of being alone on the road took me back in. The awareness is freeing and authentic. When traveling alone your constantly navigating a stream of fresh experience. The facade of familiar social interaction crumbles leaving you truly exposed to yourself. In days spent traveling alone I've learned much about myself, that I can handle thousands of miles of lonely transit. That a pack and an airport floor are a comfortable bed if your tired enough. That middle seats suck and a pocket full of Euros goes a short way. I'll always love traveling with friends and family but a part of me will long for those lessons learned on solitary journeys. Whether on a walk down Gran Via or on a plane to the Pacific Coast.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Cut a Broad Swath
Robbie Mason takes over the blog again with his recent (mis)adventure on a very technical section of the Appalachia Trail in PA...
I usually go on adventures and run trails with others. Running alone is different. No music. No conversation. I only heard the wind and tress for more than 3 hours. It heightens your fear, running alone. You have no one to distribute this fear or share the fear with either. Are you still on the trail? How much water do you have left? Don't turn an ankle or you're dragging it out yourself. It is a visceral and pure 1-on-1 confrontation with the mountains. When its done, you take all the credit. There is no one to share in you're happiness. Perhaps we need this once in a while. It is a test of how we measure up against ourselves.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
The Colonial Trail
Matt and I took to the splintered trails of Wissahickon Valley Park yesterday. Around 11am the clouds broke ushering in an early spring day. We decided to run for time today shooting for 2 hours which we hoped would translate to about 25k (15m) or half the distance of our ultra. At 11am we hit the trail head. As the miles fell away so did the trappings of modern society. The first steps start on a winding paved bike path, straddled on both sides by manic freeways. Soon this black top artery cuts its way into the forest, the grumble of automobiles are traded for the gush of rushing water, the smell of exhaust for mud and melting snow. At mile 3 the asphalt deteriorates into gravel. At mile 8 the trail funnels to a single track.
The Lenape Tribe called these woods their home. Years later, Edgar Allen Poe walked these trails in search of solitude and inspiration. And running them yesterday felt like a trip into the 19th century. Bridges, barns, and old colonial architecture lay scattered about oblivious to the spinning hands of time. A heavy blanket of history subtly assert itself here, creeping into and dominating your imagination.
At mile 11 we cram our last gels into our mouths. We polish off the last of the water. The river continues to rush on, pushed forward by the hand of spring as the melting snows swell its mass. We blaze through shallow streams, grind our way up steep staircases of stone, slide over massive boulders. Matt takes a tumble. We're both bleeding and our legs are heavy. But this is what we love.
Slowly the single track reopens to gravel. Then gravel becomes asphalt and rushing water turns to rushing traffic. Finally, the past becomes present. Breathing deeply, we find ourselves on tired legs, out of the 19th century and into the 21st.
The Lenape Tribe called these woods their home. Years later, Edgar Allen Poe walked these trails in search of solitude and inspiration. And running them yesterday felt like a trip into the 19th century. Bridges, barns, and old colonial architecture lay scattered about oblivious to the spinning hands of time. A heavy blanket of history subtly assert itself here, creeping into and dominating your imagination.
At mile 11 we cram our last gels into our mouths. We polish off the last of the water. The river continues to rush on, pushed forward by the hand of spring as the melting snows swell its mass. We blaze through shallow streams, grind our way up steep staircases of stone, slide over massive boulders. Matt takes a tumble. We're both bleeding and our legs are heavy. But this is what we love.
Slowly the single track reopens to gravel. Then gravel becomes asphalt and rushing water turns to rushing traffic. Finally, the past becomes present. Breathing deeply, we find ourselves on tired legs, out of the 19th century and into the 21st.
Unfortunately didn't carry my camera this time.. so photo courtesy contexttravel.com
Thursday, March 6, 2014
No Fall Zone
I'm back in that familiar, lung shredding thin air. A year ago in Colorado's Rockies, I had been in a similar situation. Now as I kick steps into a steep ridge line at 10,000ft, the memories of that Colorado spring ski season flood my senses. Sweat pools in my helmet, my base layer turns to a sodden blanket. My shoulder aches as the skis dig in. Both my ski poles are in my left palm, I plunge them into the heavy, broken snow and lean on them precariously for support. Take a fall now and I'm in some serious trouble. I can feel sweat running down the bridge of my nose, splashing at my feet. Is it the nerves or the unseasonably warm air or just the shear exertion of the climb? I clumsily tug at the zippers of my shell and mid layer, desperate for ventilation.
Despite the altitude and narrow margin, I feel pretty strong. All the cumulative miles spent at sea-level have fortunately provided me enough fitness for this climb to the summit. I steal a glance away from my feet. CJ and Pat Doyle are within an arms reach advancing into the fog. The sun continues its dance through the clouds above me. Spin drift blows snow down my collar. We are close, 50 more steps I tell myself. But 50 steps later I have still not topped out. My mistake is uncomfortably clear... a false summit. The true peak lays another 150ft in a meandering line above me.
The winds are strong this high and have violently ripped away the snow revealing the true jagged spine of the mountain. My own heavy breathing stifles the whine of the gust. We are close. From the valley, the three of us are indiscernible. At best we appear as a black smear against the sky. My legs are thrashed and heavy. And yet, the last few steps come easy. The steepness wanes. It's 11:47am. We have made the summit.
Despite the altitude and narrow margin, I feel pretty strong. All the cumulative miles spent at sea-level have fortunately provided me enough fitness for this climb to the summit. I steal a glance away from my feet. CJ and Pat Doyle are within an arms reach advancing into the fog. The sun continues its dance through the clouds above me. Spin drift blows snow down my collar. We are close, 50 more steps I tell myself. But 50 steps later I have still not topped out. My mistake is uncomfortably clear... a false summit. The true peak lays another 150ft in a meandering line above me.
The winds are strong this high and have violently ripped away the snow revealing the true jagged spine of the mountain. My own heavy breathing stifles the whine of the gust. We are close. From the valley, the three of us are indiscernible. At best we appear as a black smear against the sky. My legs are thrashed and heavy. And yet, the last few steps come easy. The steepness wanes. It's 11:47am. We have made the summit.
Monday, February 24, 2014
More than Running
My brother Matt takes over the blog with this post on the fiber of trail running and living in general:
“Were fucked.” The usual trail is obstructed by three feet of ice and snow; a natural road block stands between us and wilderness. Two weeks with no time on the trail has transformed our usual desire for wilderness into a constant, anxious craving. Deep within a training schedule for an upcoming ultra, we both understand the importance of putting miles on our legs. I want to run; I need to run. “Were fucked.” We relocate to another trailhead, 100 meters from our original location. This track offers a bit more hope, as the snow appears to be packed down by hikers and wildlife. Our first few steps are uneasy. The snow is deep— at least a foot and a half—but the first few inches are baked solid. We continue to walk on the trail, making it a few steps on the crisp crust before sliding waist deep in the powdery subsurface. “Were fucked.” Neither of us our willing to call it day. No words are exchanged but it’s understood: we are not leaving until we reach the top of this mountain.
We’d come to find that this would require an interesting amalgamation of walking, climbing, running, and shuffling. We take the first ascent at a fast hike. I begin to breathe heavily. Any section of trail that offers stability is taken at pace, until one of us takes a dive into the thick white blanket that covers the trail. Even when we are running, it appears to be more of a delicate tip-toe through already sculpted tracks. With each step, my original frustration and disappointment fades. My concern with miles and numbers and races slips away. I find myself smiling with every foot-fall. There is no thought, just me and the wilderness that surrounds me. There is snow, rock, trees, the occasional deer…and me. We trudge through a stretch of icy sludge and rip through another half-mile of single track. The trail opens and we have reached the top. I don’t think of my pace or the number of miles flashing on the screen of my fancy GPS watch. In fact, I have a feeling that I am probably the closest one can get to not thinking at all.
“Were fucked.” The usual trail is obstructed by three feet of ice and snow; a natural road block stands between us and wilderness. Two weeks with no time on the trail has transformed our usual desire for wilderness into a constant, anxious craving. Deep within a training schedule for an upcoming ultra, we both understand the importance of putting miles on our legs. I want to run; I need to run. “Were fucked.” We relocate to another trailhead, 100 meters from our original location. This track offers a bit more hope, as the snow appears to be packed down by hikers and wildlife. Our first few steps are uneasy. The snow is deep— at least a foot and a half—but the first few inches are baked solid. We continue to walk on the trail, making it a few steps on the crisp crust before sliding waist deep in the powdery subsurface. “Were fucked.” Neither of us our willing to call it day. No words are exchanged but it’s understood: we are not leaving until we reach the top of this mountain.
We’d come to find that this would require an interesting amalgamation of walking, climbing, running, and shuffling. We take the first ascent at a fast hike. I begin to breathe heavily. Any section of trail that offers stability is taken at pace, until one of us takes a dive into the thick white blanket that covers the trail. Even when we are running, it appears to be more of a delicate tip-toe through already sculpted tracks. With each step, my original frustration and disappointment fades. My concern with miles and numbers and races slips away. I find myself smiling with every foot-fall. There is no thought, just me and the wilderness that surrounds me. There is snow, rock, trees, the occasional deer…and me. We trudge through a stretch of icy sludge and rip through another half-mile of single track. The trail opens and we have reached the top. I don’t think of my pace or the number of miles flashing on the screen of my fancy GPS watch. In fact, I have a feeling that I am probably the closest one can get to not thinking at all.
I take a seat on a snow covered
rock and take in the view. I wipe the sweat from my eyes and think— this is why
I am out here. Sure, I am here to run, but I am here for much more than that.
This week’s time on the trail served as a reminder that trail running is about
much more than just running. It’s about excitement. It’s about seeing what’s
out there. It’s about discovery. It’s about adventure. Perhaps, most
importantly, it’s about learning.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Fresh Tracks
My heart is hammering in my chest. The sound of my exhausted inhalations nearly drown out the music in my ears. My legs are heavy, so heavy. I plunge forward, at places the snow line grasps at my knees. That familiar primal feeling, almost indescribable, pools in my stomach. It is only here, on a trail run, absorbed into the landscape that I feel it.. I am swallowed by a sea of dry, dead grass. I am half digested in the shadow of the approaching wood. Miles lay behind me and before me. I am tired and on edge. Watching the rhythmic clobber of my feet in a hypnotized gaze, it's as if my consciousness has taken a seat deeper behind my eyes. In my wake I leave the only tracks. Not the only tracks, the only human tracks. Under foot, through my glazed panoramic vision weave the fragile foot falls of the birds. The shifting prints of rabbits lay enmeshed with the memory of frantic stabbing deer hoofs. In places wind cuts scars in the snow. In others, it builds drifts that spill over like white-watered shore-break. I am alone and exhausted. Electrically alive.
Monday, February 10, 2014
B&B > Hotel
Andy & I decided to take a leap of faith and test the waters of the Bed & Breakfast world. It paid off. We had been meaning to get away for the better part of a year, so when I had finally found myself with a bit of money, I didn't hesitate and booked a two night stay at the Frog & Hollow. The small B&B was quaint and remote by North Eastern standards. The hour and a half drive to it sweeps through Pennsylvania's rolling hills. The unmistakable deep red of country barns litter the landscape.
On our journey we buzzed passed squat hedge rows and clustered gray woods blazing through what felt like the setting of a Natalie Babbitt novel.
I felt oddly nervous as the the minutes spun away. Making the last turn onto Frog Hollow Drive, I envisioned us cramped into an upper bedroom, furniture piled against the door, "Red Rum" splashed across the wall, waiting for our axe murderer of a host to commit the inevitable.
But I was wrong. Thank God. Upon arriving, we were genially welcomed by an older, kindhearted couple and given a tour of the house. The building was old and as I ducked under the doorways and skirted up staircases I could tell it had been built in a different era. Our room was simple but perfect in its own way. We were comfortable and warm and happy to be away.
In the morning we met the other guests, and were quite presently surprised to find both other couples to be in their 20s. We had been expecting, for some reason or another, to be greeted by an elderly couple! or at least I had... As the latter half of our bed and breakfast experience was cooking, we all shared good, strong coffee around the fire and told some stories and our thoughts on bed and breakfasts.
It was then (perhaps an effect of the caffeinated ecstasy coursing through my veins) that I was sold on them (B&Bs). There is something ancient to a bed and breakfast and although you do pay for the experience, while you are there you feel to embody the word guest more fully, more meaningfully. Staying at a bed and breakfast is more akin to xenia then to the comfortable clientele vibe of a hotel. And for that reason I plan to weather many more nights in bed and breakfasts. Hopefully spending the evenings sharing stories with a bunch of equally odd strangers and the mornings drinking great coffee. Even if that means I must occasionally be burdened with the thoughts of the Zodiac hammering at my door.
On our journey we buzzed passed squat hedge rows and clustered gray woods blazing through what felt like the setting of a Natalie Babbitt novel.
I felt oddly nervous as the the minutes spun away. Making the last turn onto Frog Hollow Drive, I envisioned us cramped into an upper bedroom, furniture piled against the door, "Red Rum" splashed across the wall, waiting for our axe murderer of a host to commit the inevitable.
But I was wrong. Thank God. Upon arriving, we were genially welcomed by an older, kindhearted couple and given a tour of the house. The building was old and as I ducked under the doorways and skirted up staircases I could tell it had been built in a different era. Our room was simple but perfect in its own way. We were comfortable and warm and happy to be away.
In the morning we met the other guests, and were quite presently surprised to find both other couples to be in their 20s. We had been expecting, for some reason or another, to be greeted by an elderly couple! or at least I had... As the latter half of our bed and breakfast experience was cooking, we all shared good, strong coffee around the fire and told some stories and our thoughts on bed and breakfasts.
It was then (perhaps an effect of the caffeinated ecstasy coursing through my veins) that I was sold on them (B&Bs). There is something ancient to a bed and breakfast and although you do pay for the experience, while you are there you feel to embody the word guest more fully, more meaningfully. Staying at a bed and breakfast is more akin to xenia then to the comfortable clientele vibe of a hotel. And for that reason I plan to weather many more nights in bed and breakfasts. Hopefully spending the evenings sharing stories with a bunch of equally odd strangers and the mornings drinking great coffee. Even if that means I must occasionally be burdened with the thoughts of the Zodiac hammering at my door.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Running in the Woods
Matt, Robbie and I took our run to the woods this morning. We all woke up fairly fresh (having probably drank a few too many pints last night). Our legs were loose. Only some 16 hours before we had donned headlamps and extra layers and took to narrow roads winding through the town for a shake out run.
But it is morning now, and woods we had run by the previous night now take on new life. The sun is low enough to still be cutting sharply through the trees, laying scattered light on the snow. We pull our sedan off the asphalt, parking it in some 6 inches of stale slush a few feet from road. The trail head is visible just a few yards behind us. We take off.
The skeletal branches of the trees stream by occasionally clipping us around our face. Running through ankle deep snow, we choose our own lines, charging sometimes off trail, jumping over frozen streams, the remnants of old growth biting at our calves. Other times we consciously redirect onto a cut trail, narrow but free of snow covered roots and looming tree boughs. We push on this way for a few miles, sometimes straying off to break a new path through deeper snow, other times methodically moving over the sloping natural aisle of the marked trail. I grab a heavy birch and try to swing myself into an acceleration, when my shoe bites a covered root. I take a quick spill, landing ass in the snow. I fumble my sunglasses back over my eyes only to see Robbie, blazing past me, Matt another 50 meters or so ahead of him. He offers me a quick "you okay?" before streaming back out of the clearing and into the deeper woods ahead, I don't have time to answer. I regain my footing and give pursuit. For a quarter mile I follow the steps they've both left in the snow ahead, and eventually match stride some 10 meters off Robbie's back.
The day is brilliant. Since leaving the car, the sun's risen some, warming the air. We peal over an old wooden bridge. The bridge sits only a foot over the surface of the water and is caked in ice. I slow to gain purchase on the old boards. It works and soon my feet are again covered in the old snow laying on the trail. The line we've chosen hugs a lake for about a mile. As we open stride the blurred forms of trees fill our peripherals, their movement standing in strong contrast to the calm, expansive surface of the still water. Soon, our steps become familiar. We are nearing the trail head, our car lays close, within a mile. I offer the suggestion of cutting a direct line to the car, through the denser, congested forest ahead. Matt and Robbie nod in acknowledgement and plunge ahead through deeper snow. Within meters, we realize the decision was a poor one. Winter hardened thorns catch our socks and we slow to a clumsy walk. Robbie takes point, rooting a hard, misplaced step into a snow covered pond. He sinks smashing his shin on a submerged log. Leaning back he twists his soaked foot free from the pond's icy crust, "Cut through the woods, yeah great idea".
We back track our steps and decide to drop into a trail leading behind some old cabins. The last mile we close fast. Fanning out we all taking a unique line, hearts pumping hard, breathing steady. 30 meters off my left shoulder Robbie clears the woods, closing on the car. To my right, Matt closes the gap between us. I shift my weight and focus and cut perpendicular to my current line. Snow crunches below my feet. Old vines grasp at my lower legs while the trees ahead begin to thin. I spring over the lip of a small ridge marking the line of the woods and land firmly on the road. We're out of the wilderness and back into the town. Wind spills through the woods behind and the trees groan. Another good run is in the books.
"The farther one gets into the wilderness, the greater is the attraction of it's lonely freedom."
—Theodore Roosevelt
Photo by Robbie Mason
But it is morning now, and woods we had run by the previous night now take on new life. The sun is low enough to still be cutting sharply through the trees, laying scattered light on the snow. We pull our sedan off the asphalt, parking it in some 6 inches of stale slush a few feet from road. The trail head is visible just a few yards behind us. We take off.
The skeletal branches of the trees stream by occasionally clipping us around our face. Running through ankle deep snow, we choose our own lines, charging sometimes off trail, jumping over frozen streams, the remnants of old growth biting at our calves. Other times we consciously redirect onto a cut trail, narrow but free of snow covered roots and looming tree boughs. We push on this way for a few miles, sometimes straying off to break a new path through deeper snow, other times methodically moving over the sloping natural aisle of the marked trail. I grab a heavy birch and try to swing myself into an acceleration, when my shoe bites a covered root. I take a quick spill, landing ass in the snow. I fumble my sunglasses back over my eyes only to see Robbie, blazing past me, Matt another 50 meters or so ahead of him. He offers me a quick "you okay?" before streaming back out of the clearing and into the deeper woods ahead, I don't have time to answer. I regain my footing and give pursuit. For a quarter mile I follow the steps they've both left in the snow ahead, and eventually match stride some 10 meters off Robbie's back.
The day is brilliant. Since leaving the car, the sun's risen some, warming the air. We peal over an old wooden bridge. The bridge sits only a foot over the surface of the water and is caked in ice. I slow to gain purchase on the old boards. It works and soon my feet are again covered in the old snow laying on the trail. The line we've chosen hugs a lake for about a mile. As we open stride the blurred forms of trees fill our peripherals, their movement standing in strong contrast to the calm, expansive surface of the still water. Soon, our steps become familiar. We are nearing the trail head, our car lays close, within a mile. I offer the suggestion of cutting a direct line to the car, through the denser, congested forest ahead. Matt and Robbie nod in acknowledgement and plunge ahead through deeper snow. Within meters, we realize the decision was a poor one. Winter hardened thorns catch our socks and we slow to a clumsy walk. Robbie takes point, rooting a hard, misplaced step into a snow covered pond. He sinks smashing his shin on a submerged log. Leaning back he twists his soaked foot free from the pond's icy crust, "Cut through the woods, yeah great idea".
We back track our steps and decide to drop into a trail leading behind some old cabins. The last mile we close fast. Fanning out we all taking a unique line, hearts pumping hard, breathing steady. 30 meters off my left shoulder Robbie clears the woods, closing on the car. To my right, Matt closes the gap between us. I shift my weight and focus and cut perpendicular to my current line. Snow crunches below my feet. Old vines grasp at my lower legs while the trees ahead begin to thin. I spring over the lip of a small ridge marking the line of the woods and land firmly on the road. We're out of the wilderness and back into the town. Wind spills through the woods behind and the trees groan. Another good run is in the books.
"The farther one gets into the wilderness, the greater is the attraction of it's lonely freedom."
—Theodore Roosevelt
Photo by Robbie Mason
Sunday, January 26, 2014
New Mile Stones
My brother, two close friends and I recently committed to our first ultra marathon. We are seeking out a truly novel experience, particularly one that will force us into the darker, deeper recesses of our minds. The ultimate goal is to expand our breath of experience, to learn more about ourselves, and to reposition our perspectives. The race is just under 100 days away. May 3rd. On that morning we will lace up and enter into the mysterious world of post 26.2. In the weeks leading up to the race our team will share some of our thoughts and experiences as we train and prepare for our first 50k. The following post is from Robbie Mason who is training on the mountain trails outside of West Point:
Matt and I took the first steps yesterday towards an ambitious goal: TNF 50k in May. Lucky enough to live a short drive from the course, we find solace and quiet in the woods. Trudging through the snow and harsh winds up steep climbs we battle an internal dialogue. Anyone can crush the downhills while on a run. Momentum carries you easily and you float on effortlessly. Mentally you are relaxed and positive. However, like much in life, the uphills, and how you handle them, is what defines you as a runner and as a person. The moment your muscles start fatiguing, your heart rate is jacked, a battle in your head begins: "Do I slow down? Am I using my arms enough? Do I quit? This blows. I'm going to be dead for the rest of the run." Blocking this inner dialogue out and reaching the top at an even pace, unphased, is what defines your character. Life is defined by the uphills and the more you climb, the more prepared you are for next one.
Matt and I took the first steps yesterday towards an ambitious goal: TNF 50k in May. Lucky enough to live a short drive from the course, we find solace and quiet in the woods. Trudging through the snow and harsh winds up steep climbs we battle an internal dialogue. Anyone can crush the downhills while on a run. Momentum carries you easily and you float on effortlessly. Mentally you are relaxed and positive. However, like much in life, the uphills, and how you handle them, is what defines you as a runner and as a person. The moment your muscles start fatiguing, your heart rate is jacked, a battle in your head begins: "Do I slow down? Am I using my arms enough? Do I quit? This blows. I'm going to be dead for the rest of the run." Blocking this inner dialogue out and reaching the top at an even pace, unphased, is what defines your character. Life is defined by the uphills and the more you climb, the more prepared you are for next one.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Why I Run.
Running cements me in the present moment.
It brings me back to a simple, natural almost animal-like existence,
something I believe we (human beings) all crave quite desperately, if
only subconsciously. For me, each footfall shakes off the weighty
tarnish of the everyday. When I am running I can feel myself shedding
stresses, anxieties, judgements. Running dissolves life's rust, and
leaves me mentally and physically clear, open and flexible. Running
gives my day purpose, if it is all I have done in the day, then so be
it, I feel fulfilled. I also believe that running makes me a better
person. A morning run places my day on a solid foundation, fostering
patience and acceptance. I believe human beings evolved to run, to run
far and to run consistently. Any doubts I may have on this are always
quickly dismantled and dissolved whenever I find myself accelerating on a
winding, tree swallowed, single track.
"Running has always been a relief and a sanctuary—something that makes
me feel good, both physically and mentally. For me it's not so much
about the health benefits. Those are great, but I believe that the best
thing about running is the joy it brings to life."- KG
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Half Recollections from the Trail
…too
tired and dehydrated to care we all polished off another liter of
sketchily treated back spring water from our Nalgenes. The last 15
miles were a blur. What mile were we on now? 38? 43? Does it even
matter? My mind had started blurring
the lines between the conscious and subconscious. I was cleanly out of
the “zone”. We were now going 3 or 4 hour sections without saying a
single word to each other. We didn’t need to. Every once in a while
Matt or Sed would utter something unintelligible, either because my mind
couldn’t process their words or because their minds couldn’t process
their speech.
“Why have we been walking through this stream for the last hour?”
“We haven’t.”
Mild hallucinations creep into our vision. I shake my head; the dirt single track comes back into view. I steal a glance at my watch.. It’s 1:35pm. We’ve been hard on the trail for some 13 hours. We push ideas of cold water and a soft bed out of our heads. The most rested person on the team is myself; I’ve only been awake for 33 hours. I think to myself, “how are these guys pushing this hard, this late? they’ve been up for nearly 40 hours now...”
I fade back into that washed out timeless headspace and put another step down in front of me.
“Why have we been walking through this stream for the last hour?”
“We haven’t.”
Mild hallucinations creep into our vision. I shake my head; the dirt single track comes back into view. I steal a glance at my watch.. It’s 1:35pm. We’ve been hard on the trail for some 13 hours. We push ideas of cold water and a soft bed out of our heads. The most rested person on the team is myself; I’ve only been awake for 33 hours. I think to myself, “how are these guys pushing this hard, this late? they’ve been up for nearly 40 hours now...”
I fade back into that washed out timeless headspace and put another step down in front of me.
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