Resurrect

It's a loaf of sourdough and a bottle of cab sauvignon (screw the glass), but this is my communion. I've the sacristy of lonely miles and fatigue on the mind and written across my body, having just been all too cruelly reminded of just how far I've fallen from the shape I once held.

I'd these runs the past few weeks, you know - that five and a half hours in the cities (thirty-five plus, I figured), that five hour trail romp one of the first days back (thirty to thirty-five, that). And today? Today I'd high aspirations. Forty-plus, I hoped. Six to eight hours.

The plan was simple, really. Bike up Canyon #2 Friday night, find a spot to camp on the flanks of Horse Lake Peak; I'd several in mind. When I woke Saturday I'd start running. I'd no particular route in mind, but knew of several potential loops I could piece together, with my camp as a center for resupply purposes. The forecast low was in the high thirties, the low in the mid sixties - perfect running weather. So it was that I loaded my trailer and up the canyon powered away, my fourth trip up the two thousand foot climb in four days. I'd a campsite in mind, a site where I'd never seen signs of other people, a site where I'd be undisturbed and where no one might stumble upon me, or the next day, upon my bike and trailer.

But, you know: the plans of mice and men, the best laid of plans, inevitably they go astray. And when we hope to be what we are not, inevitably we are reminded of that disparity. I'd found my camp, tucked away in a ponderosa grove high above any of the regularly used trails, and crashed for the night; after a long week of abuses, I'd fast fallen asleep. And then I awoke: was it raining? No... someone was peeing on me. On my face. Some drunk fucker had stumbled his way into my campsite, and was peeing on me. I think it was what the fuck?!? that came out of my mouth, but what I remember more is the man jumping, the log's talking!, him running off.

Soaked in another man's piss (on my face, in my hair, soaking through my sleeping bag), spending the night seemed much, much less appealing. Plus, I no longer had any confidence that my stuff would be safe through the long day of running the next morning. At any rate, I packed up, and if hauling the bike and trailer up had been difficult, controlling it as I stumbled back down to the road in the midnight black was much more so. Then, once riding, it was now late enough that various drunks were driving back up the canyon to whereever their respective post-bar gatherings were... I'd step off the side of the road each time I saw headlights ahead, but still. It was a bit nerve-wracking.

I'd only a few hours sleep before I found myself riding up the canyon again. I did the math as I locked the bike at the end of the pavement - not nearly as central a location, but within sight of several houses; much less likely was it that anyone would mess with my bike there - in five days I'd already put in 11,000 feet climbing on the bike, and another 12,000 on foot. My legs were not thrilled by the goal of six to eight hours of running. On the plus side, I figured, at least I wouldn't have to worry about the nerves - when I'd last done these runs regularly, several years ago, I frequently spent parts of the first hour vomiting, until I settled down - figuring I was far too tired to be nervous about what lay ahead. Instead, I just hoped to survive it.

I started with something comfortable, the remainder of the ascent of Horse Lake Peak (elevation 4621). This was my nineteenth ascent of the peak this year; I know that trail well. Then, as my legs loosened up and into the run, I headed south. After descending most of the way back to my bike, I'd a short four-hundred foot climb up to a small saddle (elevation 3350); from here I took a small abandoned jeep track loop out to what was nearly a ledge (elevation 3600). Well into the Enchantments I could see, and behind, the Glacier Peaks. Directly across was Tronson Ridge, sparkling yet with miles and miles of snowy slopes. It was gorgeous.

On with the run: back to the saddle, and then down the other side, all the way down to Mission Creek (elevation 2000), where I then began the long climb up towards the ski area of the same name; my goal was Beehive Mountain (elevation 4580); from there, I had several return options. Up and up I slowly beside the meandering creek ran, at least until the pitch steepened into switchbacks and I left the creek; though on a well-maintained jeep road, the combination of downed trees, snow, ice, and mud (remnants yet of winter) ensured that I saw no one. By the time I'd reached the next major trail intersection (above 4000 feet), I was tired. Really, really tired, my hamstrings harbored a dull ache, and my feet were beginning to hurt. If I continued the extra mile or two to gain Beehive, would I still make it back up to that original saddle? I wasn't sure, and having already been out four hours, I didn't want to find out the hard way... so back I went.

Back down, especially once I regained the creek, was pleasant, enjoyable even. The combination of snow and ice and mud ensured I didn't open the throttle too much, and all the sliding was putting some undue stress on my ankles and knees, but still - I'd been running for hours and hours and still felt okay about it. It was when I left the creek and began the long slog back up to the saddle that my fatigue really hit me. I'd already taken a long photo / lunch break early in the descent in the hopes of recharging my legs a little, but that was long forgotten by this point. Steeper sections of trail had required a brisk walk most of the day, but the definitions of steep and brisk were at this point becoming quite liberal. When I finally did reach the saddle, I took a nap. It was probably only twenty minutes or a half-hour, but I wasn't making it the two miles back to my bike without that rest, my legs were tired, but more so, my will to keep going was shot. There just wasn't any point - it was pretty here, and warm, and I was tired.

Eventually, though, I did get back down. Mapping things out later: just under seven hours of running (though running might be a liberal definition here, especially late in the day), just under thirty miles. Yes, that works out to roughly fifteen minute miles... this was the run that made me realize I'm not, in fact, anywhere near the shape I'd hoped I was getting back to. We all need a dose of reality once in a while, right?

Besides, now I've a better idea what my legs need to be working towards. This ultra-runner'll rise again; tomorrow's another day, and there are more training runs to come.