Biathlon Heads to Utah and so Do I

The Beginning
It started one day when I happened to check the IBU World Cup Biathlon calendar for what races were coming up. This was probably around Christmas when I was eager to see the next race (there is about a three-week break between races around the holidays). On that day, I finally realized that the World Cup was coming to North America. And not just North America, but Salt Lake City, a mere day's drive from home. Behold! A chance to view the great sport of biathlon in person! I was immediately completely in.

Lauren was kind enough to join me. After some planning and a plane ticket purchase on her part, I ended up leaving on my own super early Thursday morning at 1:45 with the idea to arrive just in time to see the women's sprint race at 11:15 a.m. As I was loading the car, however, I was reminded by the ever-present "wealth" of information hiding quietly in the back of my mind that Salt Lake City was in mountain time. "Shoot." I was going to miss the race. Still, I figured I'd try to make it. Who knew? Maybe I could make up enough time.

Nope. I gave up after three hours of driving more slowly than normal in the unusual weather of Southern California they call rain. Also, I was really sleepy. So I pulled over at a pre-Vegas casino and slept for more than three hours. Then I drove the rest of the way in rain because a huge rain storm decided to grow over me and then head toward Salt Lake City as well. I slept twice more and eventually arrived to my Airbnb location after 5:00 p.m. Just missed that race...

This was the first time staying at an Airbnb by myself and I was a little nervous because I was sharing the home—and bathroom—with the hosts. Did I knock or just let myself into the home? I let myself in and it worked out fine. The room was also just fine, but the bathroom and other common areas of the house weren't quite as tidy as I imagined they'd be, I guess. It just took me a little off guard, even though it was a small thing. Mostly, I just felt like I had broken into someone's house and was very much intruding. A strange sensation.

I dropped my stuff off and headed to a nearby Sprouts for groceries. After wandering around the store along with a bunch of Subaru owners and 20-somethings from the nearby university, I paid and returned to the house. It was still empty (I had expected to find the hosts at some point), and I ate my leftovers brought from home and listened to more of my book (Words of Radiance).

Catching Sight of JT
Friday morning I made my parfait, ate my muffin, gathered my stuffs, and excitedly headed up the hill toward Soldier Hollow. I got there early since I didn't know how big the crowds would be for this greatest of international events. Turns out not many Americans show up to watch biathlon on Friday mornings. But I had much fun wandering around the venue and catching glimpses of athletes I recognized. It was a thrill to be standing mere feet away as they shredded by in their skintight onesies. I took plenty of pictures and video and sent several to my sister, who graciously gets hyped with me about our favorite Norwegian biathlete ("JT" we call him). Being there was a blast. It's harder to follow the race in person than it is while watching it on tv, ironically, but I felt it was worth it to be able to experience it happening around me.

I could have tackled JT. But I didn't.

I bought a burger from the food trucks and sat on the bleachers eating while athletes skied by in front of me on their cool downs. It was time to figure out my run for the afternoon. I had done some research trying to find some local winter trails that would be runnable, but I hadn't had much luck. I didn't know whether the weather would hold either, since there was supposed to be more snow coming in later that evening. So I decided to just leave from the parking lot, run down the road a ways, and head up a trail I could tell from the map was nearby. Turns out they don't plow hiking trails and apparently it's not an overly used one in the middle of winter. So I passed by the trail and stayed on the fire road heading up into the mountains. I was running in the partially packed tracks of snowmobiles on probably a foot of snow, sinking in at least a couple inches every step. So it was a solid workout. I made it six miles up and came to a saddle and junction, at which point I decided to return. The clouds were bright against the deep blue of the sky. The snow too. My feet were getting more and more damp and my muscles more and more cramped (not really, I just wanted to say cramped after damp). I got back to the car before the cold got to my bones and headed my exhausted body and face back down into town. Turns out I got sunburned a bit, but it wasn't too bad.

The Orem Public Library, with the mountains outside.

I parked near Subway and realized with joy that the Orem Public Library was right across the little street I parked on. Since libraries are probably only second on my list—after kitties—of things to become giddy about, I happily postponed supper and went inside. It's a fantastic library, with two levels and two buildings, a courtyard in between. I suppose looking tired and frazzled, with a silly grin and sunburn on my face, and taking pictures in the children's section wasn't the best move. I was asked if needed anything by a staff member, who, after hearing me say no and apparently judging me relatively harmless, returned to her other staff members and said something along the lines of, "He's fine." In the adult wing of the library, the views outside the giant windows look out onto the mountains. It's wonderful. After cutting ties at last with my library awe, I made my way to Subway. I got soda with my sub since I was using a gift card from Mom and had earned the sugar, if only by my own estimation.



Apparently only Airbnb guests are required to maintain certain levels of quiet, because there were visitors that evening that talked and talked late into the night. I know, because even I stayed up until after 11, at which point I could hear them for a good hour as I struggled to fall asleep. One or two were still in the living room crashed on the couch when I left after breakfast in the morning. I was taking notes, in case I ever get the chance to be a host. It's the little things, man, the little things.

Sublime Sabbath Snowshoeing
I found Lauren at the airport in SLC. It had snowed an inch or two in town overnight and everything was white and sparkling. We got groceries at Walmart and then stopped at the County Library of the Salt Lake City County Library System to make plans for the day. Lauren obliged me by listening quite patiently at all the possibilities I'd come across the night before and couldn't decide on, plus some rambling about books I was passing in the fantasy aisle behind us. Eventually we decided we'd hope for the best for some snowshoeing from Aspen Grove, even though it might be overcast and possibly snowy.

On our way we stopped by a little trail I thought might have some views of the Heber Valley we were driving through. It sort of did and we enjoyed a little walk. The rest of the drive to Aspen Grove was beautiful and it was fun to drive up the last few miles on a windy road with a wall of snow on one side and little alpine cabins peaking out of the snow and trees on the other. We ate sandwiches in the car and then bundled up and got our (well, Bjorn's, in my case) snowshoes on, then headed into the puffy stuff for to see what we could see.

Looking up the bowl, Mt. Timpanogos invisible somewhere off to the left.

The trail wound through some firs and aspen before straightening out and taking on a slight increase in grade and opening up to the view of a huge, high treeless bowl of cliff and snow at our front. It was impressive. Mt. Timpanogos was up ahead of us at about our 10 o'clock, but we couldn't see the peak because the clouds were low. They wafted around the rocky precipices to our left and shaded the sun overhead. It was snowing. We passed a couple of folks heading down from the direction we were going, and then we had the entire bowl to ourselves. We hiked and hiked, stopping frequently to catch our breaths, relish the views, and add to our collection of panorama pictures. After more than an hour we had gone about 0.85 miles.

A somewhat skewed panorama of Lauren marching up the bowl.

Sometime later we were both feeling a turnaround would be prescient, but we were close to the satisfaction of 1.50 miles and there was what seemed to be an overlook ahead and above that would offer a cool view down through the bowl. But it was a steep final ascent and we were breaking trail now. We zigged and zagged up the slope carefully, doing our best to avoid snow in the boots, slips down the hill, and avalanches, of course. We finally made it up and enjoyed a rest and the view before adding layers and beginning our return.

Going down was fun. I got a little hyper surrounded by all that snow and did some running and jumping around while Lauren responsibly and merrily marched toward the car. The light was fading, the temperatures dropping, and the snow increasing by the time we arrived, and we were happy to be warm and sitting again. We got to our lovely new Airbnb hosts (Brett and Bridget—plus Gunther the friendly pup—who were excellent hosts) and warmed up dal and recouped nutrients with a bountiful salad. Then we slept, hard.

Relay Time
Sunday morning we got our hot cereal and fruit ingested, then headed to Soldier Hollow for a day of relays. It was cold—somewhere in the teens—and the snow was no longer as puffy as the days before. But we still had fun watching the single mixed relay (Hofer and Wierer won it for the Italians) from different vantage points. I took the opportunity to ramble some more about what was happening and Lauren at least feigned interest, if not actually enjoying it a little bit too. When the race was over, we explored a frozen marshy by the lake nearby, complete with beaver homes and dams, before deciding that the veggie burgers at SpinCafe in the neighboring town of Heber had the most appeal for lunch. We made a stop for pastries afterward and Lauren was able to buy the very last two. We sat a spell, enjoying the crystalized sugar on the one pastry and the lavender flavors of the other. Then Lauren obliged me again by allowing us to return to Soldier Hollow to watch the big mixed relay event that afternoon.

A view from our vantage point on the track. Off in the distance is the shooting range. The biathletes ski up on our left and down on the right.

(Volume warning) I can't remember who this is, but it's either Jake Brown or Alex Howe of the U.S. team.

I had such a good time. I decided I did want to walk up onto the course after all, even though it meant not being able to see how the shootings were progressing on the giant screen near the start/finish. But up on the course we could look down over the whole track and get views of all the skiers as they struggled up the hill to one side of us and then streamed down right on the other side of us. Susan Dunklee was up there cheering on her teammates (another fan asked me to take a picture of him and her for him; I was too timid to say anything except "I'd be happy to," let alone actually meet Susan). Benedikt Doll skied up to our viewing area after his leg to cheer on the final German skier. Fillon Maillet also skied up and all over cheering for his teammate after his own leg. JT and all the others skied up and down a mere ten feet away from me and I thought it was the coolest thing. Thanks, Lauren. I'd really made it to a World Cup biathlon event.

On our way home we located the pathway passing by Bridal Veil Falls and made a stop for a pleasant walk through the snow beside the babbling brook. The giant icicles high up on the cliffs were a sight. We marveled a while and gradually made our way back to the car. Tired and hungry, we went back to the house. As it turns out, Great Value makes some fantastic macaroni and cheese. We enjoyed that and some broccoli for supper before crashing again after a long, cold day of fun.

The creek we walked beside to reach Bridal Veil Falls. Photo by Lauren.

Bryce Detour
At the library on Sabbath, Lauren perked up when I mentioned possibly making a slight detour to visit Bryce Canyon on our return. So that became Monday's plan (yay, presidents). Admittedly, I was a little concerned about driving my little fwd coupe in the snowy road conditions and low temps scheduled for that morning, but everything turned out fine. I drove safely and we avoided being the victims of that sharp turn in the park that claimed the front of another car about thirty seconds before we passed by. Our drive to the park was peaceful, as the sunny skies over SLC eventually turned into overcast skies in the mountains that began to drop snow. I was proud to display my annual national parks pass and then make it to the Bryce Point overlook without issue. We ate sandwiches in the car again, then bundled up before heading out into the winter wonderland that was Bryce Canyon in February 2019.

Bryce Canyon. Photo by Lauren.

Gratuitous portrait and apparently a Marmot advertisement.

We drove to three different points along the rim over the next couple of hours, walking our way to the fourth. We took pictures, jumped in the snow, tried to keep our hands warm, and thoroughly enjoyed the otherworldly views. Snow piled up in smooth, curvaceous piles among the fins, arches, and hoodoos of the canyon. Where visible, the red of the hardened soil rock contrasted lovelily against the bright white of the snow. Thor's Hammer looked sublime, and as a Christothor myself, I was happy to see it. (I'm actually still not 100 percent certain what I was admiring and imagining to be the Hammer was actually the Hammer, but let's say it was.) Because of the snowy skies rolling over us, the atmosphere would go from eerily dim and foggy to bright and sparkly when the sunshine would fight its way through the clouds now and then. It was a beautiful, if frigid, day.



Heading Home
We stayed longer than we planned to, but since Lauren thought it was worth it we were fine. Eventually we took our bathroom break, shed our layers, and began the long drive home. It went well. (Except unfortunately, that the night before my car's head unit—the radio—suddenly wasn't working any longer when I tried turning it on at one point and continued to persist in its malfunctioning on Monday, leaving me without road tunes. Sadness abounded in my heart.) Lauren and I enjoyed conversation, Chipotle, naps (mostly just Lauren on that one as I was the designated driver), and even some typical holiday-end traffic over Cajon Pass. We got home around 11:00 p.m., three hours after we'd "planned." We'll say that was a sign of a successful adventure.

Some favorite memories of Lauren's, translated by me:

• Lots of snow!
• Shufflin' through the pufflin'
• Watching biathlon being acceptably cool (probably in terms of temps, but still)
• Snowy landscapes in the sunshine—particularly the windy road up to Aspen Grove TH
• And the sunniness that would poke through while in Bryce Canyon

As for me, it was a trip I'll remember fondly as the one with the white walls of the Wasatch Mountains, the smallness of the biathlon greats as they quietly stormed right by me at Soldier Hollow, the stories of Kaladin and Dalinar from Words of Radiance in my ears before bed, the laughs and conversations and pictures and meals and walks with Lauren, the new experiences of Airbnb, the inspiring Orem library, the glory of winter Bryce Canyon, and the effect of renewed hunger for adventure and a revisit of the Wasatch someday.

"Let's do it again" I texted Lauren the next day.

"Agreed!" she replied. Agreed.

Trying to jump off a snow pile into more snow while wearing snowshoes is a futile endeavor. Photo by Lauren.

Here I Am

This morning during a "field trip" group run up the Loch Leven trail, I found myself chatting with someone joining us for the first time. He asked me what I did.

It's a question that has plagued me. "I do nothing. I do laziness. I run? I... edit..?" I'm as cliche as the next person struggling with his identity, and my answers always get mumbled out somehow and end up a little differently each time.

I quit my managing editor job for the medical school alumni magazine last fall. For the next several weeks I wasn't overly productive. "I'm retired," I'd tell people as glibly as I could, smirking a bit for show. This, of course, masked my mountainous disappointment in where my unfettered tendencies lead and the great fear looming over me about how to proceed with life. What is life? Is it even worth living? How can I justify any type of work? Why am I cursed with privilege? Yada yada. So much pathetics, and I knew it. It's a curious spiral: shame for the ease of life, leading to the inability to enjoy it and live it well, leading to more shame. Brené Brown would be disappointed. Or curious. Or over it, probably.

After the new year, I finally began something that felt like forward motion: a proofreading class through the Christian Editors Network, of which I had signed myself up as a bronze member a few weeks before. I'm still taking that course, so this point in time is not far removed from that one. I've had no great epiphanies or sudden increases in discipline or unsolicited influxes in clients or cash. But editing, and my participation in it, has certainly taken up more real estate in my mind.

I joined the Freelance Editing 101 course a couple weeks ago. And a few days later finally started reading through the Establishing Your Freelance Business 101 material I purchased (well, grandma purchased as a gift for me) over Christmas. It's probably the biggest wave of incoming information I've experienced in a decade—all while also being selected as a juror in a four-day trial, which only added to the feeling of over saturation.

Is over saturation two words? Or should I hyphenate it? Is it okay that I started that sentence with "or"? If so, according to whom?

I think I want to be a copy editor, but I also think it's only because I don't think I have any other skills. But reading and studying all this material is depressing, or at least discouraging. It's a romantic ideal, this dream of being a freelancer that many of us coddle and attempt to retain while awake. I'm told the reality is: heaps of work. And it's work that needs to come from self-motivated hands, from someone who can promote themselves, from someone who is disciplined with his time at home. This is discouraging to me. I struggle mightily with these things, and saying that I struggle feels like a grand overstatement.

They also say to be an editor of quality and credibility, one ought to write, to be published, even. Oh, and that it's probably best in many cases to get things running on the side, because you won't make much money for the first few years.

As I watch my savings dwindle and the list of should-dos grow, it's almost all I can do to just laugh a little. I'm nearly 32. I'm not the age I feel anymore, which is somewhere around 17. (Wait, ages are written out according to Chicago style. Using numerals is Associated Press style. But I'm not changing those because I'm the publisher of this blog, so I can overrule the rules.) I'm trying to trust God, because I believe He is wholly capable to make worlds out of nothing. In ten years I think I'll see little worlds of my own, as it were, that He did make for me. But you know how it is, this darkness in the moment, this silence of the seconds. I am the blind man before surgery, but in this case, I can't just lie around awaiting instructions or mobile beds. Maybe I can eventually, but it has to start with me. I have to get myself dressed, so I can get to the door, so I can let in the person who will take me to the surgery. It's the little things, sometimes.

A couple days ago, I agreed with a good friend to spend 20 minutes blogging today (there we go again, numerals). And here I am.

Yes, that's my gloved thumb. Yes, this was taken this morning.

Silver Rush 50 Report

The race experience was amazing. It's been three months since the Silver Rush 50 (July 8, 2018), but I remember getting up early, gathering my gear, getting some food down, sneaking out of the campsite, parking at the race start, and waiting in nervous anticipation for the gun. At the start of races, everyone else looks so fit and fast to me. I always figure I'm the slowest person there. That sense was in full force at the start of this race. I knew a number of folks there were attempting to qualify for the 100-mile Leadville race in August and others were merely using this as a training run for it. It's humbling to consider that.

We started with that little steep climb up the ski slope or whatever it is. I turned and enjoyed a moment of the pinkening mountaintops in the distance and the hundreds of buzzing runners all around me. Then it was time for business.

The fit folk.

The pinkening during the first couple miles out of Leadville.

I kept it really comfortable for the first while so that I wouldn't blow up. I think it worked. We slowly began to string out, but we were all clumpy for a while as we headed up the "straightaway" to the hairpin turn that would mark our first descent, some 10 miles into the race. It was a gorgeous morning and I took a couple photos as we ran. I felt good and was breathing fine.

The straightaway. We're stringing out by now.

Gorgeous summer morning.

More meadowy than I expected.

So pretty. 

Long shadows.

It would've been easy to let loose on that descent, but I tried to keep it reigned in. I probably did too well and could've gone faster, but so it goes in retrospect. It was fun to get to that mile-14 aid station. There were quite a few cars and people there cheering, so it was invigorating. We then wended our way through some forested areas and up some inclines until we broke out into what felt like the top of the mountains. Then we began descending again—some of it was quite steep—and entered into a lovely meadowy area where eventually the halfway point and midway aid station was. I thought it would be on the way there that I'd spot the leaders coming at me, but I forgot that the route takes us a slightly different way for a while than how we arrived, so I missed all the speedsters at the front. Oh well.

A mountain "mine."

This is what we were dropping into as we neared the last couple miles before the midway aid station.

I sat and changed shoes and packs at aid. Still felt pretty good and was enjoying myself. Having another large number of volunteers, crew, and cheering spectators was fun. After a couple miles we began climbing again, and I think that's where I started to feel more fatigued. I remember a long descent when I was gradually catching someone ahead of me, but then we hit another little climb and I walked while they jogged. I think it was during that stretch, or a little before, when I first began to sense a bit of cramping in my left quad. Then we reached the "14-mile" aid station and began the five-mile climb to that hairpin turn that would take us into town. The cramping threat had worsened and I had to walk that climb. I got passed by a few people, but I didn't get too far behind a couple of them because my walk was pretty strong and steady. I felt good about that at least, but I would've liked to have jogged.

During the "alternate" return route, we hit this bit of single track that made this runner a little giddy.

As we neared the hairpin, the dark clouds that had begun gathering finally broke loose and the drizzle hit. Quickly that became quite a downpour, and so I found myself descending with Natalie (I learned her name after the race from the results) for about three miles in the pouring rain. The trail was slick and there were puddles to jump. For a while there was even some hail, and it was windy, too. By the hairpin, I'd finished my book and had put on my jams, but I could hardly hear them and they weren't very motivating by that point anyway. It was exhilarating to run in that weather, but I had also run farther than ever before and was feeling it. Fortunately, my cramping threats were controlled while running flat or on a decline, so that wasn't a big issue. But I didn't have an appetite, nor the motivation to sip water from underneath my tightly zippered rain jacket. I was letting myself get pretty depleted.

The darkening clouds and the long climb to the hairpin.

Eventually we got to the last aid station, from where I thought it was only seven miles back to the finish. It was a long seven miles. Mentally grueling for me. I ate and drank almost nothing, relying just on my will to finish to get me to the end. It worked, but maybe I would've finished a couple minutes faster and felt better had I been consuming things better those last 10 miles. Anyway, I was able to keep my slog rather steady in spite of things and did wrap up those last—what turned out to be—eight miles all right. The rain had slackened by that time and I was able to enjoy the euphoria of 50.07 miles completed under a gray sky. The hug given to me by the woman at the finish—one of the race directors or something—was welcome in that moment. It's strange, to understand that you're all messed up inside, your chemicals and juices and brainwaves all depleted and spastic, such that every little thing results in becoming emotional, but to still simply appreciate it all. I don't like my feelings being manipulated like that, but I also have to smile and enjoy it or I'd just weep. So I did.

Except that I was utterly exhausted. My legs really hurt and I wanted to lie down and sleep. But I was alone, surrounded by strangers, and dared not lie down lest I never get up again. I had to drive myself back to the campground, after all. I staggered about for a while, attempting to "stretch" a bit. I picked up my drop bag. I congratulated Natalie, who had passed me up that last climb, then run with me to the aid station, then pulled out of there ahead, then fallen behind when she wasn't sure what way to take until I'd run up. For that last hour, I was constantly expecting her to catch and pass me, but she never did for some reason. I imagine she could have, but I won't deny hoping I would stay ahead of her. It was a good motivator to be able to have someone to "beat."

I got myself to the car, somehow unwrapped myself from my jacket, pack, and other accouterments, and managed to drive myself to the campsite. Then I lay in my tent. I called a Mexican restaurant to ask about ordering takeout, but they didn't do phone orders. I couldn't picture myself limping into a place full of smiling groups of runners cheering beers, so I nibbled at some snacks I had in the tent and continued to lie there. I felt, and it was, pretty pathetic, but it was all I could muster. Eventually I think I brushed my teeth, went to the bathroom, and then slept.

The next morning I felt lovely. Considering, of course. But I did. I was stoked to have experienced that race, stoked to not feel any injuries, stoked to be hungry again, stoked to be in the mountains. I could've stayed much, much longer, but it was time to head home. The plan was to drive about halfway again, camp on some BLM land, then make it home and possibly work the next afternoon. But I ended up just driving all the way home that day. During the drive I decided I didn't want to stop and unpack things and then have to pack them all again. So I just drove. Passing through the mountains of Colorado was gorgeous. The winding roads, the mountains and trees and meadows, the small towns. Then the pseudo-desert of Utah, and the rain and sunset in Nevada, and the nighttime driving after Las Vegas.

It was a grand adventure for me, that whole long weekend. The race went off marvelously and spoiled me, I'm sure. I would love to do it again, especially if I could do it with friends. But I couldn't have asked for a better experience. It was absolutely wonderful.

The Numbers
50 miles
9:18:43 (11:11/mi)
43rd overall (out of about 400 finishers)
38th male
25th age group (30–39)
(Athlinks results)

Strava post

50 Miles

So... it's been a bit. I guess three-plus years may warrant an update here. Truth be told, I'd meant to revamp my blog on a new personal website, but I haven't made that happen yet. For now, I wanted to document my 50-mile race journey, so here's at least one post on the topic.

It started when I received an email from Trail Runner Magazine on May 9 with a 10 percent discount for the Silver Rush 50. Typically, 50-mile races are on Saturday, so I looked up the date without much hope. (I don't race on Sabbath.) Lo and behold, it was a Sunday race. (I searched to see if there were other potential Sunday races nearer and in my search there were only 13 Sunday 50-milers in the country and this was the closest besides a sold-out one in Oregon.) I immediately became excited and texted a couple running buddies just to plant the seed of possibility at a 50-mile race for more than just myself.* In the end, it took me a few weeks to finally register and I'm here by myself. But I'm thrilled.

Leadville, CO

The race is in Leadville, Colorado, an old mining town proud of its heritage and its height. It sits at 10,000' feet (more, but I don't recall the exact number and won't look it up—maybe 10,152'?). Everything is "the highest" this or that in the country. That's what I was told at the little SDA church I visited this morning. "We're the highest SDA church in America." Plus, I observed, the highest church in town—of which there are several—since it sits at the top of the town. In the ultrarunning community, Leadville is famous for the Leadville 100 run, one of the toughest in the country because of the altitude. My race, the Silver Rush 50, is a mere stepping point (qualifier) and training run for many who will be racing the full 100 in August. I suppose it's like taking your master's at an institution where the PhDs are the top dogs. I am the little guy in Leadville, but that's all right with me.

As soon as I received that email in May I began to think about long runs and mountain runs. I'd been gradually getting my running back after somewhat a slump the first few months of the year. This was a shot of adrenaline. One of my year's goals was to run 20 20-mile runs in the year and up to that point I'd run zero. I think in two weeks I started a string of 20-mile runs every weekend that got me up to about nine or so. Two in one weekend, if I recall correctly. (A weekend for me is Friday to Sunday.) My longest training run was up in the Horseshoe Meadow/Cottonwood Lakes area three weeks ago. It was all above 10,000' like the Silver Rush race and I traveled 35 miles. It took me nearly 9 hours. I blame crazy wind at the beginning, a couple steep climbs, and no aid stations. But I'm hoping I can greatly improve on that pace tomorrow.

The long and lonely road. I forgot where. But I did pass through a lot of desert.

View from my Utah run.

Netflix and chill, the kosher version. Utah campground with that Karl Metzler AT documentary on the tablet.

I trained fairly well, putting in a 75-mile week and about three 60-plus-mile weeks, along with a couple 50s. No serious injuries and I got to the mountains almost every weekend. I also enjoyed planning my trip. I decided to leave on July 4, which turned out to be great since there ended up not being any traffic. I camped overnight in southwest Utah at about 8,500' to jumpstart the blood's oxygen stuff. Did a pleasant little run there, slept okay, then took off in the morning for the high-altitude hours through to Leadville. I'm camping at Sugar Loafin' Campground, a family friendly place where I seem to be the lone tent in the RV section. I requested electric hookup. The tent section is way cooler, but I've appreciated charging my phone at night, charging my computer, and cooking with my electric wok (a hand-me-down from my great aunt Doris). I'm eating better here than I do in Loma Linda.

I got here on a Thursday evening and promptly went for a little wheezing jog. As I've said, 10,000' is no joke. After the run I realized I'd traveled a segment that is part of the Leadville 100, which means dozens of famous ultrarunners have also run that little section. It made me feel good. Friday I got groceries, visited this library (I love local libraries—that's another goal of mine and potential blogging project, to visit all kinds of small libraries across the country), bought a book at the local bookstore, and picked up my race packet. I went on a hike to Timberline lake in the afternoon and reveled in the storm clouds, thunder, and wildflowers. Today I went to church and now I'm here at the library again. Tomorrow I race.

I basically saw Anthony here at the library.

Timberline Lake with a soft drizzle, thunderclouds overhead, and the laughter of a child nearby camping with her parents.

It's been a whirlwind and I've really enjoyed it. I've appreciated the chilly nights cozied up in my tent; the three hours a day it takes to prepare, eat, and clean up my meals; the beautiful drive to the Timberline trailhead, with the flowers on the side of the road and the view over Turquoise Lake; the laughing neighbor kids and their pot-smoking dads; the fit and filthy mountain bikers and ultrarunners stacking the town for the weekend (there's a mountain bike race being wrapped up as I type); the drizzle each afternoon (right now, too!); smell of campfire and the campground showers; the audiobook I finished yesterday ("Ember in the Ashes") and the one I'm on today and tomorrow ("Traitor's Blade")—both are good! which is not overly common; grooving to Eryn Martin to town and back. It's just been lovely. I hope for more of it.

But first, I get to run 50 miles tomorrow. It will be painful, but for the first 15 miles it will be heaps fun, and once I'm done it will have seemed heaps fun. I will listen to hours and hours of my audiobook and then at some point it will be time to turn on my Silver Rush playlist and jam to the feeling of my sore quads and dehydrated kidneys. I will dream of running 100 miles next. Maybe attempting to get in to one of the big 100-milers (Western States, Leadville, Hardrock, etc.).

It's all part of the journey and I can't say I'd have it any other way.

A little bit of rainbow yesterday evening at Sugar Loafin'. My campsite is out of the frame to the left. 

*It took me until today to realize that Albert Handal had run this race last year and I'd known about it. So quickly I forget about which races happen when and where and by whom. 

PS: Race-day results should be available here at Athlinks. Maybe post-race results will also be there for the record?

Full-album-repeat Status

A couple weeks ago, maybe a few now, I gave Ben Howard's new album a full, attentive listen. Then I listened to it again. And again. A few days later, I was confident it had become one of complete albums I will likely listen to for years and years to come—something that doesn't often happen. Usually an album has just a couple songs that I love. Or even if it is a majority of the songs, maybe the album just doesn't sing right.

When I realized Ben Howard's album had achieved full-album-repeat status, I also realized I had I think five of these albums. And because I want to get it on paper, here they are, more or less in the order of longevity of company.

1. Coldplay Parachutes (2000)
Go to song: "We Never Change"
This is the classic. Rush of Blood to the Head and X & Y are essentially also full-album-repeat status, but Parachutes has them beat by just. I have specific memories that go with these old Coldplay albums. You will never learn them.

2. Sigur Rós Valtari (2013)
Go to song: hard for me to distinguish, but I think I like "Varúo" a lot
Did someone introduce me to this album? I don't remember. I think I finally realized it existed while I was working in Washington. It takes me to other worlds in my heart.

3. Daughter Wild Youth EP (2012) and If You Leave (2013)
Go to song: again, tough, but I do like "Human"
Also, this is a mix. I have a playlist that includes these two albums and they're indistinguishable for me. She stirs me to another place.

4. Ben Howard I Forget Where We Were (2014)
Go to songs: "Small Things" and "Conrad"
He just jams, and so good. Made miles better when Spotify introduced the lyrics option around the same time I was digging these heroics. A beautiful experience. I found out Jones loves his other album. I don't. The exact opposite, I love it. We're all so different.

5. Ólafur Arnalds Living Room Songs (2011)
Go to song: No idea. They're all the same to me so far.
I had one of his songs on a playlist I would return to now and then and finally listened to the whole album. I have to confess: it feels unsettled on the list for me. I think it deserves to be here and think it will stay, but it's best for even more specific moods than the other albums. I don't do this one during the day. Maybe it will fade... just like what happens to me when I listen... shhh... hush now. rest.

And now that I've put these on paper, I see they're mostly from recent years. Valtari and Daughter both feel like they've been with me a while, but it really hasn't been that long. Ben Howard still feels pretty fresh, but this album especially. I just really dig it. And Ólafur, well... I didn't love his other albums, and am not sure about this one. But there's something special about it, nonetheless.

So there they are, my full-album-repeat status albums. The albums I put on when I don't know what else to listen to. Or when I need to hurt and soar and scream in the stillness of my room. Or when I just want to sit with someone familiar. What are yours?

Validation

I came into this job (almost ten months ago!) and immediately started wondering thoughts like what do the alumni want in this journal? and why don't they write us more—how can we get them to write more!? I recently came to the conclusion that these are valuable and relevant questions, but not necessarily for this particular publication. But today, as I was looking up first-editorials by beginning editors of the past it was a comfort and relief to come across this page with some first impressions by an esteemed editor and alumnus:

The parts he writes that were meaningful to me included:

"Your new editor [him] has some ideas about what to publish, and many of them depend on your responses as alumni. Jerre and I wish to know: what do you want to know? Are you curious, or frustrated, or happy, or just plain 'sore' about [whatever] ... What information would you like to have that you don't have?

"Please write and tell us. If it takes asbestos content paper, OK. If you choose to write on perfumed note sheets, of course we'll appreciate that. But communicate, and we'll try to communicate right back..." 

Ahhh... Validation by a great alumnus and previous editor of my own questions and concerns about what kind of content to include in the journal: Tell us what you want and do it however you want! Just tell us!

And also a little bit of a challenge and sense of curiosity on my part: Is my new belief that these questions are not as relevant as I first thought actually valid? Will I find validation of that later on? We'll see. But I suspect that everyone in the position of working for this journal has realized at one point or another that you just have to get stuff out. Readers aren't going to tell you what to include, they're just going to tell you what you messed up on. So in a way, no news is good news. But also, one of the tidbits I came across today mentioned something about the journal being an "award-winning" one and one that consistently ranked among top alumni journals. That's news to me, all of it. I opened up a Google search tab before leaving the office about "alumni publication awards" that I will explore tomorrow. Are there really awards for alumni publications? And if so, when can we get one? That's a fun goal. Here's to interesting journalism.

Of Late

Even if I was 100 percent efficient, I don't think I'd be able to do all the things I imagine I want to do. So I usually just end up not doing anything.

Lately, life has been a mix of completely new and still engrained. From Monday to Thursday I go to work. Sometimes I run with a friend or two in the morning. Sometimes I eat with someone during lunch. Sometimes I stay at the office until 7, or 8, or 10 once. Sometimes I work on Friday for a few hours. I almost always get groceries on the way home Monday and Thursday nights. This past Friday our layout person and I finally wrapped up our January issue. I'm only a month and a half behind schedule. It was a great feeling, and terrible.

Friday to Sunday I go back to weekend Chris. He imagines reading and taking walks and doing crafts and cleaning up. He usually doesn't get anything accomplished, really. He plays on his phone Friday night, but at least starts listening to Christian music. But he'll also watch YouTube videos of celebrities on Jimmy Fallon or Conan. I suppose he feels guilty, but mostly just figures he's "apathetic." Or whatever it is when one doesn't feel much about anything. He's done this "Sabbath" thing for a long time. He tries to go to first service at the university church and pay his tithe and offering once a month. He started taking notes of the sermons a few weeks ago. It helps him to think more, but he still doesn't do anything as a result. He intends to cook a nice meal for lunch, but sometimes just has the good ol' double sandwich and chips. Afternoon is often a repeat of Friday night, sometimes a hike with people instead if he's ambitious, or a visit to his favorite 7-tree Redwood Grove at Caroline Park to sit and read, or try and figure out his feelings. Then it's usually popcorn and a movie, or just more celebrity videos. Maybe some humor blogs. Maybe an article. Sunday is typically just more waste. He might get laundry done. Maybe clean some part of the house. Maybe go for a run. Probably feel bad about not calling his great aunt. Or anyone else, for that matter. Maybe wonder what the housemates think of him. Maybe spend a moment imagining living in his own cabin in Running Springs. Probably at some point feeling his back start to ache a bit.

Sometimes I still have thoughts flicker through my mind. I might wonder how I'll ever meet a girl, or anyone new around here, really. I might consider for an inhale what I aspire to be. I might, for the exhale, think about my age. I'll wish I wrote in my journal, or used my computer for other than the Internet, or took pictures with my real camera just for fun. I'll think about my sitting, and think I ought to do some workouts, maybe some crossfit, or at least some pushups. I might look at my shelves in the pantry and wish I didn't have to prepare food. I might wonder if I could go to the theater or a restaurant alone. I might consider reading, but then remember the book I'm in isn't that exciting, and plus, Instagram and Twitter need checked again. I might want to listen to some of the cool music I've heard the past four days, but then not be able to think of a single group.

I cleaned my room today. It's still cluttered, but neatly. Kind of like me, I suppose. I combed my hair and vacuumed the floor. I cleaned the shelves and windowsill. I moved some things to underneath my cot, which should've been done months ago. I put my sweaters on the shelf that's been empty forever. I started an episode of How I Met Your Mother and wasn't feeling it at all. Then I remembered Brooklyn Nine-Nine and enjoyed a couple of those. I watched some Tavi Gevinson and Emma Watson interviews and I wished I could think like Tavi. I listened to a lot of Daughter. She is the best. I looked at the thought of journaling in my head, but didn't and won't. I finally opened this page and am doing this instead. Sometimes I wish I had a perfect cat.

And that's pretty much me lately.

It's too late, for, disappointment

Maybe part of the problem is that I am producing, not creating. Nine hours a day, four days a week, seemingly lost to the fornever.

I dream to dream, but only scream in my head with balled fists, standing by the window watching the wind blow.

I say to her, "Haha, no, how silly," forcing the side of my mouth to rise in faux amusement, dead eyes betraying me. Turning back to my desk, the swear words silent and fiery.

I listen and feel the worlds and the heroes and the lessons, but never see my own. I keep telling myself they will show when the time is right and then I can leave. They are still unseen.

I learn that these things will not change. That this is simply my life. The ebb and flow of someone who will always be fine and never be well.

- - -

Sometimes, like in this moment, I fall into a sense of overwhelmedness by the simple creativity I see in others, usually from the Interwebs, sometimes in an Instagram caption, other times by a walk down a city street. Somewhere, somehow I began longing to be a part of this crowd. But just as easily I find myself longing to be part of the ambitious crowd, or the leadership crowd, or the healthy crowd. Pulled in different directions, never settling into myself. Hurting. And going back for more until I know I will never be the one to overwhelm another.

This is what it's like. Will you know it any other way someday?

Some thoughts on Noah the film

Watched Noah today and felt like putting some thoughts down, mostly for my own sake. I'll try to avoid spoilers, but we better all know the story...

For the grand scenery shots the setting was Iceland, so it was amazegorgeous. The actors were above-par and I felt did very well. I think the scripting, too, was enough, though I imagine the writers could've done a lot more in the way of philosophical side comments or advice. I'm glad they held back though, frankly. In essence, I think this story was told from a very human perspective and expressed in a way such as to display the humanity in the story—the parts you and I can relate with. (Which didn't come as a surprise, I guess.)

God was called simply Creator and was credited with creation and as a kind of good-impulse-giver, I suppose. They acknowledged Him enough to paint Him as someone the whole earth knew about, but whom most had dismissed entirely, usually in such a way as to become vengeful toward Him, at least passive-aggressively. And the rest, i.e., Noah, looked to Him as someone who deserved respect and an attendance in time of need or decision. But there were no over-zealous pious priests with face paint, no hyper-critical God-fearers preaching and condemning, no more-righteous-than-thous—and I liked that because it seems righter than always being right. But the way the film portrays Noah and his family makes it seem like they were simply following orders and nothing else. There was no room for mercy of any kind. No one else offered salvation on the ark. (But is that even Biblical, as it were?) No righteous, no blessed, just some that were found innocent enough to not be destroyed in the deluge. And then there really wasn't much at all in the way of praise or gratitude or worship, just a kind of somber resignation to die later instead of now. And so I found myself wishing the Creator had come out more of a winner; though, again, now that I'm thinking about it did He really win anything in that tragedy? I guess not.

I read the non-spoiler first-half of a review by Orson Scott Card (a favorite author of mine...) and he talks a bit about what I'll call the fleshiness of Noah's character—how Noah (actually, I guess Card was talking about Russell Crowe really, but I think it applies to both) was fit for the heroic moment but also man (human) enough to really struggle with certain decisions he had to make and that the struggle was believable. I agreed as I watched the film. Noah (Crowe...) was someone worth following, but also someone available enough to disagree with. [possibly some spoilerish material following...] And what Aronofsky's Noah ends up being is a man who respects the Creator enough to try and verify a vague message about the world's destruction, then follow through on some more vague instructions on how to save "the innocent" (the film's phrase), and finally, accept that perhaps the Creator really did mean the destruction of all mankind—regardless of what that meant for his family. In the end, I feel like the way the film's story rolls is the decision (or maybe the understanding or realization from their point of view) by the writers/directors that humanity was preserved by humanity and that the Creator allowed it but never displayed an outright blessing on it. In other words, I feel like somehow the credit for our existence after the flood is given to a man, not his Creator. Which to me is unfortunate, but also not a deal breaker. I feel aware enough to appreciate the film and actually enjoy it, but also that that point is one I would like to remember for my sake. I believe the Creator deserves more respect than we, and I, give Him. For more than just letting us persist after the flood.

All in all it was a cool film and story. Obviously there is a lot more that could be discussed. A lot of theology that people apparently are fussing about (I'm not on Facebook, thank goodness), and I'm sure dozens of other tidbits that folks will nitpick. Which, yes, I believe for every individual can be quite literally a life or death tidbit as far as what you believe goes. But for me, the above was the main takeaway. It was neat to see an interpretation of the event, "event" being a pretty light word to use. We talked (okay, I listened to talking) about Noah and the flood at Glacier View Ranch over breakfast a couple days last fall, and that plus the movie just further the realization for me that it must've been an absolutely unbelievable event in the as-close-to-literally way possible (except that I guess qualifying its unbelievability as "absolutele" is... a problem, or whatever). I mean, so epic. And with so few words written about it in the Bible it's kind of nice to have someone do the visual imaginative work for me, although the focus was not on the actual flood itself (which was nice, probably) and so it could've been represented much more expansively had they chosen.

I feel this "review" of sorts has gotten clumpy. I just liked the movie, okay. And the story. There are so many questions about it still and if I ever know (see!?) how it went down it will be amazing, I guess. It's a hard act to swallow, that of an apparently loving Creator God completely destroying everything He had created and blessed. What was that like for Him? What was Noah like? I don't know, but now I know how Aronofsky imagines it could've been like (if he believed that sort of thing).

If anyone reads this, it'd be fun to hear your thoughts or read your own review, so... share.


PS: I guess humanity saving humanity makes sense to me coming from an athiest, especially if the flood event is accepted even if God is not. I just saw the tagline on imdb's page for Noah and it says "Rediscover the story of one man and the most remarkable event in our history." And so, if random person A is just looking back on history, sees the flood story and maybe accepts it because of the proofs there are around the world and in ancient people's histories, then portraying the story as it is done is simply portraying an ancient family's belief in a Creator of the world and then subsequent survival of a catastrophic flood (the most commonly accepted version of the story, I think). I suppose it's like basing the story on the Bible as a sort of really old history book, not as Holy Scriptures. Because really, I'd say you could pretty much take "Creator" out of the entire story portrayed in the film and it'd still be fine. Except for the Watchers maybe. Though they are credited as coming from heaven, not as being some concoction of man. Anyway, there's a lot of over-analyzing going on in my head and not enough words to accurately portray the thoughts happening, so I quit. All in all I wonder if I am putting too much credit to one man (Aronofsky). In other words, maybe I'm the secondary English teacher insisting there are dozens of meanings to some poem or short story depending on how each person looks at it, when really, if you just asked the author, he'd say he just wrote a curious story about a bird and stick, or whatever. Maybe Aronofsky just tried to put himself in the mind of a Christian or something and make a cool film out of a pretty epic story. Maybe it's really simple, I just don't know. (And maybe he talks about it in interviews!? Okay I quit.)

No reason

"Look, Franz," he said. "The fork goes on this side of the drawer, okay? People in the Southern Hemisphere may put it on that side, but that is not how it works up here."

"Fine," said Franz. "But I'm still not going to put the hand towels in that far drawer, that is just too much."

"Whatever."

"Yeah, you know it whatever."

For a brief moment the two Chinese men stared at one another. Then Franz turned and quickly left the kitchen. Brian lingered a moment, upset that the first day of class wasn't going well because his partner couldn't agree to follow instructions. But he had a hungry cat at home and brooding wasn't going to solve anything tonight. He walked to the corner and grabbed his jacket, then headed toward the door. Turning, he scanned the room for one last check of anything that might be out of place, then flipped the lights out and walked out the door.

Twenty-three seconds later, the kitchen lights snapped back on and Franz smiled to himself. He worked quickly, efficiently, just like he'd learned. Before leaving, he went back to the hand towels and placed them in the far drawer, then disappeared into the hushed streets.

The next day, reporters covering the explosion reported a crater eight feet deep and more than 100 feet in diameter. And kitchen knives lodged into buildings two blocks away.

- - -

I just had the phrase, "Look, Franz," come to mind and this is proof that I have no imagination. Maybe it will grow. Maybe, if I put together every phrase that comes to mind—which happens once or twice a month—in 47 years I'll have a little poem.

Good Guy Ben

On March 9 I created a soft spot of skin, raw and tender and about the size of a quarter, on the sole of my right foot running on the trails of Knoxville. Four days later I was itching for more trails and ran 11 miles on the great trails of Collegedale. By the end, that spot burned and felt open and I was definitely favoring my left foot and figuring the next day would be a rest day. It wasn't. The next day I hit the trails again, this time with Ben, until a couple miles in I had to turn around and slowly pick my way back home.

Peeling off the socks was rough. There was a nice white layer of loose skin. I carefully cut that off and underneath there was another layer of loose skin. Apparently I had a blister inside a blister.

The next three days I walked softly. Then I had to try running, so I went to the Apison park. A few laps around the path and besides the pain I thought it must be all right. I went again the next day and figured I'd double the distance and up the pace. "Blister feels okay, but the skin cracked after yesterday's run," I logged. Which was good? because that way it was drying out? Maybe.

Several days later, after another easy trail run and confidence that it was getting quite a bit better, I did almost 15 miles on the trails again. And of course I got the regular rub spots and such, but I thought it all faired quite well. I'm good. My other foot, though, had a new patch of loose skin on the ball and up the side. It was very sensitive. But surely, surely it wasn't that bad.

After another trail run the next day, during which I complained the entire time, I sat down and with the utmost of care removed my sock. The new blister was legit. Bright red like a blood blister, the loose skin, the puss, the whole area swollen and hot. I didn't run for a week after that.

The point of this post is that I'd told Ben to remind me never to run on blisters again at some point during this whole episode and a couple days later I started to notice he'd taken request quite seriously. Good guy Ben. I think (hope) I've learned my lesson. And I hope to have passed along the message well enough to possibly spare you this misfortune for yourself.

I'm very unsure about grocery lists.

Don't make fun of me.

Yes, we are bachelors.
Ramen and missing each other.

I haven't done any of these things yet. I'm what the
French call: lazy loser.

All caps for remember.

Those are the guilty trail shoes.

I got a job! And a girlfriend! And ambition!

April fools.

23:23:23

The train passes by many times a day and shakes our house as it thunders past even though it is a good quarter mile away. Sometimes our neighbor across the street comes home in his motorcycle and sometimes in his car. Either way, it always sounds like someone's stopping in the middle of the road which makes me freeze, like someone might be coming to our house. This morning the garbage truck came by to retrieve our gifts.

There's a huge evergreen tree in our front yard. I'm not sure which kind, but its trunk is a couple feet in diameter and there are no branches until 20 feet up. The branches then are long and scraggly and gropey. And hauntingly hanging above our vehicles and rooms. I never am quite sure whether I'll wake up in the morning to my alarm or to a branch stuck through my skull. So far so good.

The neighbor to our back corner is fascinating to watch. He'll wander his yard at random, checking the ditch by the road, the fence on the far side of his yard, the old two-story cat shed between all the houses, and the wood pile and overgrowth to the side of our house. Sometimes he just touches our wood pile or picks up a piece and puts it on top. He's kind of older, with grey hair and country clothes and two trucks and hands clasped behind his back and a shoulderless shuffle. I watch him through our back door. Maybe I'm just as fascinating.

I'm lying on my bed, sideways, with my feet in the middle of the room and my head against the wall. The shelf full of books is directly in front of me and up. I've purchased several the past few weeks at McKays. I'm not sure that I've finished a one. There are two very large speakers on my desk lent to me by the Foote family. They provide the world of escape that a good loud song only can. They have become my friends.

I'm dreadfully thirsty. And by the time I finish this sentence it should be about 23:23:23. Nope. I finished at 23:23:13. But right NOW it was 23:23:23. This has been a Snippets of My Life. Good night.

Winning Winsdays 9

Not much this week....

m u s i c
I've been digging the bass and all the rest from Glass Animals' songs recently. Probably my favorite is Gooey.





v i d e o s 
Daniel walks with a stranger. And wins. Both the walking contest, and with this video. Love it. (seen on dump.com)


- - -

I was tempted to skip this video during the first minute or so, then the next minute, and even the next. But I didn't. And taken as one entire piece it was pretty awesome. Another way of explaining light speed and the vastness of the universe. So cool. (see on dump.com)

Melancholy Mondays 9: Retire to a Life of Luxury

Exactly xkcd, exactly.



In my case, I'm insecure enough to just try and be realistic and predictable with my answer, but I like this approach much better.

My dream job?

Hmm... I've tried a couple attempts just now but erased them. Turns out even just letting myself be completely free to come up with anything, any dream job whatsoever, is harder than I imagined.

Does that say something? Yep: All is lost. I am doomed to forever live in the shadow of What Could Be, unable to see it for the light of everyone else's lives shining too brightly in my eyes. This is a scary place to be. It renders me useless. I sleep in. I watch tv. I watch movies. I find new music and drift along in the wake. I have temporary highs when I take showers and get dressed, thinking perhaps, perhaps there is something out there for me. Or when I go on a run that leaves my chemicals brewing and scheming with a false sense of power and potential.

In reality, what am I? I'm a 27-year-old unambitious and unimaginative, lazy, indifferent, selfish and stubborn man boy who doesn't want to grow up, who doesn't know how to work hard, and who hasn't hit any kind of rock-bottom in terms of living standards to wake him up, as they might say. But it's not a dream to wake up from. It's my reality. And it's a problem.

If I was someone in a magazine article we'd all lament at how lame our society is getting. We'd see that and say, "How aggravating! I work my butt off, pay my taxes, support my country and family, and this grown man kid watches his meager savings dwindle, can't get himself to look for and procure a job, and doesn't even care."

Maybe you've already thought that. Maybe you're a parent (yes, that's you, Mom) who could admit to thinking along these lines at some point. Or all the time?

But if you try and come to tell me all this to my face I'll charm you out of the house and then take some popcorn to my best friend's house for a pity party. That's my house, by the way. I'll numb my senses with melancholy background tunes and iPhone games until my eyes are bloodshot and my limbs are stiff. Then, since I'm already in bed, I'll reluctantly put down my phone at last and let myself slip away into deep body-tensing, fist-clenching, eyes-wide-open, mental screams, only to wake up in the morning and do it all again.

- - -
Woohoo!!! I love Melancholy Mondays. I'm so glad I figured out an excuse to post this all publicly. Go me! Life is so good. I steamed some vegetables a couple days ago and ate some leftovers of it today for lunch. Mm-mmm, so good. Yesterday we did a killer trail run, and I came across a new sensation in my legs toward the end. I was dehydrated and tired, some of my joints were starting to ache, my old blisters were flaring a bit, and my lower-back was giving out. But my legs, specifically the big muscle masses in them, I noticed suddenly were noticeably fine. It was awesome. I wondered if that's what it was like to run 50 miles. 100 miles. Maybe things start to ache. Maybe the mind is weary from the fight. But maybe, just maybe, the deep, thick muscles continue to march behind you, looking you in the eyes and saying, "Fight on, we fight for you."

That has a ring to it, doesn't it? Kind of makes you think I'm feeling positive and reinvigorated. But I'm not. Or maybe I am, but about what—getting off this chair and moving my legs? Because getting out of a chair is a victory? Okay, but it's also the end for me. It's not the means to an end. Super lame. I'm not re-motivated to get back to the phone and call a dozen different employers. Or even get online and search for a dozen potential employers. Or even think about what general areas I might want to work in. Or even figure out that dream job—something that is completely up to my own whims.

The life of someone like me means wondering when things are going to really turn south, but also knowing that someday things are going to really suck and I'd rather not think about that time. So, there are always more trails to run. Always another meal to eat. Always another movie to watch. Always another set of Instagram pictures to scroll through.

Let's be honest (say it like you're supposed to), this self-empowering, inspiring move to Tennessee hasn't produced much.

I'm the same as ever, just years older. I wonder what will change me.