Tour de Lakes

As usual, I am posting this several weeks after the actual run in question. As much as I try to avoid working this way, it always seems to happen. This time, I have not actually had much time between that day and this in which to write a post. Between helping a friend move, getting shipped out to Chicago for a week for company training, and, naturally, running quite a bit, I have not found the time.

On October 2, I took advantage of a little spare time and a gorgeous day to head up to Rocky Mountain National Park for a run that I had taken with a friend some years earlier. I recalled it being a long, arduous run with a hard initial climb, and an additional several mile-long, 3000 foot climb in the middle. The loop was listed at about 11 miles, but given the time it took last time, we estimated it was closer to 13 or 14. Called the “Tour de Lakes,” it skirts a path around and past four separate lakes.

This was the peak aspen season, so I anticipated large crowds. I was not disappointed. There was a snarl of traffic through Estes Park, and a long line to get into the Park proper as well.  Since I had to wait in line in any case, I took the opportunity and renewed my National Parks pass for another year.

By the time I finally made it to the Bierstadt Lake parking lot, I was worried about finding a parking spot with all the traffic I had seen on the way in. Fortunately for me, though, this trailhead is far less well-known than Bear Lake, which is a few miles farther up the road, and I was able to pull into the last spot in the lot.

I remembered the initial climb up to the first ridgeline being tortuous the last time, so I was surprised when I found myself cruising up the switchbacks without much trouble. I stopped to snap a few pictures of the Longs Peak diamond rising behind me through the golden aspen, something quite a few other people were doing with much larger cameras, and cruised on over the ridge and around Bierstadt lake.

A classic autumn view of Longs Peak, from the first climb of the day.

This little guy was sitting in the middle of the trail. (S)he did not particularly like me getting this close, and curled up defensively.

After Bierstadt, the trail gets significantly less crowded as it heads for Cub Lake. The last time I ran this steep and rocky downhill section, my friend Mark had a GPS watch on, and clocked us in at a 4:30 mile for one stretch. I do not think I equaled that this time, but I’ve been wrong before.

After the descent, the trail crosses a small stream, and takes you out into a small meadow. I looked up, and saw the picture of a lifetime. I snapped a quick shot, knowing that I would probably not be able to capture the sheer stunning beauty of the scene, but the picture itself turned out pretty well.

 

I think this is one of the better pictures I have managed to capture. It's hard to beat the scene I had to work with, though.

As the picture shows, at this point the trail starts to head up again, for a long, long time.

A mile or two on from this picture, the trail crosses another, larger stream before heading up a long valley. At this crossing I met a couple other runners heading the opposite direction around the loop. They had just moved to Boulder from Texas and Tennessee, and three days after moving here went for this run. Hats off to them, that takes guts.

A little farther on, after  passing a group of CU students out for a weekend backpacking trip, the trail goes by Fern Falls.  I took the opportunity to grab a profile pic for my Facebook account, as well as a picture without me messing up the foreground. 

Fern Falls

My legs were starting to feel the climb a bit here. As I continued on, and the climb just kept coming and coming, I began to suffer a bit. There is no part of this climb that is particularly steep. It’s just relentless. It only lets up briefly to skirt the edge of the third (and fourth) lake of the day: Fern (and Odessa)

Looking over Fern Lake, at Flattop Mountain and the Little Matterhorn. 

At this point the trail is more accessible from the Bear Lake trailhead, and thus more crowded. Where I had gone miles without seeing people earlier in the day, now I saw groups every quarter mile or so. For the moment, this helped give me a little boost to get me up and over the last climb ridge of the day, from which point it is all downhill.

While I was definitely feeling the run by this point, I still was not as tired as I might have expected to be. I must have had some residual fitness from a summer of runner that decided to poke its head out during the end of the run.

That being the case, I started cruising the downhill, letting my legs go knowing that the hardest, longest portion of the run was over and it was, nearly, all downhill from this point.

Unfortunately, this also meant that I had to dodge the ubiquitous photographers on the way down. In general, they were courteous and stepped to the side of the trail, letting me burn by them, and often even cheering me on. However, as is always the case, there were exceptions to this rule. I started to get exasperated by the fifth time I came around a bend to find a tripod supporting a several thousand-dollar camera set up in the middle of the trail. I am all for getting a great shot, but it is still a trail, and people run.

This annoyance was not nearly enough to spoil my day however. I was out on a gorgeous day, running through groves of evergreens and golden aspen, with my legs still feeling good even after 12 or so miles.

I came back to Bierstadt Lake with enough left in my legs to give it a good push over the last, short uphill before cruising back down to the parking lot with, again, stunning views of Longs Peak to the south.

I ended up coming in at three hours on the dot, about 35 minutes faster than I took this loop the last time, even with all the photography breaks. All in all, a fantastic way to close out a serious summer of running.

The First Snow

It has been my tradition as long as I have been a runner, or even close to a runner, that I run during the first snow. Whenever it occurs (usually sometime in October out here in Colorado), whether it's in the middle of the day or the middle of the night, when those first flakes start falling, you can find me out on the roads, trails, or paths running my heart out.

And usually singing.

Today was the first snow in Boulder this year. My plan had been to head up to Indian Peaks today to get in a High Lonesome Loop before the snow closed that route down. Unfortunately I may have left that a bit late this year. The forecast for Nederland today was for 4 to 8 inches of snow to fall in 31 degree weather. While I don't really mind running in that much snow, and in fact regularly find it quite invigorating, I had zero desire to drive up the Canyon this morning with a cadre of other, less experienced snow drivers. The first snow of the year almost always causes a bit of a Charlie Fox up the Canyon, and I avoid it if I can.

Thus this morning found me heading up to Chautauqua to get in a run up Green Mountain. The parking lot was wet, but with rain, not snow. In a tiny bit of cosmic irony as I pulled into my parking spot, "Knee Deep" by the Zac Brown Band, with Jimmy Buffett, started playing on the radio. So I took off up the Amphitheater Trail with the words "only worry in the world 'is the tide going to reach my chair'" bouncing around in my head.

To my great surprise, the initial stair-climbing up Amphitheater felt rather easy today. Whatever shape I'm in, this section tends to hurt, but today I just felt smooth and easy, bounding up the rocks and stairs past the various groups of people coming down. And that sense of ease continued as I followed Saddle Rock trail up across the snow-line, where the soft susurrus of snow falling on the still-golden leaves provided a soothing background to a difficult climb. I had to pick my way across some of the rock-fields on the higher reaches of Greenman, when I got there, since I don't know the trail as well as some other runners. But much to my surprise I felt great even as I got to the summit. I have always remembered this last stretch being a bit of a haul, but today I was still cruising.

That's the magic of the first snow for me: I always feel invincible on my runs. My legs don't get as tired. My lungs don't gasp. On the way down, after stopping and talking to a ranger for a minute, the people I passed kept looking at me strangely. I wondered why, until I realized that, true to form, the words from "Knee Deep" that I thought were merely going through my head were in fact coming out my mouth. Thinking about it now, I must have made quite the picture, running down the mountain at a decent clip, signing "left a note said I'll be back in a minute, bought a boat and I sailed off in it. Don't think anybody's gonna miss me any way" while my feet came down in several inches of snow. The first snow: every year, it pushes me just to the other side of sanity. And I love it.

A few pics from a summer of running

The first set is from a run I did up in Indian Peaks on June 26 this year. This was to be my last long(ish) run before running the Leadville Marathon the next week. I felt good, despite coming back from a week in Baltimore just the day before. Unfortunately, before I managed to get much of a run in, the snow on the trail got too deep and I ended up turning back. I did, though, get a up high and get some good altitude time in.

Very much out of order, this is a picture of the only lake I'd managed to get to that day. I had meant to go to king, but the snow was too much.

This was the first stretch of snow on the trail. It only got deeper from here. Since I was in shorts, post-holing through the icy crust of this quickly cut up my shins, and I soon decided to turn around.

The water was still really high for June. Down in Boulder around this time, the Creek was in full flood, and closed to tubing.

Again, the water was high. But as ever, high water makes for great pictures.


Skipping a bit, the next are from a run, again in Indian Peaks, up the Arapahoe Pass trail. i didn't get pics of it, but I got caught out a bit by a thunderstorm this day, and ended up having to hightail it back down the trail a ways.

From the Arapahoe Glacier trail.

Looking back down the trail. At about this time the clouds were building a bit behind me, but I wasn't too concerned as it was still pretty early. Oops . . .

My turnaround point. My legs were just not feeling good this day, so I opted not to continue on either to Caribou Pass or further along the Arapahoe Pass trail. Also, shortly after I took this picture, the sky opened up an the lightning started, so I decided to head back down, somewhat recklessly it must be said.

More pics to come.

Pics from the run below

Again, it has been a while since I posted here. Not due to me not running, but more that I have not yet set up internet in my new(ish) apartment. Had I done so before now, I probably would have posted these earlier. However, since I didn't, here are a few.


A look at the trail ahead for the day. Belford is on the left, Missouri looms to the right of the picture. Missouri was intimidating to me that day, despite being a relatively easy mountain, as it is where a friend of mine's girlfriend had died in a mountaineering accident earlier in the year.

At the top of Belford.

I am no longer sure where this picture was taken from. I believe, though, that it is looking south from Oxford.

Summit of Oxford.

On the saddle between Belford and Missouri. It was about here that I decided not to go for the summit of Missouri as well, but leave it for another trip.

More pics from the summer and fall of running to come in the next several posts.

The High Country

It has been quite a long time since I have written here, which is fair, because it took me quite a bit longer than I ever would have expected to recover from Leadville.

It was most likely a combination of physical and mental recovery, combined. I was running again two days after the marathon itself, but for a long time I could not physically run much more than three miles a day. And when my legs started to finally recover, I found myself with much less motivation to run than I had felt in a long time. This, or so I hear, is fairly common after your first significantly long and difficult race.

However, in due time, I got my fire back, and started running longer and more often. This weekend, I headed southwest to Leadville and the Sawatch range to get some serious mountain running in. I had a grand plan to do Belford, Oxford, and Missouri mountains. The fact that the Leadville 100 was this weekend did not influence my plans at all, it's safe to say, since I had completely forgotten that the race was this weekend, if indeed I had ever really known.

I took advantage of the runner's edge on timing, and didn't hit the trailhead until between 8:30 and 9AM. As I often do, I ran without a watch. I can always estimate noon from the position of the sun, and if I can't, because of cloud cover, I know I probably shouldn't be on the mountain any more in any case. Besides, as with most Fourteeners on summer weekends, there were hordes of people out to knock a couple out.

I equipped myself for three mountains' worth of running, and headed up the trail. The guidebook had mentioned a "memorable series of switchbacks" as the trail headed up into Missouri Gulch, and I immediately realized why they can be described as such. The trail itself is nice, soft dirt, but it climbs. Steeply.

I found myself power-hiking much sooner than I thought I would, thinking to myself that if I had three mountains on the schedule for the day, I should probably take it easier rather than push myself at all. Still, before I was beyond the initial pitch, I started picking off hikers.

As the trail emerged into the treeline area, it leveled off to the point where I could start running more without worrying too much about fatiguing my legs too early. And the hikers started coming thick and fast.

When I pass people on 14ers, there are several reactions I get over and over. Most often, people are simply impressed and wish me good luck, or say "Nice work." Others seem somewhat resigned and a little discouraged that I can pass them with seeming ease. The third reaction is the one I don't understand: some people get angry at me. There's a reaction like "Oh, here comes a fast one," in a very sarcastic tone of voice. Or they refuse to move aside.

Fortunately, this day I only encountered the first two types, and it sped me up the mountain yet faster. My legs didn't feel great, but they were plenty strong enough to run the flatter bits and hike the steep pitches quickly, and soon enough I was at the top of Belford, feeling good as I looked down at the traverse over to Oxford.

And so I started to run again, across the ridge of Belford and down the steep pitch to the saddle between Belford and Oxford. I met a guy from Kansas here, who was also running down the steeper pitch. We chatted for a while until he ran out of gas and had to stop, while I ran on. I began to realize at this point that my plan to hit Missouri as well might be more than a little ambitious. My legs began to tire as I ran the trail up the last stretch of Oxford and hit the summit.

Here I finally encountered the third type of hiker: those who seem annoyed at you and consider you a showoff for running on a 14er. To you, I apologize that, because of the endless hours of hard work and training that I put in, I am in better shape than you and therefore can run faster. I assure you, it is not to make you feel out of shape or slow that I run. It is merely so that I can challenge myself and see what I can do. You normally do not even blip on my radar when considering these runs.

That said, I tanked on the way back up the side of Belford. Anybody who has been on these mountains will tell you how much harder the run back up to Belford is than either the original climb up Belford or the climb up Oxford.

I couldn't even think of running here. My legs were protesting every step of the way. When I ran into a couple I had seen on the way up, and they asked whether I was planning on Missouri as well, since I clearly had time, I could only grimace and say "Not today."

I hit the ridge of Belford again, and paused to rest and gnaw on a couple strips of dried mango (a favorite of mine on longer runs and hikes). Looking at my options, I headed north for the the easier, longer descent via Elkhead (I think?) Pass, rather than heading down the steeper route I came up.

As I came down from the pass, I passed in turn the trail up Missouri, and briefly, very briefly, considered running that as well. But again, I realized that it was not in the cards this particular day, and I continued to run down Missouri Gulch to the trailhead.

I think, over all, that this was my favorite day above 14000 feet. I met more nice, engaging people on this run than on any two prior runs or hikes, which meant as well that I stopped running more often. I can only say thanks to the people who were so nice, and (almost) unfailingly encouraging.

You remind me why I love this state.

Race Report

I may have mentioned this here before, but in case I did not, several months ago I decided to train for my first marathon. I had some options on which race I wanted to run, Grandma’s Marathon in my hometown of Duluth, Minnesota being one of the major candidates. However, after some thought, I decided, possibly optimistically, to sign up for the Leadville Trail Marathon.

I knew I was being ambitions picking one of the tougher marathons in the country for my first try, but I figured because a) much of my training is done on trails and b) I was interested to see how I could do in a long race at altitude that I would try for Leadville, which ranges from 10,000 on up to just over 13,000 feet. Training went well, including several 3+ hour runs on the Boulder OSMP trails, and when race day came, despite the rather hectic weeks I’d had leading up to it, I felt as ready as I could have been.

Having stayed in a friend’s condo in Copper the night before, I woke at about 5:15, ate my traditional pre-race breakfast (two packets of Quaker Maple and Brown Sugar instant oatmeal) and headed up to Leadville at 6. After a few detours around town (coffee!!) I finally discovered that the packet pickup had been moved to the more traditional Sixth Street Gym location. I duly picked up my gear, and was heading back to my car to find a suitable parking spot (where I wouldn’t get towed) when I saw Marshall Ulrich heading towards the gym.

I’d met him several weeks before, when he had been a part of the Naked Tour. I asked him if he was running, and sure enough he was planning to run the marathon. Great: now I was running against a running legend. He may be 60, but he’s definitely still a formidable runner. Mostly, though, I was just glad he remembered who I was.

After parking my car I suddenly found myself with more than an hour until the race started and very little to do. I had decided that it was relatively pointless to do any sort of warm up as a) I would not be running all that fast at any point during the day, b) I would have ample time to warm up during the first section of the race and c) I knew I would need every ounce of energy I could muster for the actual race. I would never think of neglecting a warm up for a shorter race, but this was a whole different animal.

Soon enough, though, they called us to the starting line. The guy next to me, apparently from Austrailia, asked how many of these I had done. When I said, calmly “this is my first one,” he seemed a bit disbelieving that anybody would pick this race for their first marathon. After a few minutes of jittery anticipation, the shotgun (yes they had a 12-guage) went off, and we took off up the road. It’s a mark of how focused I was on finishing the race and running at my own comfortable pace that it was about two minutes before I realized I had not started my watch.

At this point, all of my mental effort was pointed towards one idea: take it easy. I had never run a race this distance before, but I knew that I had to start out at a stumbling pace in order to have enough energy over the course of the day to finish the race. At this point, I was already up at the front of the pack within a lead group of 30 or so racers. About 12 minutes into the race, the Heavy Half course split off from the Marathon, and about 10 runners from the lead group took off up the shorter course, leaving 20 or so marathoners to take a right.

Until this point, I had held in my mind the desire to keep a running cadence over the entire course. However, when the guy next to me, a 3 time Leadville Marathon runner, start walking up some of the steeper sections, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and dropped the running cadence. At the time, the pace I set felt very comfortable and easy, but I would later decide that this was the section where I went too fast, too soon.

The first aid station came at about mile 4, and I ran through in 41 minutes. Up to this point, nearly the whole race had been uphill, so I felt good with that time. From there, after another significant uphill, the race course plunges into a loop around Ball Mountain. The short, sharp downhill was followed by a long, relatively gradual uphill, punctuated by the first snow we would see on course. The official course took a jog left and back right to traverse this snowfield, but already runners were cutting off the switchback and heading straight across, as I would on the way back.

The route then hit the only single track we would see the whole day. As a general rule, I feel far more comfortable on the muddy singletrack that we encountered than the rugged dirt roads we had been traversing so far. On those sorts of roads I always picture myself hitting a loose rock at a bad angle and twisting or breaking my ankle, so I slow down. On the single track section, though, I fairly flew along.

I cruised back into the first aid station, which was also the second aid station, as well as the second to last and last aid station, at about 1:10 (?). The course then took a turn down a long, gradual “improved road,” where I concentrated on keeping a fast turnover and minimizing the pounding on my legs. I was now 7+ miles into the race, and running still felt free, easy, and most importantly, slow.

After a few more miles, punctuated by the first water crossing of the day followed by a short uphill, we cruised down into the Res aid station. I start saying “we” here because by this point, the race had settled into the form it would take for much of the day, and I was trading pacing duties with another runner (whose name I never managed to get) with whom I would run for most of the rest of the day. Three was a rather raucous crowd at this station, which was the only one on the course accessible by car.

Until this point, we had been running through the Leadville mining district. Our scenery, save for the Ball Mountain loop, had consisted of mine tailings, old buildings, and pools of water stained by mine runoff. Despite its industrial nature, the area had its own sort of beauty, and it was a fun area to run through.

Now, however, the race turned from the mining district and took on a true alpine feel. At the Res aid station, the race sets its sights upwards and begins the long, steep climb up to Mosquito pass, the high point of the race at 13,184 feet.

When I think about that elevation, I generally think about gasping for air at such an altitude. Up until this point in the race, I had not even noticed that we were at 10,000+ feet the entire time. I did not seem to even be affected by the altitude. Of course, my body was working harder, and I was getting dehydrated and generally depleted more quickly than I realized, and that would come back to haunt me later on. However, at no point in the day did I feel like the altitude was affecting my breathing.

The climb up Mosquito Pass is a monster by just about anybody’s definition (the only possible exception being Matt Carpenter). The pass itself is a rough 4WD road, punctuated by stream crossings and culverts. At points, the grade is as much as 20%. It is long and unrelenting, but the views are spectacular.

I ended up walking much of the climb up to Mosquito Pass. Except for a few spots, it seemed more efficient and a much better idea for the long term than trying, for pride’s sake, to keep up a running cadence. At this point, my plan was still to relax as long as possible, keep my form efficient, and not attempt to really race until I came back to the “improved” dirt road section, which would be uphill on the way back. So I settled in to power hike mode, and ran wherever the trail flattened out for a little while, focusing on keeping the runner in front of me in my sights.

During the climb up the pass, I started passing the slower participants of the Heavy Half race. Each person I passed, most of who made some encouraging comment, gave me a little mental boost that helped keep me moving at a fair pace. One memorable participant, wearing a hot pink and blue outfit, asked “Are you planning on running the (Leadville) 100 this year? Because you look like you know what you’re doing on the uphill.”

Little things like that seem to make all the difference in the world.

Remarkably, after more than 10 miles of racing, this climb felt fairly easy to me. I was not taking a particularly slow pace, but I did not seem to be breathing hard or forcing too much at this point. So when the aid station that would normally be at the top came a mile and a half early due to the snow on the road, I almost went right by it without stopping. Four switchbacks later, I topped out Mosquito pass, was recorded by the race volunteers there, and took off for the pounding descent.

I do not like long descents. I do not like descents with lots of large, loose rocks. I do not particularly like crowded descents. This was all three. There was a lot of pounding, and I felt like I was crawling down the slope. I must have looked better than I felt, though, because everybody climbing up kept saying how fantastic I looked. And I was clearly not going as slowly as I thought, because I caught two runners on the downhill who had taken the turnaround a minute or so ahead of me.

I cruised back into the Res aid station, and heard a brief “Minnesota” from somebody in the crowd. I felt good, shouted out “I’m from DULUTH!” and asked if she would hold my wind jacket. Still feeling pretty good, I ate a piece of watermelon, refilled my water bottle, and took off down the road, having passed one more runner at the station.

I still felt good on the improved road section. In fact, I generally felt better running than walking, and so kept up a running cadence, albeit a slow one, up all but the steepest sections of the road. But I started getting the feeling that my stomach was none to happy with me. Maybe it was the watermelon, maybe it was the gels, maybe it was the change in drinks (why did they have multiple types of electrolyte drinks on the course any way?). Whatever it was, I knew my legs needed fuel, but my stomach didn’t want to take anything in, so I let it slide.

I ran into the “Loop” aid station feeling pretty good, though I had already drained most of my water bottle, and had to refill it again. On the climb out of the station, though, my legs started to quit on me. I had realized that I would be walking a lot of this climb, but even on the flats, I now had difficulty breaking into a run again. On the singletrack portion of the Ball mountain loop, I started being passed by runners who had been behind me until this point. The guy I had been pacing with all day left me behind, then two more runners passed me.

It was definitely the low point of the race.

After the snow crossing, where I slipped, fell, and slid several feet before I could right myself, I slowed to a walk, on a flat, and even downhill portion of the course. Another runner came up from behind, and asked if I needed anything. I still had gels and chews, and so I waved him on, but thought, not for the first time that day, on how nice runners are as a group.

If there was a make or break point to the day, this was it. It was the point where I could decide to give up on my time goal, or even give up on the race entirely. I was in a bad state, with legs that didn’t want to move and a mind that got the first little thought of “what did I get myself in to?”

So I took out a gel, kept walking, and forced myself to get it down. Quitting never really entered my head. Giving up the sub-5 hour goal was a possibility, but I didn’t take it. I hit a smooth, downhill portion, and got my legs moving in something resembling a run again. I still was not feeling great, but the gel helped, and I downed my entire water bottle on the uphill to the aid station.

Mile 22. Save for one or two small sections, it was all downhill from there. I didn’t take the downhill that fast, thinking, as much as I could think at that point, that the last thing I wanted to do was roll or break an ankle in the last 4 miles. At one point, I got confused and was not sure which way to go until two runners coming up from behind pointed me in the right direction.

I kept going. When I hit the point where the two races converged again, I knew that I would achieve both my goals: finishing the race and coming in under five hours. Another racer, one who had run twice before, came up and we cruised back down towards the finish together. He offered to race to the line, but having secured my time goal, I opted not to.

Had I known we were racing for a place in the top 20, I might have felt differently. As it was, I came in 3 seconds behind him, for a 21^st place finish, 3^rd place in my age group, in a time of 4:46:23.1.

Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I had forgotten to look up at the clock as I passed under the finishing arch, and my own watch was off. I only knew that my watch said 12:46PM, and that meant I was in under 5 hours.

Then came the release. Physically, mentally, and emotionally I was spent. This race was easily the hardest thing I had ever done physically and mentally, and emotionally, it had been a tough week, and with the finish line, everything kind of let loose. I wandered around for an hour or so, going to my car, and back to the finish area, and back to my car. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to stay for the awards ceremony or not. I was in a bit of a daze. Then I realized that I didn’t have to decide. I went back to the condo where I’d stayed the night before to take a shower before deciding.

Ultimately, I left before the dinner and awards ceremony. I learned just today that, for getting third in my division, I would be getting some sort of award (what it is I don’t know). So perhaps I should have stayed.

Over all, I would say the race went reasonably well. For a first marathon effort, I could have done a lot worse.

Things I did well: I took enough fluids, did my best to take enough carbs. I paced myself reasonably well. I did not allow myself to quit when the task ahead seemed overwhelming. I chose to walk the uphills rather than hold to my normal conviction that I should run every step.

Things to improve: preparation-wise, I did not eat enough or take in enough nutrition during my training runs. This left my stomach unprepared for mile 19, when I had been taking in fluids and gels all day, but my stomach didn’t want to take in what my legs needed.

I think I caught the marathon bug. There is something about pushing that hard for that long that is appealing to my personality. I am already looking ahead to my next race: perhaps the inaugural Aspen Marathon on August 27^th should I recover enough. I will consider my options, but I have no desire to run a road marathon.

Why I trail run.

Some time ago, Anton Krupicka, fellow Boulder resident and Ultra runner extraordinaire, wrote a piece for running times about why he runs trails (you can read it here). It has quickly become another one of his classic pieces, standing alongside the piece he wrote on why he is a minimalist runner. In this particular piece, as is he is wont to do, he gets more existential and philosophical. In my writing, I prefer using stories and examples to get my idea across, and there is a day last week that exemplifies why I love running trails.

It began as a fairly typical morning run for me. Having run for two and a half hours on Saturday, with the Bolder Boulder on Monday, I had felt somewhat sluggish on my run Tuesday morning. By Wednesday, however, I was feeling back to form enough to give Flagstaff a shot. Running up the trail, just a 10-minute run from my office, I again thought how lucky I was to have such great trails within easy reach.

My legs felt strong on the uphill, bounding easily over rocks and roots and hitting a steady, fast cadence up the steep section. But I had not planned to do the whole trail that day, so about two-thirds of the way up I called it good, turned around, and headed back down the mountain.

How I take the downhill depends far more on how my legs are feeling and how much rest they’ve gotten than my approach to the uphill sections normally does. Some days, when I feel particularly good, I fairly fly down the trail, dancing and skipping over rocks and around trees, with my feet touching down for the briefest moments before rising again. In those times, I feel more like I’m dancing than running. I don’t look for a spot to plant my foot, I let my feet glide lightly over the ground, each footfall being used merely as a reference and means of control.

Other days, such as this one, when my quada are a little sore, I opt for a slower, more relaxed approach. Rather than the dancing steps, the downhill becomes slow and inexorable. And last Wednesday I was particularly glad I took that approach.

Coming around a corner at a sedate pace, I found myself face to face with a deer. He was standing smack in the middle of the trail, looking straight across at me with an expression that said, very clearly, “What the hell are you doing here? This is my trail.”

I slowed, stopped, and we looked at each other for a few breaths. H was a young buck, probably a yearling, two years at the most, and his velvet-covered antlers were going to make him a four-pointer at best. With all the brazen confidence of youth, h stood right in my path, not moving as I walked closer. Finally, when I got to within five feet of him, he gave me one last look, and slowly walked up the side of the hill, joining a group of two more young males.

I continued on for the last mile of the downhill, thinking just how rare that moment had been, and how much I love trail running. When you run, you are necessarily a part of the environment, whether that’s a street, a trail, or a track. There is a connection there, one that you lose with the speed of bikes and the enclosure of a car. You move along through a space, smoothly and efficiently, but there is no denying that you are at the same time a part of that space. That connection, and that feeling of efficient motion, is the essence of my love for trail running.

And as if that run were not surreal enough, a mile and a half later, back on the Boulder Creek Path, I saw two runners coming towards me, on the space to the side of the path where I normally run. And sure enough, there was Scott Jurek, in the trail in front of me, just like that brazen buck.

Only fitting, since his nickname to the Tarahumara translates as “deer.”

A surreal experience, and one that I am not likely to forget any time soon.