Much to be Thankful For

Thanksgiving reminds me of all I have to be thankful for:

• A wonderful family who loves me from 2,000 miles away
• A loving boyfriend who has supported me through the ups and downs of the past 14 years
• A job that pays (most of) the bills
• A strong, healthy body
• A cozy home and food on the table
• Lots of great friends
• The good fortune to live in a place where rush hour traffic means wheel to wheel bicycles on the Broadway Bridge or a glance down at the long line of lights on I-5 while on final approach to Sea-Tac
• And as I left work today, one more thing: I'm not flying with THAT guy for Thanksgiving!

Happy to be home for the next few days, chillin' with my boys!

The Rains are Coming

Well, it's that time of year when we're all shaking our heads and asking "where did the summer go?" And it's not just our imagination that this one was short and cool. Summer was late coming to the Pacific Northwest, even by PNW standards, and we didn't hit 90 degrees until the end of August. We've succumbed to flannel sheets but steadfastly refuse to turn on the heat so early in October.

I like to take this time to review my summer and remind myself that I really did have some good times despite the fact that it seemingly slipped away while I was sleeping one night before I had a chance to enjoy it.

Scott and I got an early jump on summer by taking a trip to Moab the second week of May. The rain followed us all the way there, but it cleared up after a day or so and we had five days of epic mountain biking (and a trip to the vet when Tucker shredded his ear in a campground scrap).



Oregon welcomed us back into the soggy fold--it started raining the moment we crossed the border from Idaho, wrecking our plans for one more night of camping.

The next week, I flew to Georgia for my nephew's high school graduation and a brief visit with my family. While the PNW was still enjoying unseasonably cool rains, the South was enveloped in hot, humid days which I did not mind at all.

I had just one day at home before heading to Denver to start a rafting trip and the continuing cold rain made it that much easier to leave again so soon. When I came home, it was barely June and I was already a month into my summer adventures.



Back home, things started happening fast:

• One-day adventure race in Port Gamble, Washington
• Test of Metal mountain bike race in Squamish, BC
• Mountain Bike Oregon (times two)
• Monday night short track racing
• Lots of long mountain bike rides under the guise of "training" for Capitol Forest 100
• A few camping trips to accompany those "training" rides
• Capitol Forest 100 mountain bike race

• Six days of backpacking in Washington's Glacier Peak Wilderness

• One last mountain bike camping trip to the Lewis River with my friend Caroline

I guess I really did squeeze a lot of action into a short summer. Now on to fall and cyclocross season!

Mountain Bike Oregon

Another summer of MBO has come and gone :-(. I had the chance to go both times again and they were the highlights of my summer! I've been too busy to blog, buhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gift Zach put together this video from the August session. Yes, it's 15 minutes long, but for 15 minutes you can be at MBO...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzbehj_gIG8

Test of Metal: the Canadian Epic Mountain Bike Race

I'll spare the boring details. Here are some of the highlights from Saturday's race (67k, roughly 42 miles):

Over 800 racers in a mass start sounds like serious potential for chaos. But the Canadians have it down pat: self-seed yourself in the start chute between the signs with estimated finish times. Everyone seemed to be pretty honest here, parking bikes upside down 30 minutes or so prior then heading off for last minute rest room and stretching. The first racers poured out of the chute at the conclusion of "O Canada."

Once we were rolling, that was it--no false starts or bottlenecking. I stayed to the left to give myself room to maneuver without getting boxed in or cut off. The first real concern was 15-20 minutes in when we left the residential streets and ducked into single track, but once again, the Canucks managed it smoothly. After the slightest slow-down, I was in a long line of riders wheel to wheel, ripping down a gorgeous trail through the woods. It was really cool and really fun!

While we were still in the neighborhood and starting up a steep hill, a loudspeaker was blaring ACDCs "Highway to Hell," which seemed all too appropriate since that's exactly where this road was taking us!

The crowd support was phenomenal. I think everyone who lives on the streets we rode through was out, standing, sitting, ringing cowbells, holding signs, offering drinks, cheering, etc. This really is a community event and everyone gets involved.

There were numerous aid stations that were easy to navigate on the fly. Volunteers held orange and watermelon wedges or cups of water or gatorade. There was one big aid station that we came through twice and lots of spectators plus an announcer here. The second time through, he announced that I had won a push up the next hill, courtesy of a local bike shop. And sure enough, a moment later, a guy was behind me, pushing me up the hill! I felt like a princess! A tired, sweaty princess, but still...

The course was amazingly fun--a great mix of sweet single track, bits of paved road, dirt road, and highly technical sections.

All the riders I encountered were very nice and courteous, whether passing or being passed. On narrow sections, they were content to hold position and wait for better opportunities to pass.

And, best of all, despite my hard core vacationing lately, I rallied for the race and felt stronger than I've ever felt for a race this long! I felt like I was on fire! I rode hard and fast, passed a lot, and never stopped except to put on my earphones for the Nine Mile hill. It was long with steep pitches, but punctuated by flats and downhills. Oh, I suffered mightily, but with the aid of some tunes thought that everyone else was undoubtedly suffering more than I. That thought carried me up Bonk Hill and a steep single track climb until we hit the Ring Creek Rip--a ridgeline descent that was long and fast and rocky in places, not very steep so no need for brakes. For a while I was content to tuck behind a woman I caught up with, but then a guy in a yellow jersey passed on the right and I jumped on the train. With Lady Gaga's "Edge of Glory" in my left ear, we flew down the trail, feeling strong with more than two thirds of the race behind me.

I had a blast, finished well enough (8 of 30 in age group, top third in the women's field and slightly more than halfway through the combined field. And hope to do it again next year!

Didn't have time to scan all the pictures for myself, but there's a photo gallery here: http://testofmetal.com/pages/photo-gallery/2011-photos.php

Trioba Adventure Sprint Race

Just got back from Port Gamble, Washington, on the northern tip of the Klitsap Peninsula, sandwiched between Bainbridge Island and the Olympic Peninsula, where Russ Gober, Renee Seker and I united our adventure racing skills for the Trioba Sprint race.

Due to busy schedules and logistical challenges, (Russ lives on the far west side in Forest Grove and raises a son and a couple step-children with his wife Noel. Renee works almost full-time while raising twin boys and her husband Mark. I live on the east side and travel for work four days a week and maintain a heavy recreation schedule.), we trained together exactly once in the months leading up to this race--a mountain bike ride out on the Syncline trails a couple months ago. So we were feeling highly unified and prepared...

An adventure race typically involves hauling every piece of outdoor equipment you own, plus some you borrowed and an expensive specialty item required and purchased just for this race, along with same for teammates, to some remote location where you are issued maps and checkpoint locations, sometimes plotted on the maps, other times in the form of latitude/longitude coordinates you have to plot yourself. You spend the next several hours/days seeking out these elusive checkpoints in the company of your hopefully well chosen teammates in all kinds of conditions--heat, damp cold, mud, thick brush, etc. The fastest team to gain all the checkpoints wins, with time penalties for things like missing items from the mandatory gear list, checkpoints out of sequence, traveling on prohibited routes, and straying more than a certain distance from teammates.



Russ and Renee picked me up around 3:30 pm, a dreadful time for Friday afternoon traffic exiting the Portland metro area. I added my mountain bike, gear bin and duffel bag to the Toyota van already loaded with two kayaks, two bikes, and Russ's and Renee's gear bins. By 4:00 we were sitting in traffic waiting to get on the freeway and by 6:30 were having dinner at Olive Garden in Olympia.

Sufficiently stuffed with pasta, bread, salad and wine, we finished the drive across the Tacoma Narrows bridge and up to Poulsbo where we had a hotel reservation. Alarms set for 6, we settled in for what we hoped would be a good night's sleep, Russ in one bed, Renee and I in the other. Adventure racing teammates always bunk together, whether in a hotel or trailside for a mid-race nap!

Russ's cricket alarm sounded first and we starting moving. We got breakfast in the hotel lobby, made coffee, and did some last minute gear sorting before heading to the race start for check-in. Here we made a near-fatal mistake. We turned right out of the hotel and headed south and east instead of north to Port Gamble. When we started across the bridge to Bainbridge Island, I knew something wasn't right. Our once leisurely check-in process would now be rushed. We got back on track, but arrived 20 minutes late and had to scramble to stage kayaks at the beach launch, bikes at the appropriate transition, and study maps and organize our gear bins and packs with the right equipment for each section of the race.

Duly briefed at the pre-race meeting, it was time to start! The first section was a prologue of unknown discipline. Prior to arriving at the start line, we only knew that we needed a writing instrument. When the whistle blew, we had to sprint about 100 yards and receive a clue sheet from a race volunteer. The clue sheet directed us around historic Port Gamble in search of answers: what year was the cemetery established? what items were NOT sold in the mercantile? When we turned in our completed sheets, we could proceed to the paddling section.

We ran down the trail to the beach about mid-pack, but since we were late staging our boats we hadn't adjusted foot pegs and seats. By the time we finally launched into the Port Gamble inlet, Russ and Renee in the tandem, me solo, only one boat remained on the beach. Considering we paddled exactly zero times in the last year, we were pleased with our kayak leg. We passed several teams and easily gained the four mandatory CPs, but chose to skip the optional one that would have added considerable distance and time, potentially putting us in jeopardy for finishing in the allotted time.



Back at the beach, we carried boats up to the parking lot then ran back to the start area to transition to the ride and tie section. This typically means that four teammates have two bikes and alternate between riding and running. For the three of us, we had only one bike and had to decide how to use it strategically. We were allowed to separate for this section, so Renee went ahead on the bike to the first CP where she would drop it and start running. Russ and I ran together, then he took the bike to the second CP, down a gravel road, then up a muddy trail to a spring. I continued running to the transition area where we all reunited with our bikes.

This was my first race as team navigator and so far there hadn't been much to it. But the work was about to begin. All the bike CPs were on roads or trails, so it was pretty straightforward map reading, but route choices were in abundance. The long way via gravel road? Or the short way up and over a knoll on a steep singletrack?




I was a bit nervous as we made a left turn at the first fork and several teams were grouped there in deliberation. I thought I knew exactly where I was going. Was I missing something? Was there more to it than I thought? I decided to navigate my own race and not pay attention to other teams' dilemmas. We pedaled confidently past, climbing steadily along the gravel road. We opted for the shorter but steeper route this time. The first CP appeared exactly where expected and soon we were in a groove of turning left or right without hesitation, punching our electronic key at the CP, and moving on to the next one. As the team's strongest rider, I could sit up and soft pedal while following our progress on the map, eliminating the need to stop at intersections to verify our position.



A fun piece of singletrack delivered us to the end of the first bike leg and we picked up maps for the trekking section. After a quick study, I decided we could "read and run," finding the route from one CP to the next on the fly rather than taking time to sit down and plot the best route. Confidence and spirits high, we set off at a steady jog to the first CP. The second was a little trickier--there were trails that weren't mapped, making it hard to be sure of our exact location (no GPS allowed!). Finally, a spur turned in the right direction and I suspected we were close. The CP was supposed to be on the south side of a boulder, slightly off the trail. Russ spotted it and were were off again, just as two other teams arrived. If they hadn't seen us, maybe they would have hunted for it longer?

Next we were looking for a trail to the left. At about the right spot, a solo female racer ahead of us ducked into the woods and we followed. It appeared to be an overgrown trail, but soon disappeared, leading us into our first bushwhack of the day. Now we needed the compass and reliance on land features. It became a team effort to keep tracking the right direction to hit the road that we would follow to the CP. I think we erred in following her and would have found the real trail a bit beyond. But hind sight is always 20/20...We did find the road, but farther south than expected, leading us to turn left too soon. But we realized our mistake and Renee pointed out that it was just as close to continue around the loop as to backtrack.

The rest of the mandatory CPs came easily and we faced a choice: collect one or both of the optional CPs for extra points, or call it good and get going on the final bike leg. We still had plenty of time, so we decided to tackle the first optional one. As the crow flies, it was only about 1/3 mile away. A road led directly to it at about four times that distance. There was very little elevation change, so we took the bushwhack challenge. Russ and I agreed on a a bearing, aimed a little left so as to use the road as a handrail and not overshoot and as a team we kept each other on track. We followed a ridge line southwest, not wanting to descend to the right for fear of missing our target, and soon we heard voices below. We followed a faint path of disturbed grass and thick blackberry brambles and stinging nettles downhill and emerged in a clearing facing the CP flag! The other optional CP appeared to be an impossible bushwhack or a couple miles round trip by road and trail, so we skipped it, finished out the mandatories, and headed back to the bikes.


We were proud of ourselves for running nearly all of the trekking section, especially since assorted injuries kept us from doing this in the past. But this was far more running than I was accustomed to and my legs, feet and back noticed. My body rejoiced at being back in the saddle! With a fresh set of maps, we set out to hunt down the final eight CPs. I was back in pedaling and map reading mode, guiding us confidently along from point to point. Before we knew it, we had only two optional CPs and a final mandatory one between us and the finish. We had ample time and both optional points were en route to the finish. The first one involved a mile or so of twisty, technical singletrack with steep drops, slippery roots and tight turns. The second was easier to reach, but the climb out the other side of a creek drainage was steep and challenging. Adding to the pressure was a three-person male team hot on our heels. We had seen them numerous times during the race, sometimes separated by far more than the legal distance. I suspect they were faster than us, but we made better navigation choices. We weren't about to let them beat us to the finish.

We punched the last CP and made a beeline for home, crossing the line just seconds ahead of the boys. We were the eighth team out of 27 to finish! We celebrated our success with grins, high fives, and hot bar-be-que at the post-race party before loading up all the wet, muddy gear for the slog home. Spirits are still high and we have a renewed enthusiasm for the sport of adventure racing.

A Journey Down the San Juan River

I've always loved spending time on the river, but until last year had never done an expedition rafting trip. We finally got around to applying for permits and spent six days in Hell's Canyon in late June. I felt so completely at home at the oars and slept peacefully with the sound of the river rushing by. So when I got the call from the Cattertons that they had a San Juan permit and I was invited, I had to say yes.

We met Mike and Cindy when we lived in Cody and used to do day runs down the Shoshone River with Mike. We also spent three days on the Snake in the Tetons and a long weekend on the Montana Boat Float down the Yellowstone River with Mike in his old raft. He now has a nice NRS self-bailer that he rigs with cooler and dry box for long weeks on scenic rivers.

Since I squeezed in a trip to Georgia for my nephew's high school graduation, including three days at Jekyll Island with him, time was tight. I flew home for one day, then Saturday morning boarded a flight to Denver with nothing but Scott's yellow Bill's Bag (designed to keep your gear dry on the river) containing tent, camp mattress, sleeping bag, plate, bowl, mug and utensils, plus clothes and toiletries for a week.

I was met at the airport by Jean Anderson, until now a complete stranger. She, her husband and their son Devin met the Cattertons on a trip two years ago and would be joining us this week. With mutual friends and an upcoming adventure, we greeted each other with hugs and I hit it off with the whole family right away.

The journey to Bluff was long: we spent the night in Grand Junction where I bought groceries and a sufficient supply of beer, wine and bourbon to ensure that I would not become a "Shreder" (the name of the last guy who ran out of beer on a trip and dipped into Mike's suppy, citing much ire). A tropical depression had centered itself on Utah by Sunday, its 30-50 mph winds ensconcing the desert in a haze of sand and dust and blowing the raft trailer vigorously from side to side. It forced Jim to drive slow and lowered the gas mileage well into the single digits, a painful hit to the wallet at $4/gallon. We finally arrived at the boat launch after 3 pm to find some of the more eager members of the party already well into the rigging process.



Back in town for lunch and a beer, we ran into Mike and Cindy, whose raft I would be sharing. Fortified and determined, we took a deep breath and got out of the vehicles at the Sand Island boat launch. The fierc wind and blowing sand forced us to make quick work of inflating the rafts, securing straps and loading dry boxes. One group went to set a shuttle while others retreated to town for the last pre-river meal. The Cattertons and I set up camp and grilled burgers and brats. Nestled in a grove of Cottonwood trees below a petroglyph panel, it didn't seem so bad.

The wind didn't let up until after midnight and the mesh of my tent filtered the dust to a fine powder that coated the floor and all contents. In the morning, I beat the dust off as best I could and shook the tent inside out. Coco was responsible for breakfast, but not being "a breakfast guy" himself, neglected to include provisions. We made coffee in camp while he drove the mile into town for pastries.

The cast:
Mike and Cindy Catterton (Cody, WY)
Jean, Jim and Devin Anderson (Denver)
"Coco" Colson Schaab and sons Lucas and Simon (Denver)
Serg (Silverthorne, CO)
Scott and sons Brett and Evan (Denver)
Brian and daughter Kendall, her friend Chelsea (Albuquerque, and friend/business associate Christian (Amarillo, TX)
Barrett and Carmen ("The Hippies") (Cody, WY) and Barrett's sister (Grand Junction, CO)
And of course, me

The 85 miles of San Juan River that winds through southern Utah is a secret land surrounded by famous pre-historic, historical and scenic sites, but mostly hidden from sight from above and largely inaccessible by road.

Eight rafts, 13 adults (kind of), seven kids and copious amounts of food and alcohol pushed off into the current around noon on Memorial Day. The low pressure system left the day cooler than the rest, topping out around 70 with a decent breeze (there's a rule somewhere that says all river winds must blow upstream). The afternoon's destination was just seven miles down stream to a sand bar below River House, an Anasazi ruin protected by the BLM. The short day meant plenty of time for hiking and visiting the ruin. Once we set up camp, Cindy and I set off for a couple hours hike before we had to prepare dinner.



Each day brought grand views of painted canyons with a deep blue sky backdrop. We floated past petroglyph panels, moki steps and wild burrows into Glen Canyon and the upper reaches of Lake Powell. The night at River House chilled considerably after dark, but the rest of the week was warm. No moon meant ink-black skies splashed with brilliant stars visible through the narrow canyon walls. All but the last night's camp were sandy beaches, so no rocks under hips.

We feasted on shrimp cocktail and grilled salmon, Serg's homemade white lasagna, tacos, flank steak and dutch oven chocolate cake. One camp featured a swimmable rapid which thrilled the kids and younger adults. The parents even trusted me to lead the young troops out into the current and usher them safely back to shore. We took a mid-day break at Slickhorn Canyon to hike up to a cool, fresh swimming hole--a nice reprieve from the silty river (the one day I washed my hair, it ended up dirtier than before).

In the Goosenecks, the river curves so tightly back on itself that it takes 3 river miles to travel 1/4 mile over land. This meant that non-oar wielders could get out and hike over a ridge to the Mendenhall cabin site and meet us for lunch on the other side.

The one downside to the trip was the inevitable "groover" (portable toilet). Since river rules require you to pack out ALL waste, this is a necessary evil of all trips. And the longer the trip, the more evil it becomes. The one morning I awoke with a touch of a hangover, I foolishly assigned myself groover duty (packing it up to load onto the raft) which resulted in a series of dry heaves. I was fairly certain that the next one might not be so dry. One night after dinner and probably too many drinks, the conversation turned to the groover and I discovered that Jean had been cheating. She was taking Immodium in hopes of avoiding "grooving" the last two days of the trip!

Groover aside, most of us were sad to see Clay Hills Crossing come into sight. Not only did it mean the end of the trip, it bode of hours of derigging, deflating and loading, with nothing to anticipate except a long journey home.

Away for May!

A series of random events led to me escaping the misery of Portland's endless rain and cool weather for most of the month of May. Now that I'm home and tan and tired and one beer away from the dreaded muffin-top, I highly recommend this sort of escape for anyone who feels suppressed by the refusal of summer (or even spring) to arrive.

First, my one and only nephew was graduating high school in May in Georgia. My family didn't say so specifically, but I had a hunch that I better get my ass there. For a couple years the possibility of graduation seemed somewhat remote and this was rather a big deal. So last fall, in annual vacation bidding, I put in for the week with hopes of taking him on a trip as a present.

Sometime in March we got a phone call from our friends the Cattertons--they came from Wyoming last year to raft Hell's Canyon with us. They drew a permit for Utah's San Juan River and wanted us to come. Scott couldn't make it but I wasn't going to say no if at all possible. Launch date: May 30, just a week after the graduation and the tail end of the trip I would be taking my nephew on. I could foresee some logistical challenges getting from one place to the other in a timely manner and with appropriate gear, but figured I could make it happen.

Later in March, Scott was complaining about the weather and wishing we could go somewhere warmer for a few days. I suggested mountain biking in Moab and he immediately said yes. The only week that worked for both of us was the second week in May, two weeks before the graduation. Fortunately I had a lot of vacation time stored and with some creative schedule bidding at work, could make all this vacationing a reality!

We first left town on May 7 in a rented minivan, seats folded into the floor and loaded with mountain bikes, camping gear and dog. We spent the first night by the Alvord Desert hot springs, one of my favorite spots from my road trip last year. Then we drove all the way across Nevada and Utah in...you guessed it...pouring rain. Biblical, build-an-ark-quick kind of rain. So much for escaping the rain! We finally arrived in Green River, UT, near midnight with a forecast of rain the following day, so we sought shelter in a Comfort Inn.

The next morning, Moab's cafes and coffee shops were jam packed with cyclists hiding from crappy weather. We jumped on the opportunity to secure a campsite at Sand Flats near the Slickrock Trail where we sat in the car and waited out a mother of a rain storm before we could set up camp. But the weather was in an improving trend and would be mostly sunny and hot by the end of the week. We snuck in ride on Slickrock that afternoon despite a wind that could push you off the ridge if you let down your guard for a moment.


A neighbor moved in across the way from our campsite and stayed the whole week and then some. A retired fellow from Minnesota who spends as much time as possible traveling around, living in his truckbed camper, hiking, dirt biking, mountain biking and kayaking. I want to be him! He also became the social director of the campground, befriending everyone and hosting happy hours each evening.

Tuesday we drove north to the Sovereign Trail. Just as we pulled into the trailhead parking area, a deluge let loose, turning hard red dirt to a tacky mess. With another storm moving in, we exited the deteriorating dirt track and settled instead for Gemini Bridges. Although not as much fun to ride the sandy jeep road, the scenery was well worth it and we did stumble upon some single track we didn't know existed.

Wednesday we spent at Dead Horse Point State Park, hiking the rim trails with Tucker and exploring the short but super fun Intrepid mountain bike trail system. Thursday we made a more successful attempt at Sovereign, which turned out to be our favorite trail of the week with its rock ledges, steep slickrock descents and brilliant red Indian paintbrush. In an attempt to park Tucker in the shade, we turned into a remote BLM campsite with a big Cottonwood tree. Parked beside it was a lone Subaru with Wyoming County 11 plates and a mountain bike on top. It was our friend Jeff Parker from Cody whom we haven't seen for about 10 years!

With just one day left to ride, we splurged on a shuttle to the top of Kokopelli for the 30-mile, mostly downhill ride back to town via Kokopelli, LPS and Porcupine Rim trails. It was hot, so we left Tucker at day care before catching the shuttle for the epic ride.


We packed up camp Friday night, leaving just the tent for the morning so we could get an early start. Breakfast at the Jailhouse Cafe, then we would be on the road home. At breakfast, Scott discovered that Tucker had blood in his hear and upon closer inspection found a rather large slit through the skin inside his left ear, apparently acquired during a scrap with another campground dog the night before. So how to find a vet on a Saturday morning in Moab? There were only two listed on the web and only one with weekend hours. But the vet was out and only a tech. He cleaned the ear and suggested we see our vet when we got home--which resulted in stitches and a $500 bill to add to our vacation expenses. Ouch!

I admired Moab in the rear view mirror, a little sad to be leaving after such a great week of daily rides and warm sun. We planned to camp in eastern Oregon on the way home, but just west of Boise, the skies opened up again and the rain kept us from even wanting to get out of the car. We pushed through the 16-hour drive, getting home just after 1 am.

Middle of May and I'm already a bit tan and feeling fit!

More Running

It's amazing how great a run feels after a week off due to illness. The body is eager to move and the lungs appreciate the rush of fresh air. The flu kept me from doing much of anything last weekend and I've taken it easy all week, resisting my usual habit of pushing my body too far too fast and suffering a nasty relapse.

I'm on a long layover in Wenatchee, Washington and stepped out for a run in the park at the confluence of the Wenatchee and Columbia Rivers--one of my favorite places in our system. Warm sun broke through the morning clouds, taking the edge off the crisp air and reflecting softly off the calm water. It felt so good to be outside that I finished my 30-minute run and walked by the river, enjoying the ducks and my favorite sculpture: Coyote Leads the Salmon Up the River.

A Return to Running

Back in December, my friend Peg, formerly part of a core group of running partners in Cody, Wyoming, emailed me with plans for a running event to celebrate her 60th birthday. Although running used to be my main "thing," chronic back issues and straying interests have put seven years between me and my last marathon so I was not immediately enthused. But she had me at "Palm Springs" which was mentioned very soon after "February," traditionally a rather cool and damp time of year in Oregon.

Peg both enjoy the travel benefits available to us through our flight crew jobs, so getting there was no problem. Getting a third person to join us was. So we agreed to enter the half-marathon relay as a two-person team.

Freshly motivated by the race entry and a really fun (and muddy) night trail run with my friends Russ and Renee, I resolved to run more. Toward this end, I added a weekly 5- or 6-miler to my staple 3- or 4-mile run, and appreciated the fact that although my back injury bubbles under the surface, it remains largely at bay.

As the big day neared, we started making travel plans. Since I'm usually off Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I thought I might fly down Friday afternoon and make a weekend of it. Alas, my employer scheduled my annual Simulator Torture Session that Friday, on the heels of a long and hard work week. I got home late Friday night, utterly exhausted and unable to fathom getting up the next morning to catch a flight. So I breezed into town Saturday evening just in time to catch a quick dinner with Peg and get to bed early.

Ten marathons and too many smaller races to count taught me how to assemble my clothes the night before a race: neatly laid out, socks tucked into shoes, number pinned on shirt, water bottle, snack and accessories stowed in a plastic bag that our "support crew" (Peg's husband Tom and his cousins) would have handy at the relay exchange.

I felt a bit like a fraud at the start line, surrounded by runners who had trained hard for the race. Peg spent the previous week with a nasty cold and battles sciatica and we were taking the "fun" approach--no time goals, no pressure, just enjoy a day of supported running in the sun. On the way to the start line, we met a couple from a few hours north entered in the Sweetheart Division (it was the day before Valentine's Day) and he and I were running the first 5.5-mile leg. We started together and wished each other well before becoming separated in the eager crowd.

One of the things I used to enjoy most about marathons was making friends in the long middle miles. We might run together for a few, or just chat in passing, but always shared the comraderie of the event and being fellow runners. As I looked around for friendly faces, I noticed that nearly everyone had earphones in both ears. So I cranked up my iPod and turned to my good friends Guns'n Roses, Rush and Pearl Jam for support.

I struggled to find a comfortable pace, somewhat easy to warm up in the first mile but not slacking too much. I checked my watch at the mile marker: just over 9 minutes. Perfect. I picked it up a bit. A hill loomed at 2.5 and it came sooner than expected. Somehow I missed the 2-mile mark. Feeling strong, I tucked my head down and shortened my stride to push up the half-mile-long slope. I was breathing hard at the top, but a short down-hill corrected the problem.

I continued to push through a slight uphill. The time at mile 3 gave me an 8:30 average for miles 2 and 3. The course looped around to return down the same hill. I clocked the downhill mile in under 8 minutes and kept pushing to the relay zone at 5.5 or so. Not blazing fast, but solid given my fitness level and lack of real training.

Peg took over for a 3.5-mile loop. I gasped for air, stretched, drank a bottle of Recoverite, and hung out with Tom and the cousins in the sunshine. When Peg cruised back through the relay zone, I joined her for the final four miles of the race. We weren't running fast, but enjoyed catching up, checking out the scenery and soaking up the sun. In fact, I was a bit disappointed when we passed the 12 mile marker and suggested we slow down so I could savor the warm sun a little longer.

What a great way for Peg to turn 60!

Photo by Tom Hanson

Sundance Film Festival: Adventures in Standing in Line

Last weekend we took advantage of our flight benefits and my friends Zach and Monica who live in Park City, UT, to go to the Sundance Film Festival. Since I went two years ago, I kind of knew the drill--how to get around (not with a car--traffic and parking are a nightmare), how to see films without advance tickets, etc.

Let me just start by saying that this year's festival was a lot more crowded than the first one I attended, the result being that it was much more competitive to get into films. Zach pointed out that I was there for the Recession Festival. So here's the drill: if you didn't start the ticket purchase process months ago, you have to join the wait list to get in. Two hours prior to the start of the movie, volunteers hand out numbers to people in line. Then 30 minutes before the movie, you line back up in numerical order (if you're not there by the 30-minute cutoff, you have to join the back of the line no matter what number you hold). A few minutes before the start time, they start releasing seats to the wait list. A certain number of seats are previously held for pass holders, volunteers, and people associated with the film. If not all those are taken, of if ticket holders are not in their seats by 15 minutes prior to start time, they're fair game.

Friday got off to a bit of a rough start since I got home from work at 10:30 Thursday night and we were up at 4 to catch the early flight to SLC. But we both got seats and were on our way. We arrived at The Playground (although it's now Zach's full-time residence, not just a weekend/holiday destination)around noon. After lunch and settling in, we set off for an afternoon of wait listing.

The mid-afternoon shows we were interested in already had long wait list lines, so we hopped a free shuttle out to the Eccles Theater to try our luck at The Future. If you've ever heard of Miranda July or read her stories you probably already know what we discovered: she's weird. Very weird. Not necessarily in a good way. The movie had its funny parts early on, but settled into a slow-paced, increasingly trippy non-plot. The weirdness was exaggerated since July wrote, directed AND starred in the film.

Saturday was a total debacle. Had I not had a cold, I would have gone skiing in fresh snow with Z&M which would have made the whole day worth while. But I was not feeling well and certainly not like exerting myself at 7,400 feet with a stuffy head and clogged lungs. So we stood in lines. All day. And did not see a single film. We redeemed ourselves with a soak in the hot tub, a bottle of wine and a delivered pizza.

Sunday morning we actually had tickets to The Devil's Double, a partially fictionalized account of an Iraqi army lieutenant who is forced to become the body double of Saddam Hussein's eldest son. An intriguing and action-packed account starring Dominic Cooper, who did an amazing job of playing two diabolically opposed roles. The best part of Sundance is the post-film Q&A session with the director and actors that offers greater insights and leads to a better understanding of the film than if you just watched the movie and walked away. The producers are hoping to market this film based on the character story and not as just another Iraq war movie. I highly recommend seeing it if it comes to the big screen; if not, look for it on dvd.



Now savvy to the wait list system, Scott and I decided to see Morgan Spurlock's (the Supersize Me guy) latest, The Greatest Movie Ever Sold. We drove out to Kimball Junction's Redstone Theater, had lunch at a great Asian bistro where the fire alarm honked throughout our entire meal, then lined up for the wait list line two full hours before the wait list line would officially begin. I knew we were in when Rusty, the volunteer in charge of the wait list knew where Watkinsville, Georgia was. We were the first to arrive and he directed us to an area with tables and chairs where we could be comfortable for the next two hours. We settled in with magazine and Kindle, grateful to not be standing in a cold, drafty tent. Rusty made sure we were first in line and we were handed numbers 1 and 2. Spurlock did a clever job of illustrating the prevalence of marketing and product placement in films by securing funding for his documentary with marketing and product placement, all the while keeping the audience chuckling and not pissing off a single sponsor.

Crime After Crime, a heart-wrenching documentary about a woman serving a life sentence for her part in the death of her abusive boyfriend, brought home the level of corruption, political influence and injustice in our criminal justice system. Although we had tickets to this one, Scott opted out since it was a little too much like work for him. I thought it was very well done and I hope it inspires more states to adopt laws that allow the courts to revisit the cases of incarcerated victims of domestic violence. In the early '80s, evidence of abuse wasn't even admissible as part of a defense.

All in all, a great time was had. By the time we came home my cold had subsided and we were discussing plans to get on the ball and purchase tickets in advance for Sundance 2012, that is if Zach and Monica will be our gracious hosts again.