Sixty parts of an hour.  Lots of activities can get squeezed into sixty minutes.  I can pound out a medium-length run, dry a load of laundry, give the house a good once-over before company arrives, do a few errands while my kid is at basketball practice, get a massage, have a good sit-down dinner with the family, or see a therapist to delve into the mysteries of my soul.  I can kill an hour in a running store trying on shoes or having my stride examined, fit in a spin class at the gym, sweat through Pilates, get zen through yoga, have a good chat with a friend or read a few chapters before bed.  Sixty minutes is an hour, a small piece of my day that is like an afternoon snack.  It’s important, yes, but isn’t the main course.

I ran sixty minutes today, the first run in a week due to a nasty flu that blind-sided me right after I got home from a 3-week road trip.  When I got the weekly email on Thursday announcing today’s 10-mile Saturday morning run, I immediately bowed out and congratulated myself on being smart enough to know my limitations.  Instead of running with the ladies, I planned an easy solo run on Bobolink trail with my iPod.  This would be a recovery run and I didn’t want any self-imposed pressure on pace or distance; I wanted to be able to stop when necessary and check in with my body to see how it felt.

I arrived at Bobolink a few minutes before 7 AM.  The parking lot was empty, save for two other early birds already on the trail.  Taking a last swig of water, I powered up the Garmin, pushed play on the iPod, and tucked the car key into the zippered pocket of my shorts.

Mile 1:  A high layer of clouds blocked the early morning light.  I started slowly, a snail’s pace.  I was startled to see the numbers on the Garmin land on 11:30 per mile.  After a minute or two I checked the numbers again; I was down to 11:25 per mile.  The last time I clocked an 11-minute pace, I was dodging rocks while running uphill at altitude.   Crazy how a small bug, invisible to the naked eye, can take four minutes off my usual pace in the span of a week.

South Boulder Creek, running next to Bobolink Trail.

Uneven breath and no rhythm.  The feet on the end of my legs didn’t act like my own.  Trying to settle into something resembling a runner’s posture, I waggled my hands, shrugged my shoulders and tried to notice the beautiful creek next to me.

Mile 2:  My feet felt like they were slogging through quicksand.  “Dear God, if you see my legs, could you send them back?  I miss them.” This was a mental shout-out to God, figuring if He happens to see the runner legs that used to be attached to this body, He’ll knows where to send them.

The trail dipped slightly and gravity pulled me along.  The pace reading on the Garmin fluctuated before settling into a sedate 10-minute mile.  Okay, I guess this is all I have today.  Well, at least I’m out here.  Hope I make it to the gate; this is going to be a long run. Crossing over South Boulder Road to the south end of the trail, I was surprised to see unbroken sections where weeds and prairie grasses grew over six-feet tall.  The cows that usually decorate the fields were noticeably absent.  My hip ached and sudden twinges behind the IT Band on my right leg kept my brain occupied.   I paused to take a few pictures and decided not to look at the display for a while.  I didn’t see the lap pace at the end of mile 2.

Looking west toward the Flatirons next to a newly mowed field.

Mile 3: The music in my ears was a total crutch.  I don’t know if I would have had the fortitude to keep going without it, as my run was so obviously sucking.  Stopping after the long bridge for a minute, I did a few stretches and rubbed my knee, knowing it was the tight right glute that was messing with the other muscles.  I toyed with the idea of turning around at the beginning of Mile 3, then dismissed it.  I would put in the miles.  The Garmin rolled over to a new lap and informed me that my pace for Mile 3 was a whopping 9:50/mile.

Mile 4:  Stopping again to take a picture, I finally made it to the gate, gave it a cursory sweep with my fingertips, and jogged back the way I had just come, glad that I was on the downhill side of the clock.

The sun is starting to emerge and offered nice backlighting for a group of thistles.

I lifted my hand to wave as several groups of runners passed on their way to the gate.  The dirt was dry and dusty, a breeze was blowing, and a trickle of sweat fell into my open mouth before I could wipe it away.  Momentarily distracted by the salty taste of my own sweat, I was completely amused by the sensation of rivulets coursing down cheeks when suddenly it hit me: I don’t hurt anymore!  I glanced at the Garmin and noted the distance– 3.9 miles.  It had taken almost four complete miles for my body to remember how to get into the groove of running.  I almost danced with joy, but let my legs celebrate in their own way.

Mile 5:  The sudden strength in my legs was a salve so complete that a smile split my face wide open.  This is me, I thought.  This is what I was looking for. The twinge in my knee was gone.  My feet remembered how to step and lift, my shoulders were rotating with actual strength now, and my hip didn’t ache at all.  I did a quick mental probe and found that there was indeed still some tightness in the glute, but it felt more like an invisible hand applying pressure on a sore spot than a red-hot burning like before.  I’ll take pressure over burning any day.  Checking the Garmin every few minutes, I noticed the pace numbers decrease into the 8-minute range, and once it even dipped and hit 7:50 per mile.  More and more people were passing me on their way to the gate, and it wasn’t hard to offer a cheery “Hi” or a wave.  I didn’t hurt anymore.  Mile 5- 8:40/mile.

Mile 6:  It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t crossed over South Boulder Road, which meant that there was still almost two miles to go.  A quick mental check assured me the body was still in good shape.  I kept up the pace and even let myself push a little harder when it felt right.  The mile passed more quickly, and I said a mental Ha! when I finally hit the pace that carried me through my first Half-Marathon two years ago.  Mile 6- 8:08/mile.

The last .7 mile to the trailhead was easy, and I cruised back to the car.  My legs still felt good and my mind was clear.  The fog that had trapped me in slow-motion was gone.  I didn’t have to work hard to pull the pace into the 7-minute range, and when I punched the Stop button at the end I laughed.

I had just run for sixty minutes.  Sixty minutes ago I could barely lift my legs.  My knee hurt, my hip ached, and I couldn’t find a rhythm.  I couldn’t find ME in the mess of a body that had just exorcised a viral demon.  I was hesitant, unsure, scared of pain and withdrawn.  Now, sixty minutes later, I was ready to do battle; sure of my strength, purpose, passion, ability to take a hit and get back up again.

I don’t know of any therapist that, in the span of sixty minutes, could have unraveled the drama, anxiety and pain that had taken root in my head and body.  Thankfully, I can run.  I found the space and time to push through the mental and physical pains that were festering, and waited them out.  We did a little dance to see who would be the victor in this contest.  I won.

The road trip is officially over; I’ve been home since Thursday.  I ran my easy 4.5 mile loop on Friday and met the ladies for our Saturday morning run the next day at Chautauqua, but noticed how pooped I was.  I didn’t even make it to the Radio Tower at the end of the trail on Saturday because of a general sense of fatigue.  I couldn’t figure it out, but chalked it all up to “Road Trip” and decided that a few hours of yoga would put all my aches to right again.

Fast forward to Monday morning, and perspective has changed.  It turns out I had a mild flu bug.  I napped on Saturday and slept most of Sunday, interspersed with guzzling water and Tylenol for the body aches.  My temperature spiked a few times, but returned to normal within a few hours.

It’s times like these that I give thanks for the strength of my body.  I can’t run today, and could barely walk yesterday due to the stiffness.  I slept in spurts last night, moaning when I had to turn my head because of the soreness in my neck.  This wasn’t health in any sense of the word, but I realize that many people live with this sort of pain, and worse, every day of their lives.  I am truly thankful for the relative health of my body and the fact that it can get up most days and put in a solid day of activity according to my whim.

No running for this girl, at least for another day or so.  Since it’s quiet at the moment, the kids are at camp and I’m parked on the couch, here are a few memorable pics from the road trip.

Arrowhead! Found this in the field just below the house. Indians have been in this valley for thousands of years; this one is about 5,000 yrs old.

Saturday morning run on the farm. The woods are dense in West Virgina, and the sun was struggling to penetrate the leaves.

Love the ferns!

The speed limit sign is a piece of humor, as it's parked on a 4-wheel trail on the farm. I thought it was funny to see the outhouse behind the sign; a little "then-and-now" collage.

The massive tree outside Monticello (Thomas Jefferson's house). We visited on the hottest day of the year in 98% humidity.

We visited Seneca Caverns, truly worth seeing!

The kids and I rode the Old Greenbriar Trail, a "rails to trail" that follows the Greenbriar River. When we got hot, we just put down the bikes and waded into the water.

I’ve been on the road for almost two weeks, traveling with my two kids in our trusty Dodge Durango with three bikes hooked to the back.  We left Colorado at the end of June and are currently parked in West Virginia, in the shadows of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory.  The area we’re in is called “the quiet zone”; no radio towers, cell phone towers, television, etc.  Even my computer decided to quit on me.  No Internet, cell phone coverage, radio or TV to distract us.  It’s quiet here all right, save for the traffic that roars down the one road in the valley just outside the bedroom window.

Family circumstances being what they are, I am visiting my Dad’s farm for the first time in seventeen years.  I was here the first year he owned the place, eighteen years ago, and haven’t been back since.  Back then, I hunted for arrowheads in freshly plowed rows, and found enough flint to overflow a shoebox.  The kids and I have found a few arrowheads this past week (they’re really spearheads, arrowheads are smaller) and about a pound of flint chips, but nothing like the haul that’s sitting on a shelf in my closet back home.

Back then, I wasn’t a runner.  I toured the place on an ATV and most likely went too fast on the machine.  In the space between my visits, a kid sent one of the ATV’s over a 50-foot embankment and landed in the hospital with a concussion.  The remaining ATV’s are gone now, and have been replaced with a solitary John Deere golf-cart machine called “The Gator”.  It’s a lot more stable and doesn’t have the get-up-and-go of its predecessor. My kids don’t know the difference, but I sure do.

Now that I’ve hit the prime of my life, I’m touring the place on foot.  There’s almost 1800 acres to explore, and I like a challenge.

Every other day I’ve laced up my running shoes and headed into the woods.  There’s a great lollipop loop that’s approximately six miles.  That is, if you can find the right trail to do the loop.  The first morning I followed my nose and didn’t make a wrong turn anywhere.  I meandered through the woods and startled many white-tailed deer and countless birds.  I took pictures with my easy-carry Nikon and couldn’t shake the feeling of being in Nature’s green womb.  The woods were multi-hued with so much green, I couldn’t begin to describe the nuances of the singular color.  I returned to the house to find my son in the drivers’ seat of the Gator with Grandpa giving driving tips.   My daughter was rustling around upstairs, giving signs that she’d finally given up on sleep.

A few days later I hit the same trail, but ran with a slight twist.  I wanted to see where some of the trails went, even though I was forewarned that they dead-ended farther up the mountain.  Since I had nowhere to be, I extended the run by following two dead-end trails into the woods (and thus backtracking to the main trail) before accidently finding my lollipop loop.  As it was the start of an East Coast heat wave and the humidity was already high, I stopped running after eight miles because of dehydration.

Three’s a charm, and so I ran the trail for the third time.  On this day there was no sun.  Haze covered the sky, erasing all shadows.  Lacing up my shoes, I left my sunglasses on the table as a challenge to the sun God to show his face.  My challenge went unanswered.  Instead, the God of wet air laid the smack-down on this Colorado girl and laughed all day long.  I was hot after the run and hit the shower immediately, trying to cool down before the days’ activities began.  We were headed to Charlottesville Virginia, home on Thomas Jefferson’s and the nearest Whole Foods.

Colorado doesn’t have a lot of moisture.  Hot steamy showers are great for a few minutes, but the steam evaporates quickly.  The sauna at the Rec Center is fun for a few minutes.  Even the occasional fronts of moisture are enjoyable.  But if Colorado is a tea-cup of moisture, then Charlottesville Virginia is the Garden of Eden of sweat lodges.  The sky was white with haze; it was so hot that shadows left for cooler ground.  We emerged from the car and sweat began pouring from every pore.  My son’s cheeks turned blister-red within five minutes, and he began doing the drunken walk of a child who’s severely tired.  During the tour he sat down on the ground and at one point, leaned against the ropes like he was going to fall asleep.

The return drive that should have taken a little over two hours took a full four hours. The heat hit me so hard that I couldn’t concentrate on the map, and deciphering directions became an exercise in futility.  A headache took hold of my brain and only the incessant swigs of water held it at bay.  We canceled dinner plans because we were lost in Virginia, and my son pulled a tooth during the drive back to the farm. The cast of Glee covered Journey, Neil Diamond and Cindy Lauper for our entertainment, and we joined the Dixie Chicks discussion in a lively tale about where Earl is laid to rest.

While wandering Monticello in 100-degree heat with 90% percent humidity, it occurred to me for a split second that I could actually acclimate to this and be a better runner, but then the thought of running made my stomach roll and I worked hard to hold onto lunch.   Later that night, while lying in my bed hoping for a passing breeze to float over my head, I thought about running in Colorado, and how much I enjoy it.  The runs that I’ve taken here have been hard because of the intense humidity.  There’s no sense of a runner’s high in humidity, there’s only survival.

Today was my day to run again, but I didn’t feel like it.  The heat broke last night and we enjoyed almost ten hours of solid rain.  The kids and I slept in the cool of the morning until almost 8 AM, and meandered our way through a lazy breakfast.  I meant to do sprints in the field, but after the intense rain last night, I wasn’t up for plowing my way through wet grass.

I’ve enjoyed the vacations of the summer this year.  I’m getting better at letting go of the small stuff and enjoying down-time.  I think I’m really getting the hang of it.  And since I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t always trying to learn something new, I can honestly say that I’ve learned how to relax on a vacation.

My Saturday run happened on Friday.  The newspaper called for HOT again; 98 degrees.  Yesterday it took until 2 pm to get really hot; now that the front is over us, I knew it would happen a lot faster and boy, was I right.

The real reason my Saturday morning run happened on Friday instead of the coveted Saturday is that we’re going rafting tomorrow!  This trip has been on the books for months, and it’s finally here.  A friend is an experienced river guide and is taking us on a personal boat ride.  The kids have never been rafting, so this will be a trip to remember.  He has all the gear we need and all we need to bring is lunch and quick-drying clothes.  Check!

Back to the run today; hot, hot, hot.  I left the house at 6:30 AM with just my thoughts for entertainment.  No Garmin, no iPod, no hat.  Luckily I remembered my sunglasses.  A girl can’t live without sunglasses, right?  I’d be doomed if I ever lost this pair, as it’s my one and only.

Last night was a hard one, and I didn’t sleep well.  Plus, it was hot. Plus, I slept wrapped in a blanket next to the wet spot where Connor accidentally peed while snoozing in my bed.

Kirby was dying to go for a walk in the relative coolness of the morning, so we took a leisurely trot around the pond before I headed out for my solo run.  She’s twelve now, and not interested in running more than two miles, tops.  The grass is super-high along the greenbelt due to City budget cuts, and there’s apparently a wealth of smells to be had now that nothing gets mowed.  Our pace was pokey, to say the least.

After dropping her at the house I headed out again.  No pep in my legs, I was glad I didn’t have the Garmin.  Today was about moving and processing thoughts, not about pace, strength or speed.  Today’s run was the epitome of running; for me, and me alone.  I savored it.

The loop was one of my usual jaunts, only 4.5 miles.  I broke a sweat early because of the heat but didn’t push pace at all.  Slow and steady, lost in my thoughts, the first two miles melted away.  When I looked up again, I was under a bridge and memories of a heart wrenching conversation that happened yesterday sprang into my consciousness.   Tears prickled my eyes and I gasped at the sudden onslaught of emotion.  Not stopping was the best thing I could do, so I did it.  I kept running.

The intensity of the moment wore off and I snuffled loudly into the stillness.  Lost inside my thoughts again, I didn’t notice the scenery.  My legs were on autopilot and thankfully they knew where we were going.  As I turned up the last street on the way home, another picture from last night played out in my memory.  I sat with the emotion while it burst like a volcano through my core, and shuddered when it was spent.  I kept running.

Minutes later, I was home.  Hot, sweaty and flushed, I felt better after getting out.  One kid was awake, one was still zonked out in bed, and the shower was calling sweetly.

Running is one of the best forms of therapy I know of.  I can run as hard and fast as I want, and I’ll always be there in the end.  I can’t hide from myself when I’m with myself every step of the way.  I move through space and emotion equally, ending when I’ve dived ever deeper into the mysteries and complexities that are me.

I have a huge crush on running.  “Crush” isn’t the right word; it’s not a crush anymore, our relationship has more depth than puppy love.  To be perfectly honest, we’re soul mates.  I love running.  I love how we’ve matured together, weathered so many storms, how there are new nuances to be celebrated each and every time we’re together.

I have a visceral response to running that is akin to physical attraction.  I see other runners on the road and suddenly I’m grinning like a fool yelling “Runner!”  My kids have even started picking up on the game.  If I’m having a crappy day and we pass five runners on a drive into Boulder, suddenly life feels calm and Zen again.

I almost slept in this morning.  Seriously.  I almost slept in and skipped my Saturday morning run.  The alarm went off and there was no desire to yank my relaxed body from slumber.  I even let myself drift back to dreamland but Bill poked me and said “I turned the alarm off”.  My cue to get moving; he was done being awakened every ten minutes by sports updates.

Not feeling particularly spry this morning, I nonetheless dressed and headed out the door.  North Fork/South Fork was the preferred method of abuse today and I wasn’t particularly excited about facing the brutality of the hill.  No matter; any run is better than no run, regardless of location, distance, terrain, heat, rain, wind or… you get the idea.

We were a small group today.  After discussing the route so no one would get lost or left behind, we headed out after waiting ten minutes for Sarah, who never showed.  We started easily but within minutes I was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.  Elizabeth pointed out some beautiful wildflowers, which reminded me to pull my camera from my water bottle carrier and be ready for any shot that came along.  At the intersection of the Mesa Trail and South Boulder Creek trail, we ran smack into Sarah!  She ran from her house and cut through the meadow, brilliant woman that she is, and met us on the trail.

Foothills of Boulder, taken from the Mesa Trail

Somewhere in the first two minutes, things shifted and I relaxed into the run.  My legs felt stronger than I thought, my breath was easier than I would have guessed, and running was actually making me feel BETTER.  I wasn’t tired anymore and I didn’t want to be in bed.  I didn’t want to be anywhere but right there, on that mountain, with those shoes laced to my feet.

I started snapping a few pictures here and there, and turned around to record Sarah, my beautiful blond friend. 

Sarah, beautiful woman who is so much stronger than she thinks!

A moment later we crossed paths with a runner who smiled and asked “Are you Lara?”  I said yes, and he introduced himself as Dave, my runner friend from Twitter who lives in Louisville too!

Completely tickled to meet someone from my virtual life, my legs had a renewed kick and I plowed up Bluestem with a little more pep.  I adore this trail; the shadows, the overgrowth, the rocks and technical footing, the little muddy patches where trickles of water flow from one side of the hill to the other on its downward migration.  There’s always something new to see on a trail run and I adore the entire thing.

Beth and Kimmen were waiting at the top of Bluestem.  We all stood around for a minute or two until our last runner came into sight, then I took off again so that my heart rate didn’t dip too low.  Beth and Kimmen were right behind me, with Sarah, Elizabeth, Marcia and Amy following close behind.  We bumped up the Mesa Trail to North Fork and then danced our way down the trail til we got to South Fork, then started making our way back up again.  I had a moment of panic, wondering if I had led our group astray (I have serious memory deficits sometimes; things look different to me depending on the day, week, season, etc) because the trail seemed TOO EASY.  Where’s the UP, I wondered.  Not to worry; my instincts were correct.  I was lulled into thinking we had made a wrong turn because of the gentle incline of the bottom of South Fork, but after a few minutes of easy running our conversation stopped so that we could conserve breath to make it up the brutal hill.

I listened to my steady inhale/exhale as I climbed.  It’s not often that the only sound in my ears is my own breath, and I got a kick out of paying close attention to the sound of it.  Not just the sound of it, but the FEEL of air going in and out of my lungs.  My chest was wide open and welcoming, and the sound of air doing a little two-step in my lungs had a comforting quality.  It came whooshing out my mouth and nose in steady, regular intervals with a perfect one, TWO, one, TWO, one, TWO.  It never occurred to me to wonder if I was breathing too hard or if my heart rate was too high.  I was enthralled with the feel of breathing.

And then I wanted to see where I’d been.  I slowed to a walk and clicked a picture of Kimmen as she crested the hill.  We handed off the camera and she took a couple of shots of me having a blast as I knocked the socks off the hill.

Kimmen, running up South Fork

This is me, running up South Fork and having way too much fun for my own good.

It was time to head back.  Beth doesn’t like downhills so I took the lead.  They must have waited for the next group to hit the top because I didn’t hear them much after that.  Lost in my own little world of meditative running, I bounced off rocks and blasted down the trail, listening to my breath, feeling the swing of my arms and the firm contact of my feet on terra firma. 

Steps heading back down Bluestem.

Running was good to me today, and I met it halfway.  We’re so compatible, running and I.  When I run I am more than I would be otherwise; wiser, calmer, fulfilled.  I languish in the splendor of the person I become when I run, and always look forward to the next time.  I am entirely and soulfully attracted to running.  Running makes me feel like a strong, proud, competent, beautiful, sexy woman, and that’s why I’m in love.

It’s been eight days since my last run.  The kids and I were on a camping trip in Wyoming and Montana, and it was just so incredibly relaxing to be there that I never had the urge to bust out and elevate the ol’ heart rate.  Now that I’m back though, I wanted to see what changes have occurred since I’ve been away.

A storm system settled over the entire Rocky Mountain region a few days ago, and now we’re in the tail end of it.  When I went out this morning the air smelled cool and damp but the sidewalks were mostly dry.  The long grasses in the greenbelt were heavy with moisture and bent with the weight of several days’ worth of incessant pounding rain.  The creek was down though, and no longer overflowed its banks.

I over-dressed this morning and wore my winter running pants, red long-sleeve and a rain jacket in case the rain came again.  Even though I checked the thermometer before I left the house, I forgot that 50 degrees means it’s warm enough for shorts and a t-shirt.  A camping trip will make you forget all the tricks you’ve ever known.  Okay, maybe it’s just me; I learn and re-learn things all the time.

The low music from my iPod was pleasant as I started up the greenbelt.  I sidestepped some wet clumps of grass, muck and worm remnants on the sidewalk and jogged steadily up the hill.  No dogs were out yet, most likely staying warm and dry in their houses.  The air was still.

Cresting the hill to the pond, I was surprised to see the high water level. My untrained eye estimated it was probably a good 8-10 inches higher than normal, though the banks weren’t anywhere near to flooding.  The trees were in full bloom and seemed wild with the early overgrowth of spring’s abundant moisture.

Following the path across the street, I settled into a meditative rhythm.  After eight days of no running, my muscles were as fresh as a baby and itching for some action.  I didn’t want to push it too hard though, knowing that I needed to move the muscles and get some flexibility back in joints that were a little stiff from road-tripping.

After ten minutes I pulled over and stopped.  I was burning up in my long-sleeve wicking fleece and rain coat.  I pulled both off, tied them around my waist, settled my hat again and set off wearing only my sports bra on the top half.  What freedom!  The sensation of air moving across my naked belly was heavenly; now that I didn’t feel like I would over-heat any second, my pace increased and I floated over the slight downhill near a flooded ravine.

An instrumental song started just as I headed into the underpass.  My mind floated away from the music and noticed the echo of my footsteps against the concrete tunnel walls.  It’s darker in the tunnel, and every time I round the corner to this tunnel my senses go into high alert.  A runner or cyclist can’t see into the tunnel until they’re right on top of it, which means they have to listen hard and watch for the whisper of shadow movement in the split second before you head under the street.  This time, as in most times I’ve run through this tunnel, I was alone.

A sign greeted me as I emerged from the tunnel:  “Caution: Rattlesnakes in the Area”.  Budget cuts in the city have eliminated the seasonal mowing which has had the wild effect of creating prime real estate for snakes.  Luckily, wet, cool mornings mean that the rattlers won’t be hanging out on the trail that I’m running.  I made a mental note to stay off the Coal Creek Trail in the heat of the day, as I have no interest in crossing paths with snakes.  Ever.

The music shifted again and Billy Pilgrim began crooning “Dixie Drug Store”.  I thought about New Orleans and considered what I’d do if I ever came across a voo-doo drug store run by the Widow of Paris.  The possibilities of a magic unlike anything I’ve ever seen is intriguing, to say the least, though realistically I’d be the unsuspecting boob that walked in and got duped.

Billy Pilgrim stayed with me as I turned the last corner in my loop.  Heading up the .6 mile hill to my house, I concentrated on staying strong and relaxing my shoulders.  A fine mist began to appear out of thin air and I busted through it as though it were paper, imagining that I was leaving a cut-out of myself along the sidewalks of Louisville that only rain Gods could perceive.

I arrived home cool, sweaty and utterly happy with my exertions.  The loop was just under five miles and I noted the time when I walked in the front door; just about forty minutes, on the nose.  I didn’t wear my Garmin this morning because I didn’t want an awareness of time to impede my enjoyment of the run (plus, if it started to rain again I didn’t want the thing to get wet).

It’s good to be back on my old stomping grounds.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll run a little longer and see what the Mesa’s been up to.

The lesson of the day is that no matter what my rational brain thinks, I need to bring a camera with me everywhere.  There is so much beauty in this world.  When I stop to recognize it and celebrate the life-force of the Earth, I am a happier, more content person.  When I photograph the beauty that I see, images are cemented in my mind so that I can return to them when I have forgotten the immensity of the world and my tiny place within humanity.

It’s a warm, humid day today, this first Saturday in June.  The trail is as dry as dry can be, though the grasses are growing like weeds (pun intended) and legs were brushed by the waving strands as we ran through the various sections.  I brilliantly brought my water bottle pack that clips around my waist and had a 20 oz. bottle of water for the run; I drank the entire thing and still lost a pound over the course of an hour.

We headed up the South Boulder Creek Trail to where it meets the Mesa Trail.  It was a steady climb; nothing earth-shattering, but enough to get the heart rate elevated and breathing regulated.  Susan and I passed a gentleman who kindly stepped off the path for us.  His comment to us?  “You’re the Little Engine that Could, look at those legs pumping like pistons.”  Yup, look at us go.

We reached the Mesa Trail and didn’t have to wait long for Siga to arrive next.  Susan and I took a breather but Siga said “I don’t know if I’ll get started again if I stop, so I better not stop.”  We became a threesome and climbed the short section of the Mesa Trail before we took a hard right onto Bluestem.

I haven’t been on Bluestem in months, and it’s obvious now how the passage of time diminished my memory of the true nature of this section of trail.  Bluestem is long, not short, and it’s a hell of a climb.  There’s nothing easy about an uphill that never stops, never gives you a rest, never lets you ease up on the pace to catch your breath.  I know I’m making it sound like it goes on forever.  But when you’re on this one mile beast, you’ll feel the same way.  My pace slowed to 13-minute miles on this section, and I was happy with the time.

At the top of Bluestem we cut over on the Mesa Trail to South Fork, where we did the magical downhill of Lara-land.  This is where I got my breath back, started to feel some strength returning to my legs, and saw the carpet of flowers.

This carpet of blue and yellow flowers went on as far as I could see in a relatively small section of woods.  The grass was tall and the wildflowers were thick as thieves.  I slowed my pace and mentally kicked my hiney for putting the camera back in its case before leaving the car this morning.  I actually had it with me, and left it behind.  The trail was shaded in this section, dappled with sunlight here and there, but the wildflowers were nestled in a protected section of forest that soaked up rainwater and didn’t relinquish it willingly.

Wildflowers grew on stalks two feet high.  They swayed in the breeze and beckoned for me to come and spend some peaceful moments.  Sadly, I didn’t comply, but enjoyed the visual peacefulness of the sight while I jogged past.

I was covered in salty sweat when I returned to the car, and have cherished the memory of the steep climb and the beauty of the downhill. 

Tomorrow morning I head out for an 8-day camping trip with my kids.  We’re caravanning with a girlfriend and her two kids for a few days, then will split up to continue on our own routes.  I’m incredibly excited about the trip, as it’s the first time I’ve ever taken a trip with my kids without another adult.  This feels like a rite of passage for me, one I’m willingly, excitedly, embracing.

I won’t be posting for the duration of the trip, but will do my best to give a re-count when I return. 

The lesson of the day is that no matter what my rational brain thinks, I need to bring a camera with me everywhere.  There is so much beauty in this world.  When I stop to recognize it and celebrate the life-force of the Earth, I am a happier, more content person.  When I photograph the beauty that I see, images are cemented in my mind so that I can return to them when I have forgotten the immensity of the world and my tiny place within humanity.

It’s a warm, humid day today, this first Saturday in June.  The trail is as dry as dry can be, though the grasses are growing like weeds (pun intended) and legs were brushed by the waving strands as we ran through the various sections.  I brilliantly brought my water bottle pack that clips around my waist and had a 20 oz. bottle of water for the run; I drank the entire thing and still lost a pound over the course of an hour.

We headed up the South Boulder Creek Trail to where it meets the Mesa Trail.  It was a steady climb; nothing earth-shattering, but enough to get the heart rate elevated and breathing regulated.  Susan and I passed a gentleman who kindly stepped off the path for us.  His comment to us?  “You’re the Little Engine that Could, look at those legs pumping like pistons.”  Yup, look at us go.

We reached the Mesa Trail and didn’t have to wait long for Siga to arrive next.  Susan and I took a breather but Siga said “I don’t know if I’ll get started again if I stop, so I better not stop.”  We became a threesome and climbed the short section of the Mesa Trail before we took a hard right onto Bluestem.

I haven’t been on Bluestem in months, and it’s obvious now how the passage of time diminished my memory of the true nature of this section of trail.  Bluestem is long, not short, and it’s a hell of a climb.  There’s nothing easy about an uphill that never stops, never gives you a rest, never lets you ease up on the pace to catch your breath.  I know I’m making it sound like it goes on forever.  But when you’re on this one mile beast, you’ll feel the same way.  My pace slowed to 13-minute miles on this section, and I was happy with the time.

At the top of Bluestem we cut over on the Mesa Trail to South Fork, where we did the magical downhill of Lara-land.  This is where I got my breath back, started to feel some strength returning to my legs, and saw the carpet of flowers.

This carpet of blue and yellow flowers went on as far as I could see in a relatively small section of woods.  The grass was tall and the wildflowers were thick as thieves.  I slowed my pace and mentally kicked my hiney for putting the camera back in its case before leaving the car this morning.  I actually had it with me, and left it behind.  The trail was shaded in this section, dappled with sunlight here and there, but the wildflowers were nestled in a protected section of forest that soaked up rainwater and didn’t relinquish it willingly.

Wildflowers grew on stalks two feet high.  They swayed in the breeze and beckoned for me to come and spend some peaceful moments.  Sadly, I didn’t comply, but enjoyed the visual peacefulness of the sight while I jogged past.

I was covered in salty sweat when I returned to the car, and have cherished the memory of the steep climb and the beauty of the downhill. 

Tomorrow morning I head out for an 8-day camping trip with my kids.  We’re caravanning with a girlfriend and her two kids for a few days, then will split up to continue on our own routes.  I’m incredibly excited about the trip, as it’s the first time I’ve ever taken a trip with my kids without another adult.  This feels like a rite of passage for me, one I’m willingly, excitedly, embracing.

I won’t be posting for the duration of the trip, but will do my best to give a re-count when I return.

Summer is officially here; school is over and the kids are home from school.  June 21 may be the equinox, but summer begins when school ends.  Period.

The transition from school-life to summer-life is rocky in my household, and it always takes a few weeks of getting used to.  Even my morning runs feel different in the summer.  There’s a sense of urgency to get out and get it over with, so I can be home to supervise the lethargy that has a strangle-hold on my kids.

For a few days last week the weather even felt life summer, but now it just looks like more of the same Colorado-spring we’ve slogged through for the past three months.  Clouds, cool mornings, and a fine sheen of pollen coating the insides of everyone’s nasal passages have become the norm.

My 10 year old daughter S is in basketball camp this week, giving her something to do for a few hours but not giving me enough time to get much accomplished.  My son, C, has been a trouper, but it’s still hard to get all the thinking and planning done that has to happen when one is taking the kids on an 8-day camping trip while entertaining children.  I’ve resorted to making lists, a lot of them.  Lists of things to do, errands I need to run, loose ends that need tying and groceries I need to buy to suit our many dietary needs.

The one good thing I can say is that my body is feeling strong again.  My legs and hips have that “runner” feel and when I ride my bike on a quick 10-mile loop, my hips respond by giving me more power.  Even my shoulders have taken on a new toned shape.  I’m thinking about getting a bike rack for the car so we can take our bikes on the camping trips this summer.  Having the bikes with us will give us something to do when we’re in new places, rather than have to see all the sights from the car.

Summer is a catch-as-catch-can time of year, especially when it comes to routine.  There’s always a lot of activity, but it’s incredibly spontaneous.  This summer I expect to have a lot more bike rides and hikes than actual runs, and I’m kind of looking forward to the change in scenery!

Memorial Day weekend is a double header for us; our regular Saturday morning run and then a Monday morning run for anyone not running the Bolder Boulder.

The word for this weekend was “energy”.  My energy was flowing and I ended both runs feeling absolutely high; so filled with endorphins and happiness that I could easily have run twice the distance on both days.

We ran Chautauqua on Saturday; an out-and-back to the old radio tower site.  Massive uphills from the second we picked up our feet until we turned around at the radio tower; then downhill most of the way back.  Have I mentioned that I love running downhill?  If you didn’t know that about me, then it’s high time I let you in on that tiny secret.  I adore downhills and how my hip flexors open and gravity carries me along like a current.  I don’t fight descents; I lean into them and breathe deeply, catching my breath after the exertion of an uphill push, marveling at the rhythmic proprioceptor pounding my body is taking until I’m finally sated.

For Monday’s run we met at Doudy Draw and looped through Eldorado Canyon.  This is my favorite run of all time.  It has everything a girl could want; trails, hills, rocks, canyon walls, forests, meadows, downhills, rushing water, and an almost-flat mile and a quarter road at the end that allows you to let it all out and push tempo pace back to the trailhead.  The only thing that would make this run even better would be if it were a mile or two longer.

When we left Chautauqua on Saturday I started feeling my glutes about two minutes into the run.  I haven’t run hills consistently for a while and lately, every time I do it, I’m starting over from scratch.  My base fitness level hasn’t peaked for the season, so I had to concentrate on breath and movement.  Keep it moving, stay consistent, was my motto.  Don’t go out so fast that you have to stop.  Watch the heart rate.  I kept my talking to a moderate level and when my heart rate felt too high, I slowed to a walk.  Can you believe it?  I’m getting smarter in my old age.

My dear friend Elorie ran with us for the first time on Saturday and pushed my sorry butt up the hill without getting winded in the least.  That girl has the most amazingly beautiful legs I’ve seen in a long, long time.  She rides mountain bikes on these trails and road-bikes all over Boulder; her legs are super strong, curvy, and powerful.  Cross-training has taken the sinew out of her form and given her a look of strength and suppleness that my own runner-body does not possess.  I mentioned earlier that after two minutes I was already felt the burn in my glutes; hers never burned because of the hill-work she’s done on her bike.  Hence, my butt looked like a soccer ball since she was kicking it all the way to the old radio tower site.

The weather this weekend was intermittent, as spring in Colorado can be, but the mornings were absolutely fine.  Saturday morning was warm and luscious and I was glad I remembered to bring my camelbak hydration pack.  The temp was in the low 60’s when we started and there was a magical burst of warm air that parted like a curtain when I started my Garmin.  At 7 AM there weren’t too many people out and about yet, but an hour later when we returned the trail was so packed it looked like a veritable crowd streaming into the gates at the amusement park, sans children.

The splits on this run were typical for Chautauqua:

Mile 1: 12:26

Mile 2: 11:11

Mile 3:12:08

Mile 4: 8:22

Mile 5: 11:05

Mile 6: 7:45

That being said, Elorie and I absolutely flew down the road when we hit the downhill.  We were talking easily, breathing like we were standing still, and striding in unison.  I knew we were haulin’ because of the way folks moved to the side of the service road when they saw us coming but I didn’t know how fast we were going until I pushed the stop button on the Garmin when we hit the bottom; apparently we were cruising at a 5:30 pace down the final stretch of that hill.  Did I mention I love hills?  What a fabulous way to end a run, with an all-out pounding at rejuvenates the body and soul.  Yummy!

Monday morning was our own nod to the Bolder Boulder.  As I drove parallel to Highway 36 along Marshall Road from Louisville I was extremely happy I wasn’t in that 10-mile-an-hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to get into the heart of Boulder.

A friend and I went out for drinks and an amazing evening of conversation on Sunday night.  A couple of tea-infused mojitos and martinis later, coupled with a 4+ mile walk in the silky cover of darkness, I felt fabulous even though it was several hours past my regular bedtime.  That energy was still with me when I got up to run after 6 hours of sleep, and I marveled at how a brisk 4-mile walk with amazing company can boost the energy level of the soul so much that it has lasting effects.

Again, the day was a perfect early-summer morning with temps in the high 50’s.  The meadow flowers were in bloom, the trail was dry and the shadows in the valley of the canyon appeared to hold mystery in the early morning light.  Our little group of six was the only one on the trail at that hour, though later we would step aside to let two mountain bikers have the right-of-way coming down the trail.

Here are a few pictures I snapped of the morning:

Four of the five beauties that ran Eldo Canyon on Memorial Day

Wildflowers in bloom

I had a passing worry that my glutes and quads would give me trouble so soon after that epic Chautauqua run, but even though they were a little sore there was no lasting pain or twinges.  Somehow, my muscles felt even stronger than before… maybe the drinks and walk stretched everything that was being held tight?

Eldorado Creek was high, and the sound of rushing water grew louder and louder as we ran through the rock walls of the canyon, high above.  Snaking our way down the trail forced us to slow down, but once we were back on the open road the same thing happened that happened on Saturday.  My hip flexors opened up and I leaned back just enough to keep the momentum going and not have to work at it.  Jack, Beth and I ran along the Creek, until the angle of the hill forced Beth to drop back and watch her feet (she’s a strong hill runner, but doesn’t like descents).  Jack and I plowed forward until we hit the straightaway, when suddenly Beth appeared from behind and Jack fell back.  The last mile can be the longest, especially when you’ve upped the pace to a full-out tempo run.  I listened to my friend’s conversation, felt her energy propelling her along, and concentrated on my steady breath.  My shoulder felt a little tight and I consciously dropped it away from my ear.  The slight breeze caused my hat to bobble with the slightest movement and it felt divine to have the warm air gently dry the sweat on my forehead.

Energy was flowing through me, above and below, and in my veins.  We arrived at the trailhead and I had an urge to do another loop.  The day was so clear, the sky was so blue, and I was absolutely, pulsingly ALIVE.  I adore the movement my body creates so that my soul can fly, and I am so profoundly grateful that each and every day, I can get up and RUN.

This is not the article I intended to write.  Initially, I was going to write about how a woman’s body changes after giving birth and how her nutritional needs are different when she starts running.  Also, I was going to write about how food intolerances play into this.  But something happened this past weekend to show me that I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.  Let me explain.

After having my second child (8 years ago in July) my body went through a ton of changes.  Foods that I used to be able to tolerate suddenly made my digestive system forget what to do.  I was bloated each and every night for many years, with so much cramping and gas that I would lie in bed at night and cry from the pain.  I was eating healthy foods, too; yogurt and granola for breakfast, whole grain sandwiches with hard-boiled eggs and goat cheese for lunch, salads with mixed greens and kale, organic veggies, and chicken or fish and dark chocolate for a treat.  No soda, chips or junk food, ever.  What was wrong?

In a nutshell: everything.  Through lots of diagnostic tests I learned that I have intolerances to gluten, dairy, yeast, mushrooms, soy, rice, sesame, coffee and eggs.  Not only could I not digest gluten, but I couldn’t eat the gluten-free substitutions either because they are typically made with rice flour.  I’m down to veggies, fruits, nut-flour baked goods, quinoa and gluten-free oatmeal, and meat or fish proteins.  To top it all off, I’m not hungry most of the time.

After exercising I know I should eat within 20-30 minutes, but it’s hard to get around to it when I don’t feel the hunger pangs.  I typically never eat before I run, even if I’m heading out for 10-12 miles.  My post-run breakfast is light and I move on with my day.  No carb-replacing, goo’s, gels, gatorade, and never a big pasta dinner the night before a race.  If I’m racing and the race starts at 9 AM, I’ll eat a light breakfast of a banana and juice, maybe some gluten-free oatmeal if I’m not in a hurry, but that’s it.  I don’t have a “nutrition plan” for running, for re-fueling, racing… anything.  If I can find something to eat, I’ll eat it, but otherwise I’ll skip it.  The results seem to be the same.

No, I’m not anorexic.  Not even close.  I’m thin but not skinny, and I have more padding on me than some runners I know.  I’m picky about my food because when it doesn’t agree with me, it REALLY doesn’t agree with me.  I can count on one hand the number of days my belly has NOT hurt, bloated or distended in the last 8 years.  I have a love-hate relationship with food; I love food, it hates me.

I went to Ashland last weekend for a get-away.  I left the family in Colorado and visited two dear friends who work at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.  While I was there, a funny thing happened; I started to get hungry.  The first morning I was there I woke up hungry.  Usually I get up and head out the door to run; I couldn’t even consider doing that in Oregon because I was famished.  I wouldn’t have made it a mile.  I ate big bowls of creamy buckwheat hot cereal (buckwheat is naturally gluten-free) topped with homemade granola, bananas, dried fruit and almond milk.  A few hours later when Gwen and Michael rolled out of bed and round two started in the kitchen, I was trolling for food.  Quinoa with stir-fried kale, zucchini, spinach and bits of diced chicken were good; so were the yam chips smeared with peanut butter, big glasses of orange juice, the buffalo burger and yam fries, and fish, potatoes and grilled Brussel Sprouts for dinner at Omar’s.

I slept well when I was there, and even took naps.  Normally I never nap because going from a vertical to horizontal to vertical position again in the middle of the day ensures massive bloating and I lose my appetite for the rest of the day.  Lying down will stop up my kidney and intestinal function like nothing else.  In Oregon, I napped and woke up feeling great, so good that I could run in the evening and enjoy dinner a few hours later.

When I mentioned to Gwen that I’m not usually very hungry she looked me in the eye and said “You’re over-stressed.  This is how your body has compensated for stress in your life.  You’ve been carrying around so much stress for so many years that there was no room for nutrition.  Now that you’re relaxing there’s room for you to nourish your body.”

So. 

I ate, slept, relaxed, ran, read, relaxed, ate, and slept a little more when I was in Oregon.  I ran three out of the four days I was there; not because I had to, but because I wanted to.  Because it felt good for my body to run in 80 degree weather on a trail in muggy conditions.  Because it felt good to run 10 miles at a 8:06 pace on a clear morning.  Because I wanted to.

I got home and haven’t run since.  I’m too tired.  I’m back to eating nibbles of this and that through-out the day, because I’m not hungry and that’s all my body will tolerate.

This past week taught me that I know nothing about proper nutrition for Momma runners.  I know how to get my body through the day but it’s not in a “normal” way.  My body has adapted to the stresses of my life by not allowing much nutrition, and this is not the way a healthy body functions.

I am utterly and truly aware that I need to make changes in my life.  I am not happy living like this and can no longer stay on my current trajectory.  Something’s gotta give.  I am starting to figure out what needs to happen.   This summer is going to be a time of digging really deep to see what I’m made of.  Runners do this all the time in races; now, I’m in a race for my life.  Bodies will only withstand so much wear and tear before they break down from chronic problems.  I’m lucky that I’m still functioning, but don’t want to assume that this will be the case indefinitely.

I’m a runner, and I know I can do better.  The training begins now.