The Boulder Trail Running Breakfast Club met at Dowdy Draw at 8am. I didn’t know anyone that was going to be there, and figured this would be a good way to meet some new people and see some new territory.

I pulled into the parking lot and saw a lot of people and several dogs. Everyone was super-friendly and it was easy to strike up a conversation. The first person I talked with was a guy named Matt that lives in the North Boulder area. He’s relatively new to the area and has attended a few of these meet-ups.

And then, my friend J pulled into the parking lot! We made eye contact through the windshield and hugged hard when she jumped out of the car. What a great surprise!

It was windy at the trailhead and about 30 degrees, though everyone was aware that the temp was supposed to hit a high of 60 by early afternoon. As we stood around the sun crested the hill behind us and flooded our little valley in golden light; immediately the air felt a good 10 degrees warmer. I thought about stashing my jacket in the car then decided to keep it on. I’ve run one too many times this winter under-dressed, and I’ll be damned if I do it again. Besides, I had the Nathan hydration pack on my back and could easily slip the jacket through the loops and carry it once I needed to strip off a layer.

We headed out and there was a collective beep as everyone hit the Start button on their Garmin. I was curious about the elevation gain/loss on this run, and wanted to be able to upload the info after the run.

This run starts with a steady uphill climb. A few hardy guys took off ahead of me, and the rest of the pack was behind me. I ran for a few minutes with Scott, the group organizer. We chatted briefly before someone else passed us and he dropped back to socialize with someone else.

Then we were on single-track and the ground got muddy and wet in sections. Ice layered other pieces of trail and there was no looking up at the pretty; I had to keep my eyes focused on the ground. If there was any conversation behind me I didn’t hear it. The metronome of my breath and the wind in my ears was all the music there was.

At the trail junction we paused and waited for everyone to catch up. J and I chatted about the status of our lives and then laughed really hard when a gust of wind came from the west and pushed us both backwards. She said, “We need rocks for our pockets!” and I thought that was a good way of saying that two skinny runner girls are no match for Boulder winds.

We wove through the fairy forest on our way to the fire road that eventually leads to Eldorado Canyon and pulled over for another runner group that was headed our way. Scott apparently knew these guys and told us they were running a 50k today; looping through the forest a few times to get in the miles. These guys all wore shorts, doo-rags and had hydration packs on their backs. As we made a hole and they turned left to hit the next junction they smiled at us. Just a walk in the park, Kazanski.

At this point the people with dogs took another route and those of us without 4-legged friends headed up the single-track of Goshawk Ridge. This is a beautiful loop in the summer, full of wild flowers and popping with color. Today though ice littered the trail and I found myself speed-hiking through some sections, picking foot placement and trying to stay upright by missing the slick ice that hadn’t seen sunlight in days. I could hear someone breathing behind me but since they didn’t ask to pass I didn’t turn my attention from my feet. We continued this way for what felt like about 10 minutes, until we popped off the single-track onto the main Mesa Trail.

The woman behind me finally spoke and said, “Thanks for leading the way. I wasn’t sure how to get through that so I just attached myself to you and followed your feet.” I laughed because there wasn’t any rhyme or reason to my meandering; I had zenned it the whole way down.

We paused again and waited for the group. Scott talked about some different runs that he’s led, most on sections that I haven’t tried before. In the summer time he heads up elevation and hits the Continental Divide; these runs in the Foothills in the winter are just training runs for the good stuff later in the year.

A few minutes later everyone was gathered and we ran a few minutes down to Fowler Trail. Imagine 20 trail runners all bunched together on a one-lane dirt road that sits in the shade on a steep hill. Now imagine that there are some big guys and small women. Now imagine that you’re one of the small women and two big guys are in front of you and you can’t see more than 5 feet ahead of you and suddenly Big Guy Number One slips and careens into Big Guy Number Two. He bounced off Number Two and we all kept going, never breaking stride. When we stopped again I told Number One that I was really happy he didn’t hip-check me; I would have gone flying.

We ran through Eldorado Canyon and down into the town, where we crossed to the north side of town and headed onto the Old Mesa Trail. This was new territory for me; I had never jumped onto this trail and connected the two sides of the mountain like this. Scott told us, “Hope you’re warmed up. The first six miles were fun and all, but the real running starts now.”

He was right. Immediately we headed up again. My pace fell to a whopping 17:51/mile, as I was mostly hiking now. We gained about 2000 feet over the next two miles and my right glute started complaining about the climbing. I didn’t care too much; as long as my heart held out, my butt was along for the ride.

Finally the trail leveled out, we dipped down for a minute, did one last ascent and then we were on Big Bluestem, heading down. Scott stood at the junction, made sure those of us heading back to the parking lot took the right trail and waved to the folks who were extending.

A minute later heavy breathing alerted me to someone coming up on my six and I moved over to let him pass. It was Scott; he didn’t want to pass so we ran together down the remainder of the trail. This part was soft on the shoes but not icy, a welcome relief from the protected sections of trail on the higher elevations. As we made our way down the pace picked up and we coasted along. My foot rolled suddenly and I made a noise; Scott checked in and chatted with me to keep my mind off it for a minute until the owie went away.

Big Bluestem dumped us onto the Mesa Trail, and we were home free.  The air was warmer now, probably sitting pretty at 50 degrees. My pink jacket bounced along in my hydration pack and my legs were sticky with sweat in the black running pants. I pulled off my SmartWool hat and carried it the rest of the way in my hand, hoping the breeze would cool my head a little.

Back at the parking lot I stripped off my gear and hit Stop on the Garmin. 9.88 miles in 1 hr 59 minutes and 15 seconds. I considered doing a quick tenth of a mile around the parking lot to round out the mileage and then decided that I was okay with what I had run. Time to stretch and head to breakfast.

Later at home I checked the stats of the run. Ascent: 17,631 feet. Descent: 22,180 feet. Overall pace: 12:04/mile. 9.88 miles total in approximately 2 hours. This was a sweet trail run and a good start to my marathon training!

I brought my camera today and stopped to take some pictures.  The first one was in the parking lot at the Dowdy Draw trail head while we waited for everyone to arrive.  Nice outfits, right!

Me and Beth sporting our "twinsies" look... matching pink jackets, green layer underneath, black gloves, black pants, and YakTrax. We did not call each other to coordinate outfits!

The Boulder trails have been covered in snow and ice for several months now in a total uncharacteristic winter.  Thus, this is the first time I’ve been on this trail in a LONG while.  We headed up the trail and I stopped to take a picture of the landscape.  The clouds were low-lying and the mountains were completely cut off.  Someone commented that it felt like we were “under glass, fogging up the place with our breath”.  I like that.

Headed toward that big hill, it's covered in fog...

As we continued on we caught site of a coyote a little ways ahead.  He was trotting along the same trail we were, and I watched his paw prints disappear under my feet, mesmerized by the sensation of forward motion and an unending trail that had miles to go.  I tried to get a picture of him a few times, but the camera couldn’t distinguish his form for all the fog, even though my naked eye could see his cuteness far ahead.  Finally, we dipped into a slight valley and I saw him come out of the ravine, and snapped this picture.  The ladies were right behind me, so I held up the entire party for this photo-op.

Coyote trotting out of the ravine

And then we headed up the hill.  This is a bi-level switchback; you run south for half the hill, then abruptly turn north for the remainder of the hill.  I dropped back so my picture-taking wouldn’t hold up the line.

The stillness of the trees. Up close and personal, the branches are encased in ice.

And finally, my favorite section of the trail. 

What's to come...

I should have worn my sunglasses to give me some serious differentiation in the pure whiteness of the morning.  Several times I almost stepped off the trail because I didn’t see the ground drop away.

At the top of the mesa we decided against doing the “tree loop” for two reasons: 1. because our legs were TIRED after the hard work of running through the snow and 2. we weren’t sure we’d be able to find the trail.  We’ll have to wait for the snow to melt or the clouds to leave us before we attempt the loop.  I have to admit, I’m going through some serious trail withdrawal.  Today’s trail run was good for the soul… so, so good.  As hard as it was to run through the snow, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.  I’m actually considering another attempt tomorrow morning… hmmm.  We ARE supposed to get more snow tonight…

We started at Dowdy Draw and headed into Eldorado Canyon. This is my absolutely favorite run, period. I soaked in the scenery while we ran through the trees, regrouped at the bridge, and headed into the Canyon through a break in the rock walls.

The mile-long climb from the trailhead to the dirt path was, as always, invigorating. It gets the heart rate up and paves the way for the sheen of sweat that stays with you until thirty minutes after the run. As we hit the dirt trail and our various paces were straightened out, Juli and I started running together. She’s done four Ironmans and has raced steadily for the past twelve years. She’s one of the most petite as well as one of the strongest women I know. After some brief chit-chat she abruptly asked if I knew “what was going on”. She was opening the door to a very personal conversation about her sudden, impending divorce. I did a lot of listening, a lot of exclaiming, and asked a few questions.

As we ran and talked, the miles drifted away. Juli’s voice was strong and I noted a new undertone of expression that had previously been guarded. For the first time I heard her talk about what SHE wanted instead of justifying an upheaval that her husband wanted. She talked about her priorities, finding a job, being emotionally and physically available to her 1st grade daughter, and keeping up with her spiritual growth.

When she started talking about spirituality I had to comment, mostly because I was confused.

ME: I thought you were both really enjoying the mediation classes, the community you were finding at your church?

JULI: I thought so too. He did all those things but really, he’s just a Spiritual Poser. He doesn’t want to do the real work that’s required and when it gets hard, he runs away.

So what is a “Spiritual Poser” then? It’s someone who doesn’t walk the talk, make good on the promises, is only there for the season of lushness and then walks away when it gets hard. There can be any number of posers; athletic, intellectual, un-honest people who purport to be something they’re not.

As she was telling me this, we ran along Eldorado Drive and saw a big, beautiful meadow, alive with all the colors that autumn in the Rocky Mountains delivers. Two horses, one a deep brown and the other a pinto, were standing sedately near the fence. The colors of the horses complemented the nature’s autumnal pallet. I stopped to take a picture. I have always loved this run because it’s hard, beautiful, and the last mile and a half is a straight shot of running fast and easy. It’s a perfect balance for this runner.

Balance is all in the eye of the beholder. Athletes complain about being out of balance all the time. “Not enough speed workouts.” “Not enough hills.” “Not enough core training.” We feel it acutely when it’s not right and make adjustments. It seems to me that relationships are the exact same in that there is a constant search for balance. An athlete is always working to balance performance with ability and desire. In a relationship, the partners are externally trying to work on the same project; their relationship. If both partners aren’t striving for balance, consistency, truth, honesty and respect in that relationship, then the whole shebang is out of balance and you’re headed for a serious injury or divorce.

Juli stopped competing last year. I vividly remember the conversation she and I had on this very same trail, last autumn. She’s raced for twelve years and felt like she had gotten that bug out of her system. Competition didn’t hold the same joie de vive for her anymore. Instead of looking backward and clinging to that identity, she dropped it and kept right on going. She still runs and bikes, but only in a teaching or recreational capacity. Last week she gave away almost all her race t-shirts and she’s now getting ready to sell her tri bike. Watch out CHANGE, here comes Juli!

It’s autumn. The leaves are turning, the air is crisp, and we’re pulling out the long sleeved tech shirts. Fall is change, beauty, crispness, life, colors, breath, a sigh, and then it’s gone. I can think of about a dozen good metaphors for life, relationships and the autumnal season, and about another fifty bad ones. My synapses are firing, making connections. Women, beauty, change, life… we’re all that and whole lot more. I pity the man that throws away his marriage because he is too frightened to deepen the marriage bond in his relationship and take love to the next level. Honestly, who wants to always remain in the Summer of life? Not me, and not any of the powerful, intensely devoted and passionate women I know. Thank God.

I woke up feeling grateful. A lot of people take Thanksgiving for granted; I used to be that way and was flat-out irritated by the ritual of spending all day cooking food that was consumed in ten or fifteen minutes, only to sit around for the rest of the day feeling tired and gluttonous.

As I start my morning routine I mentally question what I’m most grateful for this year. I have a grab-bag full of possibilities, and want to think about my answer before I bring up the subject with my family later in the morning.

Maybe I’m more emotional about holidays because I’m getting older. Maybe it’s because I have children and we watch The Peanuts Thanksgiving and talk about the meaning of coming through hard times and giving thanks by sharing a meal. Maybe it’s because the economy sucks and I’m reminded daily of the things that we have and the things that we can get along without. Maybe it’s because I’ve wrestled with my health so much these past few years and I’m coming to understand what a gift it is to HAVE good health. Maybe it’s because a few of my friends’ children have had health or medical issues that make me so aware of the good health and fortune of my own kids. Maybe it’s because we still have money coming in every month and I’m grateful that we’re not in a position to have to give up our house or file for bankruptcy. Maybe it’s a combination of all of it. I don’t think it matters why I’m so sensitive about it, though my analytical side can’t help but ponder these questions as I run through the hills.

We have a huge group that’s assembled at the Doudy Draw trailhead. Susan and I pull into the parking lot and gape at the sheer number of cars. I haven’t ever seen this many vehicles on a Thanksgiving morning in one place. As we’re gathering in the parking lot and adjusting gear, a trio of women head out on the trail before us. Thanksgiving in Boulder seems to begin with a steady hour of exercise with friends. I like it.

The newly completed trail adds about ten minutes to the run, making the total mileage 7.35 miles by my Garmin GPS. The time it takes to run this varies person by person. I usually do it in a little over an hour, but today might be different.

I love this new trail. The first two miles wind around the side of the hill instead of taking us down into the gully. It’s less rocky this way and more scenic actually, because we can see the sunrise to the east and the bright yellow rays of light touching the hill to the west. I don’t spend all my time watching my feet and can viscerally appreciate the run with my other senses.

Susan, Bernadette and I are in the front of the pack. The dirt trail and the valley bounce the sound of our footsteps in a different way from the Whiterock trail we were on last Saturday. On that trail, the sound of the footsteps is apparent only from the trail. Here, because of the gentle rise of the hills, the echo of our footsteps surrounds us and lingers in the air.

As we start of the dirt-packed trail Bernadette’s chatter ceases. I listen to the distinct cadence of her feet. She’s a slight person, not much over ninety pounds, and stands about five foot two. Her stride length is shorter than mine but she has a faster turnover. On a downhill or a straightaway we’re a matched set; on the uphill I have more power in my frame and can muscle my way up faster.

Soon the sound of her footsteps is replaced by a more insistent cadence. The person attached to those feet sounds heavier and taller, and a lot more muscular. The sound of her inhale is deeper; when the breath comes out again the noise has a deeper resonance.

I’m transported by the sound of the footsteps and how I can tell who it is. Everyone has a different stride length, a different body mass of fat and muscle, a different way of landing. Some strides have a hesitation in them and some have a veritable insistence, like the one behind me. An epiphany flashes through my brain and I realize that I am utterly and profoundly grateful for my feet.

Back in May I dropped a twenty-five pound piece of flagstone pointy end down in the middle of my bare foot. Miraculously, nothing was broken and there was no nerve damage. I was waylaid for five weeks, on crutches for two weeks, and worried I wouldn’t run again for months. A homeopathic remedy of castor oil and flannel pulled the swelling out of my foot and sped the healing process to something my orthopedic surgeon friend had never seen.

My feet carry me wherever my brain wants to go. They’re always there for me, willing and able silent partners that don’t ask more than a good pair of supportive running shoes. When I was injured I was exquisitely aware of my lack of mobility. Now that my body is in good working order I’m grateful and thankful for the health and full range of functions.

On this day of Thanksgiving I’m going to focus on one aspect of what I’m thankful for. There are SOOOOO many things, all of them wonderful, but to go into them all would be extremely tangential and difficult for you and me both. Suffice it to say that I experienced a loss of foot function for a good five weeks, and today I’m thankful for two perfectly working feet that carry me wherever my heart desires. Thank you feet, for all that you do, every day, without complaint. I wouldn’t be here without you.