I woke after seven solid hours of sleep and decided that if I missed the run, I would kick myself for the rest of the weekend.  I needed to get outside, feel the sunshine and enjoy the company of other women.  I needed to get out of my head.

I thought about eating something and grabbed a banana for the road, just in case the urge to eat ever came back.  It didn’t, so I left it in the car for my post-run recovery fuel.  If I was hungry.

When I left the house the car thermometer read 56 degrees.  During the drive from Louisville to Doudy Draw it dropped to 46 degrees, then miraculously went back up to 60 as I pulled into the trailhead parking lot.  I organized my clothing and decided to wear arm warmers with my t-shirt.  They would be easy enough to carry later when I overheated.

The group was about 15 women strong.  I knew 6 of them well and had seen several others at previous runs over the summer, when I was a hit-or-miss member of the weekly group.  After a few minutes of standing around, hugging friends and meeting new people, we hit the dirt.

This run was important to me because it was the first trail run since I injured my leg and foot several weeks ago.  I needed to see how my foot would do on uneven terrain.  The last full week of training was a month ago, and this was my first week back.  During the 3 weeks of injury I ran super-short distances a handful of times, but nothing that I could build on toward the Slickrock 50k that’s coming at me like a train.  October 8 is next Saturday, and my training has been seriously stalled.

The sun was just cresting the horizon when we headed up the hill.  Two of the women that I had seen on previous runs were in front of me; coincidentally, both were named Allison.  Kathy, Jacqueline and I grouped together and started up the incline that serves as a 2k warm-up.  They talked about their race last weekend, the Aspen Goldenleaf Half Marathon.  I was supposed to run it, but bailed because of my foot and a family commitment in Colorado Springs.  This is two years in a row I was supposed to run it; next year I’ll be there for sure.

The trail leveled out for a stretch, then narrowed into single-track with rocks.  Kathy and Jacqueline slowed down and Beth with the Long Legs caught up.  We talked about our life news (kids, work) and somehow caught up to the two Allison’s.  Now we were a four-some, and we stayed together for the remainder of the run.

The low angle of the sunlight caught the red leaves on the sumac bushes at such an angle that they looked like they were backlit.  The reds sparkled against the yellowing grasses and sharp angles of the rocks.  This is my favorite time of year, for so many reasons.

We came to the first fork and turned right, heading toward Eldorado Canyon.  A quick body check told me that everything was working well.  As we made a hairpin turn and traversed our way up the hill I caught sight of two men and a woman not more than a hundred yards behind us; they were a small group that somehow got caught in our larger group.  I couldn’t look at them for more than a second though; my attention was firmly on the ground in front of me.

The two Allison’s led the way and I tuned out all conversation, aware of only my breath and the next footstep.  I don’t recall thinking or noticing anything except the ground in front of me.  This zen running lasted probably only a few minutes, but it slowed down time and brought me firmly back into the moment.  My hamster-mind finally stopped its incessant spinning.  There was finally more room to breathe; my body was lighter.

At the top of the hill we turned south and ran through the Fairy Forest (my unofficial name for it).  The two Allison’s stopped to look at a map which confused them more, then followed me over the slight rise and across the bridge to Goshawk Ridge.  They were relying on me for direction.  Thankfully, I’ve been here dozens of times; this is my favorite route ever.  Every time I run it, it’s different.  I’m always different too, and the mountain and I get to know each other on brand-new terms every time we say Hello.

We meandered through the beauty that is Goshawk Ridge and I got my little adrenalin rush toward the end when I hit the steep decline and got to roll like an avalanche, comin’ down the mountain.

I called out to the girls to take a left at the fork and we ran into the threesome that had originally been behind us on the hairpin turn.  They had taken a different fork and then ended up on the road, lost.  I led them back to the correct turn that would take them into Eldo Canyon.  Allison #1 and I danced our way down the rock steps and dodged scree, and the threesome fell away.

In the canyon we all looked up and laughed.  The rock face shone in the sunlight.  It’s a beautiful thing, and you’re either blind or dead if you don’t appreciate the natural wonder of the place.  I’m neither, and it gives me tingles every time.

As we ran out of the canyon, Allison #2 and I fell into pace and started chatting.  I told her about the Slickrock 50k race next weekend, and how circumstances have changed so that I’m going out alone.  The man that I’ve been seeing was supposed to go with me; our passionately tumultuous relationship split us apart recently.  I don’t know anyone who’s going to be racing in Moab next week, and there’s no one for me to stay with.  I’m 100% on my own.

A few days ago, I thought for about two seconds about not going.  But that idea made me want to cry even more.  I’ve missed out on too many adventures and too many races this summer to let this one go.  I signed up for it because I wanted to push myself farther than I’ve ever gone.  Well, it looks like it will be three days of being completely on my own, with no one to catch me after 30 miles of running.  I don’t want to ask anyone else to go with me; I’m tired of asking for what I need.  Asking makes it feel like it’s someone’s obligation to give me something, which is exactly opposite of receiving the gift of someone’s excitement and enthusiasm of support.

As I explained all this to Allison #2, she listened quietly and nodded.  Then she said the same thing that I’ve heard from several people this week.  “You’re a strong woman, stronger than you think.  You’ll be just fine.”

I wish I saw the same woman she saw.  Until I do, I guess I’ll keep running, keep pushing my own boundaries, and learn to run alone.

      Cold air hit my lungs as soon as we started puffing up Chautauqua.  The goal was to run and out and back on the Mesa Trail from Chautauqua up to the old radio tower site.  This was a moderately short distance run at a mere 5.85 miles, but because of the sheer amount of hills, talking and picture-taking, it took us over an hour.

            My lungs burned from the second I tried to inhale deeply.  My head was cold even though I wore my Smart Wool hat and I couldn’t feel my fingers inside my Smart Wool glove liners.  My heart rate soared to 80% capacity within a minute.  I couldn’t talk, couldn’t feel the fingers on my right hand, and concentrated on my breathing.

            My lungs hurt and it was painful to try to gasp more air into my burning sacs.  I ran close to Susan, Shari, Juli, Sarah and Beth.  For the first sixteen minutes of the run, it was enough to be close to my friends and enjoy their company.

            I carried my camera with me.  The fall colors are in bloom and I’m making a concerted effort to take as many pictures as I can.  Because of my random clicking, I fell behind the group from time to time.

            During one of these moments I stopped in a vantage point and pointed my camera downwards.  This location has a lot of stairs built into the hill and is a veritable hair-pin turn fiesta.  With the gold and red leaves of the trees and bushes, I waited for the ladies to emerge from a hairpin turn so I could get the five of them together.  The valley echoed with their laughter and chatter.  It was a wall of happy noise that bubbled up from the brush.  No bear or wild animal in its right mind would be anywhere near the group.  I clicked my picture of their staggered white hats bobbing along, and ran downhill as fast as I could to catch up.  I wanted to be a part of the laughter and the camaraderie more than anything.

            And suddenly, their voices were gone.  I was almost at the bridge that crosses over a seasonal creek when the sound of their voices disappeared completely, as though the TV had been abruptly muted.

            My brief respite from the hills was over; the climb began again to the back side of NCAR.  I didn’t catch the group until we descended to the service road that leads to the radio tower.  By this time the chatter had ceased.  Everyone had their head down and was working on the mile-plus climb to the tower.  We usually break apart a little at this point; sometimes a few seconds’ walk is necessary to relieve the tension of the legs.  I clicked a few more pictures of scenery and when I heard Kathy’s chattering voice drifting over the wayside, I stopped to capture her ascent as well.

            When I reached the top Sarah climbed the rocks to the vantage point that overlooks the entire Boulder valley, and exclaimed at the sight.  We all climbed up and I did a group portrait in the early morning light.

            On the way back down I zipped past the ladies with my turbo-charged legs.  Juli turned around and said, “Who’s that barreling down on me?”

            “Sorry, I’ve only got one down-hill speed,” I said as I rolled around her.  At that angle, it’s super-hard to slow down.  Much easier to just let the legs turn over and control the trajectory.

            Pausing to take pictures at the next uphill climb, we played a little leapfrog again and I resumed my position at the back of the pile.  Susan, right behind me, was nursing a sore hamstring.  I matched her pace and we chatted for the first time since our car-ride to the trailhead.  She said something at one point that stood out and managed to pivot itself into the central point of today’s run.

            “My husband doesn’t know how we can talk during these runs.  He’s hung up on the physiology talking while running.”

            “We’re not running 6 minute miles during these runs,” I pointed out.  “We’re going at a decent clip but it’s still slow enough to carry on a conversation.”

            “Yeah, I try to tell him that.  He still doesn’t get it.  I mean, he knows that it’s important to me to be out here on Saturday mornings or to get out and run by myself during the week, but he doesn’t understand the talking part.”

            “It’s ‘connection’, pure and simple.  Sometimes these conversations are the most sustained conversations we have all week with ANYONE.  It’s soul food.  Why run any faster if you can’t chat with your friends?”

            “I try to tell him that.  He understands, but he doesn’t really understand.  That’s okay, as long as I can get out here!”

            The run was hard and my lungs burned for the first twenty minutes.  By the end I was breathing fine, could feel all my appendages, and the temperature had risen twelve degrees.  It was downright balmy, as illustrated by the high school cross-country team arriving in their shorts and t-shirts.  Now, it was time for resting at the coffee shop with a hot beverage and more talk and laughter.  I can not think of a better way to begin my weekend.

Then it occurred to me that I am in the midst of a road-block. My time management has gone down the toilet and I need to re-evaluate how I’m spending my time.

I’m consulting with a local high school on backstage theatre work, specifically Stage Management, in conjunction with their fall musical. In a former aspect of my life I was a professional stage hand. This week I was in the classroom twice and spoke with a small group of students interested in Stage Management. The first day I spoke briefly about calling the show (the actual act of calling technical cues during the performance). The rest of the time I discussed the act of management; time management, relationship management, and how to learn from interactions that don’t always go swimmingly.

My husband, Bill, has been hired by the same high school to be in charge of building a massive set. He’s in a state of overwhelm right now, wondering how it’s all going to get built in the six and a half hours he has allotted a crew to build every week, as well as wondering how he’s going to keep up with the fitness program his physical therapist designed for him, attend to his business as a computer consultant, be available to his kids and hang out with me every so often as well.

I’m noticing in my own life that writing has taken a back seat to all the other equally important things that I have going on in my life. Yesterday I met with a dear friend. We’re working on a memoir together and have been trying to do some writing on our own between the times that we see each other. He was frustrated with his lack of time to simply sit, reflect, and write. His life is full of family commitments, his job, and being available to other cancer patients that are at the beginning of their own treatments. Instead of reviewing what we had written in the past two weeks, we simply sat and wrote, side by side.

Where am I going with all this busy-ness? Well, it occurs to me that just this week I was talking to kids about management. I asked them to think about the road blocks that keep coming up in their lives and issues that keep rearing their ugly heads. Instead of getting frustrated by these things, I told them, take a step back and evaluate where you are and what YOU could do differently, instead of wishing things were different or that you had more time/money/different people to deal with. We all have the hand we’re dealt, and it’s up to us to either accept the situation at hand, or, if we truly don’t like it, we can suggest possibilities for a new course. The choice is ours.

In giving this advice to eager high school students, I realize that I need to heed it myself. I write this blog about my weekly Saturday morning runs to force myself to slow down with daily life and reflect on where I was, what I saw, how I felt, and what life was like AT THAT MOMENT. I choose to write about this particular moment in time because it is a constant in my life that has its own unique changes as time gently rolls by. If I can’t find the time in my life to reflect and write while the memories are fresh, then it seems to me that I need to do a little adjusting of my own to make room for that piece of living that feeds my soul.

Therefore, I am declaring Sunday morning to be my time to sit at the computer, in my pajamas, with a cup of tea. Because I don’t usually sleep in too much, I think taking three hours, from 6-9 AM, as my own is not only reasonable but easily accomplished.

Bill talked to his P.T. yesterday about his frustration in not being able to find the time to do his workouts. They talked about his schedule and decided there was time on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons from 3-4 PM for him to get to the gym, as well as on Sunday mornings. He can do his early morning runs on Monday, Wednesday and either Friday or Saturday, as time allows. He left his appointment feeling positive about taking care of his health and attending to his own personal needs, without sacrificing the time and energy he needs to devote to his jobs. Again, this was just a simple shift in perspective and time management.

That raises the question: what other things in our lives can be easily managed with a simple shift in perspective or time management? I’m not saying we need to work HARDER at anything; not at all. I’m absolutely advocating that we can all work a little SMARTER by taking a few moments to evaluate our situation and make some adjustments.

I didn’t get many pictures during my Saturday Morning run at the Boulder Reservoir.  The clouds were oppressive and didn’t give any good light to the landscape, so things looked pretty dreary during the hour and a half we were out.

On Sunday we went for a family hike behind NCAR and headed up to Mallory Cave.  The light was perfectly autumnal so I took a couple dozen pictures of the scenery and family.

I’m not up to my regular running speed yet, nor do I have my usual endurance.  The swine flu from a few weeks ago sapped my energy and I’m still in recovery mode.  I’m taking this opportunity to really slow down and see what’s around me, and appreciate the little things in life.  Here is a sampling of what caught my attention.

Mailbox Man!

 That’s the email I sent to the group this past week.  Kathy wanted to do a 10-miler from Marshall Mesa that would loop through Dowdy Draw.  I knew I didn’t have 10 miles in me, and was hoping to last an hour.

As we gathered on Saturday morning in the beautifully re-structured Marshall Mesa trailhead parking lot near the stinky Porto lets, I decided to do an out-and-back of the Marshall Mesa trail.  I’d head out for 30 minutes and then turn around and come back.

Heidi and Shari arrived on foot after having already run an hour.  This was to be Heidi’s last “long run” before the Kona Ironman Triathlon on October 10^th in Kona, Hawaii.  She was running three hours today, so was doing a “before, during and after” run.  Shari ran the “before and during” with her, and I think Susan’s plan was to extend the 10-miler and join her in rounding out the “after”.  God bless them, I thought.  Wish I could do that but it’s not in the cards for me right now.

I meant to bring my camera on the run and forgot it in my purse in the car.  Damn.  Oh well.  The shot I really wanted was the one I should have pulled over for on my way to the trailhead.  Traveling west on Marshall Road I saw the almost-full moon floating over the mountains.  As I got closer to the mountains the moon disappeared behind the foothills, totally hidden from view.

I loaded my camel-back water bag full of tissues, folded into individual squares so it would be easy to grab one while running.  My nose was still dripping and loads of goo would come charging down my nasal passages with each long honk, plugging my ears with pressure.  Good times.

I ran two miles a few days ago, just to see if I could still do it.  This flu knocked me on my ass.  It’s a powerful bug, and when it has you in its clutches you feel like you’ll never have energy to do anything ever again.  The aches and pains and chills and fever all suck, don’t get me wrong; but it’s the apathy and sheer fatigue that really got me down.  So there I was, trying to run 6 or 7 miles on a Saturday morning with my girlfriends, to prove that I’m still alive and can still put one foot in front of the other, albeit very slowly.

Autumn hasn’t put its death grip of color on the Front Range yet.  The air felt good going into my lungs as I eased my way up the long, winding hill that is Marshall Mesa.  It’s basically one long climb that goes on for about 24 minutes, give or take a few depending on your speed and energy level.  That’s what it took for me at my snail’s pace of 10 minutes per mile.  The ladies easily powered up the hill and I could hear them talking and laughing as they went.  At one point I gasped, “Wait for me,” to Kathy, but she didn’t hear my pitiful voice as she effortlessly ascended a rock staircase.

A new friend, Vanessa, joined the run and we turned back together after 30 minutes.  Her knee was clicking and she didn’t want to over-stress it by going out too far.  The downhill was hard for her and we ended up walking a bit when the ache got too uncomfortable.  She’s training for the Aspen Goldenleaf Half-Marathon at the end of September too, and we both ruefully acknowledged that we’re going to have to kick it into high gear to be ready for that in three weeks.  Yikes.

I told her about the Sombrero 4.5 mile trail race next weekend that I’m registered for.  I’ve been wondering how I’m going to get my kick back in the next seven days, when I haven’t been seriously running for a few weeks now and haven’t done trails in about three weeks.  I don’t have the energy or endurance to push myself hard up a series of hills for 45 minutes.  And, is it worth it to go all out for a race when I’m just coming off an illness?  What’s the price of sticking to a plan for the sake of running a race, when life has thrown me a curve?  Do I go with the flow of life or keep my fists tight around the “supposed to’s” of what I wanted to accomplish many months ago?

Vanessa and I talked about these things as we traversed the hillside and gave wide berth to a cow standing on the trail.  We talked about running and how there have been phases in our lives that didn’t include running but instead were full of things like kids, playgrounds, yoga and hiking.  By the time we waved goodbye as I pulled out of the parking lot I had the feeling that this run wasn’t so much about running, but about finding the flexibility to embrace the changes that come rolling into our lives each and every day.  It’s great to have a plan of action, don’t get me wrong.  But when life’s little boxing gloves come knockin’ you down, you have to be able to get up and see if you’re still on the same path and if the same plans would still be the best ones to work with.  Flexibility, flexibility, and the utter strength to stand still and take stock of your life…  These are the lessons that I came away with on that beautiful September morning.

I wake up in the morning more exhausted than when I went to bed.  A sound sleep is a distant memory and energy is something I can only imagine.  All the “joie de vive” has left me for another woman and I’m a crumpled shell of my former self, just waiting for the moment when I can shut my eyes and lose consciousness.  Tired….tired….so tired.

What’s a girl to do when she get’s this way?  Call a friend?  Go to the YMCA for a quick yoga class?  Indulge in a hot bath?  I don’t know what other girls do when they’re worn down but I don’t do any of the above.  My recipe for tiredness: shut the door, pull the shades and crawl into bed.  Repeat for as many days as it takes until finally, the energy returns. 

A few nights ago I announced to my husband I was going to bed.  It was eight o’clock.  He said “What can I do for you?”  I told him in a voice too tired to whine, “You can tuck me in, sing me a lullaby and let me go to sleep.” 

He cleared off the bed while I brushed my teeth and changed into jammies.  As soon as I crawled between the sheets he turned off the light, sat next to me and took my hand in his.  With his other hand he brushed the hair from my forehead and gently started crooning our old standby; “A Better Place to Be” by Harry Chapin.  When we first started dating we would lay in bed singing gently to each other.  That night, as he sang the entire eight minute song, I was transported to a time when love was new and I didn’t know what it was to be bone-weary.  He finished the song, kissed me good-night and let me drift away to my happy place.

It’s Saturday.  I didn’t meet the ladies to go running.  I slept ten hours and didn’t get up until eight this morning.  I’m re-learning how to sleep in.  I haven’t set the alarm clock all week and I’m not doing anything but resting.

Running is a lot of fun.  So is gardening in the summer, riding bikes, playing at the park, having friends over for barbeques, going to the pool and wandering the mountains on impromptu hikes.  All these things require energy that only comes from being rested.  I did a bang-up job of using up every last reserve of energy I possess and now I’m paying the price.  I don’t even want a vacation; that would take too much thought and preparation.  I just want to putz around my house, nibble a little when I get hungry, and sleep. 

Here’s to tired people everywhere.  Cheers.

Shari and I kicked in the after-burners for a final bit of speed work and cruised into the parking lot.  Elizabeth and Kathy had arrived back at the cars a few minutes prior and joined Beth in stretching.  Our other Beth, “Beth of the Infinite Legs”, couldn’t stay for coffee and had just left with her neighbor.

As we stood around the parking lot exuding our stink on to each other, Sarah voiced thoughts that have percolated in my brain many times over the seasons.  She summed it up so well.  “It is so amazing to be a part of this group, where there are so many levels of ability and no one gets left behind.  Any one of us could lead the pack.”

Shari finished the sentiment – “It just depends on the day, that’s all.  What’s really amazing is there’s no ego.”

There were murmurs of agreement.  So many different ability levels, people who have raced for years, new runners, post-baby runners, new racers… we have a good mix.

I thought about this little exchange all weekend; in fact, it came to define the run for me.  The women in the group ARE strong.  It’s an absolute privilege to run with them.  Sarah has been with the group a few times, as her weekends are full and she’s not always around.  Shari travels so much that it’s always a treat to run with her when she’s in town.  Siga started running with us a few months ago after a several year hiatus.  Juli has ten years worth of racing under her belt, including Ironman.  Kathy is the glue that binds us together, suggesting runs even when she’s going to be out of town.  Elizabeth is stronger than she knows and has an uncanny knack for bringing humor and a fresh perspective every week.  Jacqueline keeps us on our toes, calling back to her to “watch out for the rock” or “pick up your feet, Jacq!”  She sports more band-aids than any adult I know.  Susan is a veritable workhorse, and can power up a hill like nobody’s business.  Heidi hasn’t been with us for a few weeks because she’s training for her next half-Ironman.  Her husband introduced himself to the group at a coffee shop one morning, and asked if she could come along.  She was new to the area and didn’t know any runners yet.

And yet, with all that strength and absolute stamina, there is no ego.  We don’t race each other on Saturdays and there’s no “pecking order”.  I’ve run and talked with everyone over the months, and run every position in the group.  Sometimes people are intimidated to run with us; I know I was when I first started.  But here’s the thing; no one gets left behind and it’s because no one is here to prove themselves.  We’re all out there running because we want to be together and there’s coffee afterward, which means more time for talking.

I look forward to these runs all week long.  If I don’t run on Saturday my entire weekend feels wonky.  The exercise is great, but there’s more; Saturday mornings are about absolute acceptance and non-judgment.  I can show up to a run and be mostly silent, stewing in my own thoughts.  I can be hyper and strong, or slow and steady.  I could be recovering from an injury or illness (like last week) and hear someone say “Hey, I’m so glad you’re back, are you feeling better?  I really missed you!”  I could have the world’s worst stink to me and still have a running partner.  Each of us carries emotional pieces of the other, snippets that have been shared over the miles and weeks and seasons we’ve been together.  Saturday morning is bonding, perspiration, a total lack of masking.

I love each and every woman that I run with.  I could write an entry about all of them, about the amazing character, strength, and utter beauty each of them carries.  I absolutely draw strength from the group, from the energy that the women weave when they’re together.  I am honored to be a part of this group that meets at 7 AM on a different trail each week, and I am thrilled to know that other women in the group are just as awed by the magic we create when we’re together.  So, to all you amazing women I run with; thank you.

Time was of the essence for both of us; we went a total of two miles before turning back. At 8:00 we piled back into our cars. She had to get home to her little boy so her husband could get to work, and I had to find out if my darling Sophie Sunshine was going to school. Sophie stayed home from school on Wednesday and Thursday due to an incessant cough, and Bill and I were unsure how she would be feeling. If she wasn’t better and stayed home, then I had to hurry so Bill could drive the carpool to school.

As it was, Sophie ended up going to school and I realized with glee that I had TWO WHOLE HOURS before I had to be anywhere! It was 8:00 in the morning; I was at a trail and already warmed up from a jog around the flats. What should I do?

Being me, I couldn’t resist the call of the mountain. I took a few swigs of water from my bottle, locked the car, and headed out again.

The dawn light had cleared to pure daylight. The air was crisp, a brisk 35 degrees that held a promise of warmth. The weather forecasters called for a balmy day in the upper 50’s, though those temperatures were still a few hours’ away.

I decided to re-trace my steps and run Upper Bluestem to the Mesa Trail, and then figure out where to go from there. The ground was still frozen with the snow and ice that had melted into the trail, making it crunchy but not too slick.

Running alone made the time feel more elastic. Sixty seconds can stretch on for minutes at a time when my heart rate is elevated; on the other hand, sometimes full sections of the hour pass seamlessly in the time it takes to wipe the sweat from my face. I had forgotten my iPod in the car; the music would have helped to keep track of time, but I’ve never run on these trails with music so it didn’t even occur to me to bring the device.

I panted to the top of Upper Bluestem and paused for a breather.
I decided that I would run the Mesa Trail to North Fork, do the descent and then ascend up South Fork to the Mesa Trail again. We’ve done this run many times and our group considers it to be our hardest hill work-out. The loop usually takes about 20-25 minutes, I think… it’s hard to say, I’ve never timed it. That’s what it feels like it should take though, so supposing I do the loop then I will have completed the run in just over an hour. It’s a beautiful day, the air is warming up, the sky is a brilliant Colorado blue, and I’m not pressed for time.

All goes according to plan as I start heading down North Fork. I’m totally zoned out by my enjoyment of my body’s easy movement. It takes a good long time before it gradually occurs to me that I’ve been running this trail for a really long time. After several miles I came upon a row of houses at the base of the mountain. Oops. Looks like I missed the right turn onto the south trail that would take me back up South Fork. I stop to examine the map that is helpfully placed at the convergence of the trailhead. Yup, I’m at the base of North Fork. Looks like I was supposed to turn onto South Fork about a mile ago.

Deciding not to backtrack and scrapping my plan to do South Fork, I figure out that in order to get back to the trailhead I need to keep going south where the trail will cut through the meadow to and drop me at the trailhead. This looks to be about two miles away, though I’m not sure I’m reading the map right. Maybe it’s three miles. I’m starting to get tired now, the tired that happens when you know you’ve pushed yourself and it’s time to get a drink of water and move on with your day.

It must be about 8:45 by now. I don’t have my GPS to mark the time or distance, so I’m guessing based on where I am and the heat in the air. It’s getting warmer and the back of my SmartWool hat is soaked with sweat. The sun is hot on my face and I’m wishing for my sunglasses.

I find the South Fork Trail and run smoothly. After a minute I see a tiny trail veer off to the south. Could this be the one I’m supposed to take to get back to the Mesa Trail parking lot? It looks too small to be the right one, so I continue up.

After about ten minutes I come to a green water tank. What is THIS?? I’ve never seen this tank before. I’m definitely in uncharted territory. There’s a sign post that points to the left, telling me the South Fork Trail is going to keep going up. Ugh. I think I was supposed to take that little trail to the left. Should I keep going, or turn back? If I keep going then I’m committed to South Fork, which I know is a killer. If I turn back then I might hit the unknown trail and go who-knows-where, maybe even down to Trailer Park instead of the Mesa Trailhead.

It can’t be too much farther to the top. Up I go. The trail is getting harder here because it’s STILL a sustained uphill AND it’s snowy with ice patches. My heart has been pounding at a constant rate of “really hard” for over fifteen minutes. My legs aren’t chugging along very fast anymore. I’m not even watching the scenery. It’s all I can do to make it up this hill.

Twenty minutes later I finally get to the top of this hill. From here, I have to climb the jeep road to get back onto the Mesa Trail, where I will then backtrack to Upper Bluestem, go down Bluestem to the base of the Mesa Trail, and back to the parking lot. I think I’m about thirty or forty minutes from the car. The good news is that the uphill is almost over.

By the time I get back to my car it’s 9:40 and 53 degrees. My hat is soaked, my sports bra feels like I jumped into a swimming pool with my clothes on, and my legs are a little tired. I drain my water bottle, blow my nose, and grin. It was a lot of fun.

I checked my email later that morning and laughed when I saw the suggestion for Saturday’s run. “How about we meet at NCAR, and run North Fork and South Fork?” Yeah, how about that? Since I JUST did it a few hours ago? Actually, it would be good for me. Maybe the gang can point out where I should have turned from North Fork to cut over to the South Fork trail without going all the way to the bottom of Shanahan Ridge.

Day Two: By Saturday morning I was ready to run again. The weather was supposed to be nice again, mid 50’s or so with mostly clear skies. Susan picked me up at 6:45 and on the ride to Boulder I tell her about my trail adventure yesterday. She laughs at my mistake of going too far on North Fork and extending my run by a full forty minutes. I’m laughing too; it’s a pretty funny thing to do, given that I know these trails so well.

It’s a smaller group than usual, only eight of us. Shari and Susan take off first, followed by me and Beth, then Juli, Missy, Celia, and Savannah. Kathy is in D.C. this week for Obama’s inauguration and is missing two trail runs. Bernadette has an audition at 9:00 in Denver, and several others are gone because of skiing and kids’ games.

We head down the trail from NCAR and immediately start picking our way up the first hill to the water tower. We all make it without falling… it’s the return trip that will be dicey. My new trail shoes allow me some grip and I feel good about the traction, but there’s no telling how the downhill will present when we come back in an hour.

The run is uneventful as we head south on the Mesa Trail toward North Fork. Yesterday I started south of North Fork and worked my way northwest. Today I’m starting from the northwest and heading southeast. I know these trails from years of running and hiking on them. At almost any given point I know where I am.

The four of us (Shari, Susan, Beth. and me) reach North Fork and start down. The others know where they’re going too, so we don’t wait to regroup. We’re busy talking and laughing, while keeping close tabs on the trail directly in front of us. Even with the warm weather yesterday there’s still plenty of snow and ice from yesterday’s melt, forcing us to pick our trajectories with care.

And suddenly, we’re at the bottom of North Fork running toward the large map at the base of Shanahan Ridge. Oops.

“This doesn’t seem right, I think we went too far,” Susan comments.

“This is exactly where I ended up yesterday!” I burst out with a laugh. I can’t believe that this happened two days in a row. This run has snuck up on me, playing a joke like an old friend that knows my every move. Britney Spear’s song “Oops, I did it again” starts playing in the background of my mind. I feel like I just donned a blond wig and lost forty I.Q. points.

“We must have missed the turn-off onto South Fork.” Shari is stating the obvious here.

“Hunh. Well, at least we know where we are,” Susan declares.

I’m laughing hard by now. The irony of the situation is too much for me and it’s pushed me over the edge.

“That’s exactly what I said too! ‘I know where I AM, it’s just not where I meant to BE’.” This run has taken on a surreal quality, where my friends are experiencing the same random turn of events that happened to me just yesterday.

Instead of trying to go in southerly direction like yesterday, today we’re headed back to NCAR. This means that we are literally only half-way through our run. There’s no short-cut here to cut across. We have to go back up, so we cheerfully start up South Fork. It’s a long climb and I know only too well now how hard it gets. Reaching the water tower, Shari and Susan start running around the side. I call them back and point out the small trail with the sign telling us to go up. “See?” Shari says to me. “It’s lucky you did this yesterday, otherwise we’d all be bushwhacking up the hill in search of a trail!”

Yes, isn’t it lucky?

“I did a good ten mile run yesterday with Juli,” Shari tells us. The parallels between us are too much for me and I giggle. “My butt is going to be TIGHT after this one!”

On we go. This is a brutal trail, a never-ending hill that puts the old “Buttkicker Hill” to shame. How long is it? I can’t even look at my GPS, I’m working too hard. No talking now, just putting one foot in front of the next.

“Maybe we’ll meet up with the others at the Mesa Trail,” Susan says hopefully. I doubt it. The others would have to be extremely slow to do half the distance we just did and still meet us at the same point.

Finally we crest the jeep road and merge onto the Mesa Trail. We’re several miles south of NCAR, and the trail up here doesn’t see much sunshine. There’s still a good four or six inches of snowpack that has gone through several phases of thaws and freezes, so our pace slows. On one section of stair-steps we’re at an almost literal stand-still, gingerly picking our way down the sides of the trail. Two runner men come upon us and easily pass us, their shoes gripping the icy steps as my foot slips and I flair my arms in a desperate attempt at balance. I have the distinct feeling of suddenly being out of my element.

“Why can they go so fast??” Beth asks in awe.

“They’ve got at least forty pounds on us,” I point out. “They don’t slip and slide as easy as we do.”  Shari and Susan manage to get ahead of me and Beth as we carefully make it through the ice fields, chatting easily about life, careers, and finances. At one point my right foot slips forward, my knee locks, and I’m looking a hard fall right in the face. I let out a yell to scare it away; it works, because my muscles engage and even though I’m more than half-way into my interpretation of an Ice Capades skater my left foot has remained rooted and I pull up. Miraculously, I haven’t pulled a muscle, I didn’t fall, and I’m unscathed.

“Are you okay?” The call comes up from the ravine down below… Shari and Susan heard me yell.

“I’m fine,” I call back. This is no place to be out running alone. If I should fall and clonk my head or bust an arm, I desperately want a friend who can help pull me out of the forest.

Beth’s eyes are big. She saw me slip and is amazed I didn’t go down. Me too, actually.

We’re on the backside of NCAR now, and I point the trail out to Beth. All we have to do now is take a hard right, run up the hill to the water tower, down the scary stair steps, then up the windy trail to NCAR and the parking lot. We’ll be there in ten minutes.

As we’re picking our way down the icy trail from the water tower I look up suddenly. The road leading up to NCAR is directly below me, as are Susan and Shari. “Oops, we missed the turn!” I can’t believe it. Twice on the same run, missing turns that are so familiar, so easy. I’m so stumped I can only laugh. This run has turned into a comedy of errors.

“Don’t worry, just come down, it’s not too far from here,” Shari calls. She’s waving to us to join them on the street.

Beth’s game for the road, so we finish our descent and top off the hour-forty adventure with a little road running. Nothing like missing your turns TWICE, on trails you know like the back of your hand.

Back in the parking lot Missy is waiting with Shari and Susan. The others left a long time ago, either heading to the coffee shop or home. Susan checks her watch; it’s 8:45 and she has to get home. We skip the coffee shop and enjoy the ride back to Louisville, laughing about our adventure on familiar trails.

I can’t believe I ran the trails twice in two days, and made the same mistake both days. I used to think that anyone that made the same mistake twice is not paying attention, or just dumb. Guess I should examine myself a little here, because my I.Q. has been tested as above average and I’m a multi-tasking mother who’s sole job it is to ALWAYS pay attention. I better go back and listen to the lyrics of Britney’s song; maybe the diva who forgets to wear underpants in public has some actual insights into human behavior.