mode

waxing the nostalgia. long nap has me living on west coast time while the sun is deeply down. awake and alert and inert. north carolina spring time and mountain air has me thinking about "back in the day" a good bit. reflection is part of life. you have to know where you have been to know where you are going. mistakes. good decisions. changes that needed to be made in your life to get your shit together. some lessons are harder to learn than others.

other than subcommandante, i have never logged more miles with anyone than my old friend, randy. this was the time of year when hopes and dreams were born anew and the task of finishing off that winter base was at hand. i was looking through an old training log and it seemed like his name was listed in just about every entry. thousands of miles, people. he was great because he was seeking and not afraid to use his body as an experiment of one. i had already been brought lydiard. he taught me to interpret what lydiard was writing and expressing and finding a way to make it work for myself. looking through the numbers at the philosophy of the thing. he was such an internal guy while prepping for external results. he seemed to always discover stuff before anyone else did. he showed me dupont state forest before it was ever a state forest. i read the training entries and can recall the memories of the day like they took place this morning. i remember him showing me stones lakes and all the singletrack in sherwood forest. it got really nostalgic reading about those same trails recently in again to carthage. he shared freely. gave often and helped me to understand what a gift flow is.

things change and people grow apart for various reasons. if you read this, my old friend. thank you.

130

a much needed day in the sun after a week of highs and lows. started the week anew with something of a run in thanks for a federal holiday. presidents day? sure.

high pass road outside of junction city is known as the gateway to western lane county's wine country. to gun shooters, trash dumpers, meth heads and rednecks it's "the slit". to ultrarunners and freeroaders, it's known as the triple bitch.

hard data: 25 miles. lots of climbs and descents, the highlight coming when the course takes you up the 1000 meter hill with 1000 feet of climbing three times. the name of this climb? you guessed it. the bitch. hence the name of the run. other names were thrown out by lord balls, including baby bitch and coma hill. hard to curb your enthusiasm with such terms of endearment, and the concerned look on bili's face, but i managed.

this was the first western states specific prep run of the season. in all, we covered close to 6,000 feet of climb and descent in just under 3 and half hours and it felt about like i expected it would. the sections in the sun were beautiful. coming around a corner to snow in the road was a treat. heard an estimated 50-60 shots from guns. were warned of cougars in the area, saw 3 four wheelers, and were privy to one guy in his datsun 4x4...(yes, datsun) trying to get himself stuck in a mud hole while his two cronies dressed up like fitty cent stood aside and watched...well. i guess it helps to have someone to push you out when the inevitable happens.

happy presidents day. if that was not an example of what democracy and freedom are about, i dont know what is...(cue national anthem)

velo valentina

strange goings on. not a general fan of v day. i believe if you truly love some one, you don't need a special day in the calender to point that out to your significant other. every day should be v day. that said. zooming back from the south hills after another ridgeline night run. lord skinwall was bringing me down the road at quite a clip. frosty night made worse with the speed. the fingers were numb in the robster craws. the night was crisp and so were the legs despite a tougher than usual recovery run and a fantastic threshold workout yesterday. i suddenly found myself in the middle of a velo valentines parade right down the middle of my ride home. lots of pink and red outfits. tandems. horns. bells. boombox bike. i slowed my roll and fell in, shutting off my headmounted lithium ion illumination. grabbed a kazoo from the stoker on a pink tandem with christmas lights hanging off of it and joined the celebration. two blocks and a turn in at the statue of ken. i resumed my journey home before being sucked into thier own little electric kool aid acid test. what are the chances of me being right there at that moment?

that is flow.

pen pal

fools gold...

thanks, matt.

feet v. wheels

the statement lingered like a fart stuck to denim. i paced and changed out a set of cables on a madone while listening to this guy continue to speak. i remember when i was his age. his person. i had his mouth and his confidence. i also made the same mistakes he was about to make. "i'm your huckleberry" i finally told him.

the trail was muddy and wet and what he didn't know was that i ran out here at night probably 60 days out of the year. i knew where the trees were down. i knew where he would lose speed and i would gain it. see. i also ride out here 60 nights a year as well. i know both perspectives and i am just sharp enough to take this to the next level.

pimpbot thinks he can beat any runner on his mountain bike over the entire 12 mile ridgeline trail at night. i don't think he can. this is why we were out there tonight. while not as watched as the super bowl, this one certainly was met with an enthusiastic and passionate crowd. more side betting than a brooklyn dice game. i told the falcon i'd be first to fox hollow, but he would be in front of me at willamette. but i would beat him to dillard and the finish. cell phones and checkpoints were established and quietly we were off.

the mud was thick and within 2 minute i was jumping over his bike as he went down in a rooty turn. he was already nervous and looking back and made his first mistake of many. i knew that the climb would give me space and i took it sooner than i thought. i could hear him closing on the drop into the crossing and fox hollow. the falcons blueish grin as he showed me how he could stick his mag lite into his mouth and turn his cheeks red. i heard pimpbot whoosh into the parking lot as i was starting the climb up towards the butte turn off. the switchback gave me space to count the seconds back he was. i knew i was going to be caught on the downhill, but i wanted to minimize the damage for the last climb. i heard him go down trying to set up another pass and i knew this night was mine. i hit the willamette crossing at the same time as him. he was worked into a lather. muddy. wet and distressed. herky jerky, i see his headlight dancing as he stands up to push the pace and gain time. he knows another big climb and downhill are coming. i catch up on kneejerk with him pushing his bike and the little fucker actually tries to block me when i run by. he makes a statement about leaving tire marks on my back and then his light fades. word up. i top out and lay it all out and then i make a mistake myself and overshoot a turn. okay, it's muddy for me too. fine. the ipod finds its way to 30 seconds to mars and the adrenaline starts to pump. i am flying now, each step putting further and further distance from his loud cusses and further mistakes. soon, i hear the guys yelling and see the headlights and headlamps as i drop into dillard to groans and yells. money and beer changing hands. grins all around we all turn to the shrew who is documenting the time. 2 minutes later pimpbot rolls in and rides ride over to his truck and throws it in the back and drives away. yelling at his girlfriend in the passenger seat as he leaves.

today, the two feet reign. tomorrow is another day.