Then, suddenly, I looked up...

Photo Credit: Marie Rote*

The attainment of any big goal or proud accomplishment requires a laser-sharp focus of time, attention, and energy. Those of us with athletic pursuits know this, and we are very good at eliminating distractions so we can stay our charted courses.

But life is full of distractions, and sometimes the difference between a laser-sharp focus and a moment of lapsed attention is a glorious sunset on a Winter's Solstice evening. Remember that as you plow through your life.

The goals are just stopping off points; the real journey is the places in between.


*Who very wisely rode outside in pursuit of a 6000 mile goal for 2016. And then very wisely stopped to take this photo.

Canyon Life, Metaphorically Speaking

It starts off with a mix of excitement and apprehension. You approach it with wide-eyed wonder and an open heart, ready to accept whatever it brings.

Those first tentative steps into an unknown future become more steady as you find your own rhythm.

Sometimes the road ahead seems too hard, the uphill struggles insurmountable. But you get through it, one step at a time. Maybe taking a break to regroup before pushing forward, sometimes just motoring through.

Sometimes you can't see the way ahead of you, but you simply trust yourself and the trail that you're on. And at every step along the way, there is beauty to behold. If you remember to stop and look,  you'll see that the world changes with every footfall.

You realize that you're not the first person to ever travel this road, and you won't be the last. So you honor those who were here before you, and those who will follow. There is reverence in this journey.

Sometimes you walk with friends, and sometimes you find yourself walking with strangers. At times, you're all by yourself. Sometimes, you travel the same road with the same people, and those are the ones you know are with you for the entire journey.

You get to the end of the trail and you look back over where you've been, and what you had to do to get here. And it's beautiful.

Isn't that exactly the way life should be?

The Tip-Off, on the South Kaibab Trail. This is where the plateau drops into the Inner Gorge.

This was the third time Dave M hiked this trail with me. He lives in the UK.

And Jackie? This is the 6th time we've hiked to Phantom Ranch together. We will have many more adventures together in the future. 

The view of the Colorado River, from the Black Bridge

Nearing the South Rim, on the Bright Angel Trail

I like to hang over the edge of cliffs.

Surreal sunset

Dave, Brian, Jackie, and me at Skeleton Point

To see more photos from this trip, click here.

Riding into Winter

The day starts off grey. Smoky clouds blot out any hope of sunlight. I take a half-hearted glance at the outside temp, but I know that this is as warm as it’s going to get.

I down my coffee before it gets cold, and begin the art of layering up. Long sleeve base layer, then short sleeve jersey. Gore jacket on top for a wind barrier. Fleece tights. Shoe covers. Heat packs in my shoes. Heat packs in my gloves. Lobster-claw mittens on top. Buff. Wool beanie under my helmet.

If I don’t get out of the house soon I’m going to melt.

 I prepare a couple of bottles of electrolyte, absently put ice in them. Start over.

I haul my loaded bike out the front door. A cold wind shakes the leafless trees, and bites into the exposed parts of my face. Those clouds promise snow, or worse, but not for a while. The street is quiet, and it feels like the rest of the world has gone into hibernation. For a split second, I reconsider my options, maybe I should ride indoors. But the wiser part of my brain quashes that thought before it can take root.

I know that when I’m done, I’ll come back to a warm house and a hot shower. There will be a pot of chili and a cold beer, and, later this evening, a gin cocktail in front of a roaring fire. And it will all be that much sweeter because I rode outside today, when the wind was biting cold and the sky was winter-blanket grey.

Just the thought of it warms me up. I clip in and set off.

Fall Fever

Photo credit Cleveland Velodrome (Gary Burkholder?)

It's like Spring Fever, but on the opposite end of the cosmic calendar.

These days won't last. In spite of the uncharacteristically warm autumn we've been having around here, winter is coming.

But not today. Today, the sun is shining sideways and the sky is brilliantly blue. This calls for an emergency 'offsite' meeting all afternoon at the Cleveland Velodrome.

Lost in the Woods, Again

I went mountain biking this morning. I was supposed to be at work, but the sun was shining and the day was looking drop-dead beautiful, and if I wait too much longer the falling leaves will soon cover the trail and I won't be able to avoid all those rocks and roots.

This is only the second time I've ridden on the Bedford singletrack. I know I'm late to this party, since the trail has been opened for more than 2 years and it's literally around the corner from my house. The first time I rode it was with Angie, who is a good mountain biker and also very patient of her chicken-hearted friends who aren't very good mountain bikers. She coached me through one loop of the easy trail, and told me that, as a newbie (read: totally incompetent mountain biker) I shouldn't ride it alone.

I couldn't help myself. I like to ride solo for a lot of reasons: I can ride at my own (slow) pace, repeat sections that I find challenging, hop off and walk when I lose confidence, lose confidence without embarrassing myself in front of anyone. It was nice to have the trail to myself this morning. I can't imagine riding through this peaceful woodland with anyone charging up behind me and breathing down my neck, like in a race. That would totally ruin the zen for me. Truly, I can run this trail faster than I can ride it (my GPS proves this), but why would I want to ride it any faster?

The Bedford Singletrack is often talked down upon by more experienced MTB'ers as being too easy. I'm happy for that. I don't need to 'shred' a 'gnarly' trail. I really just want to be able to ride my bike in the woods.

I got lost only once, repeating a loop within the main loop. I passed the same picnic table twice before I realized the deja vu. That's one of the downsides: I can't really enjoy the view, I have to keep my eyes on the trail in front of me (which is not any different than trail running, by the way). But I found that I was getting better at it the longer I was out there. Blood flowed back into my previously white knuckles, and I began to ease off a little on the brakes (the constant screeching of my brakes when I first started was scaring off the wildlife). I was beginning to truly enjoy myself, and aside from the gnawing guilt that I should probably get back to work, I would have ridden  it all again.

I hope to get out there again before too long, and when I do, I plan to get just a little more lost than I did today.

The Blue Line

There's a painted blue line that meanders through Akron. Every time I see it, it makes my heart race. This permanent decoration marks the course for the Akron Marathon, with a diversion for us half marathoners.

It's exciting, chasing that line around the city with almost 15,000 other runners. It feels like a high-speed party. Spectators line the streets with signs, cowbells, and encouragement. Live bands dot the course. The pace car lists everyone's name on it, like we're something special. It seems like all my friends are here.

And let's not forget the after-parties. There's  the official one, in the infield of Canal Park stadium as you cross the finish line. Another live band, medals, and awful beer. And the unofficial party, now in it's 4th year: a gathering of friends at a local bar (whichever one has the foresight to open by 10 AM), along the final mile of the course so we can drink the good stuff while we cheer in the longer-distance runners.

The blue line has led me to this very cool place in my athletic journey, where I've learned to love running (yes, I used to hate it).

Some Akron residents complain that the blue line is pollution, and should be removed between races. I say that the blue line is a sign, a taunt, a promise to challenge all takers, an invitation to try. The blue line tempts you to come along for the adventure, and then stays with you the whole way. It's a steadfast, unwavering running partner. And somewhere along the way, it might lead you to an annual autumn tradition.

Even the donuts are getting into the act!

Swim

It is dark when I arrive. The triathletes are waiting, ready to go. From the stairs down to the beach, the city is a silhouette in the first light of dawn.

The warm and humid air makes the water feel almost cool. The water is black and mysterious in the pale morning.  It has been years, literally, since I stepped into the lake to swim. Longer than that for when I did any 'real' swimming.

Throughout my childhood, summers were spent at the local pool. My brothers and I learned to swim before we could reach the bottom of the shallow end on tiptoes.

Being here feels natural to me, the slowed rhythm of my body through water, the silence underneath.  I feel the gentle current trying to instill its will on my intended direction. It's lovely, the power in the seeming stillness.

My rusty freestyle leaves me gasping for breath before the other girls are even warmed up. I watch their strong, silent motion between one pier and another. I rest, swim some more, rest, swim some more. How quickly my arms tire from the effort, how comforting the shore seems from out on the water. I swim toward sand, feet touching the bottom.

I'm spent from the exertion, but not quite ready to emerge from my watery cocoon. I want to stay here, let the world go about its dry-land business.  I wait as long as I can before reality beckons (stupid, insistent reality). 

Going back to the water feels like reclaiming something I lost years ago, and something I hope to find now that I know where to look.

Some Wars Never End

Kelly and her Dad

This post is from a series of Facebook entries written by my friend and teammate, Kelly Baker. She recently accepted one of those ‘awareness’ challenges, this one to bring attention to the sad statistic that, every day in this country, 22 US war vets commit suicide. Kelly’s challenge was to do 22 pushups daily for 22 days in order to raise awareness for PTSD suffered by war vets, which often ends in suicide.

Every one of us knows someone who fought for our country somewhere, at some time. Regardless of how you felt, or feel,  about the wars themselves, you must remember that these are our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. These people have seen things and done things that the rest of us are lucky enough to have been able to avoid. They fought to keep the rest of us insulated from the real horrors that are an unfortunate part of the human condition. We owe them our respect.

Sometime during Kelly’s daily postings, she decided to write her dad’s story. I’ve included it here because I think it strikes a chord that all of us need to hear so that we don’t allow ourselves to wallow in the complacency that freedom affords.

If you, too, are moved by the experiences of this one man, I recommend doing something to help out. Pushups are great for your upper body, but there are other ways that will help the vets more directly.

Two great organizations to consider if you’d like to help make a difference are DAV (Disabled American Veterans), www.dav.org, and Operation Gratitude (operationgratitude.com), which provides social packages, care packages, letters, etc. to vets and active military. Both are reputable charities.

And now, the story of Sergeant A.J. Bazar, Jr:

Some of you know this, some don't. My dad is a Vietnam veteran with PTSD. Time does not heal all wounds. Some remain for life.

If you have never gone to war you can't imagine what someone who has has seen or done. It changes you, and affects everyone around you that care about you most.

Dad is older than most of the guys in his platoon. Old enough to have a college degree, the job he would later retire from, and be married. But not so old he couldn't be drafted. They called him Professor. One of the first memories he has of Vietnam was being mortared as they arrived. For the record, that's what fireworks sound like.

Dad's platoon was transported from remote location to remote location dangling beneath a helicopter. Felt like sitting ducks the whole time.

They depend on one another for survival. Young men from different backgrounds who are now, in effect, family. Death can come from anywhere. Booby traps, ambushes, and people who look like civilians.

Dad brought a camera with him to Vietnam. My brother and I looked through that album often to see our Dad as a young man. There are pictures of the guys playing football, fishing for whatever they can catch in the rivers, playing guitar, posing on top of a downed helicopter. Some look like photos from a vacation (Vietnam was a pretty country until the war), but the photos of the men with their weapons are a jolt back to reality. Perhaps the most telling is one of a solitary soldier standing with his feet in the surf of the South China Sea looking down as the waves wash away his footprints.

Monsoon season, and the platoon is trapped on a hill for a month. Conditions are poor enough that supply helicopters can't reach them, so once they're out of C-rations they eat bugs and roots that they can find. Every day in Vietnam is One Day at a Time, a mantra that many men will repeat later in life attending AA meetings to deal with the alcoholism they suffer as a result of self medicating.

What happens when you're the guy that makes the decisions? Dad never discusses any fire fight he was in. The only one we know anything about is the one the Army awarded him the Bronze Star for. They summarize the event neatly. Upon identifying enemy soldiers trying to evade across a rice paddy, Dad had to make some quick decisions. The war is just like author Jack London says, "kill or be killed", and that was exactly what happened. The Army sanitizes the language to the number of enemy soldiers "silenced" vs. captured along with important intelligence documents secured. The thing was, those soldiers were like our soldiers. Guys ordered to serve in a war they could give half-a-damn about, who would rather be with their families, and who were just following orders. For someone like my Dad who takes no decision lightly, it weighs on your conscience.

March 23, 1971 while collecting the explosives he had set up to protect the platoon's position overnight, my Dad trips a booby trap. The ground erupts beneath his feet turning his world into fire, noise, and pain. The platoon reacts as trained, and a medevac is called. The Professor is leaving Vietnam.

If you survive a land mine, the injuries are catastrophic. Dad has a fractured right arm, his fractured right wrist must be fused, his fractured right leg set, right ankle and right foot reconstructed, he is peppered with shrapnel that must be dug out of his skin leaving 2 mm deep quarter shaped scars all over his body. His shattered left leg is noted to be cold in the medical records as they close him up. Two days later he will be in the OR having that leg amputated above the knee.

2005. I am at my parent's house when the phone rings. My Dad answers it and spends some time catching up with someone he obviously knows. I figure it's one of his cousins, but he says "No. It was the first guy in my platoon to reach me after I was injured. I haven't talked to him in over 30 years." Over 30 years. This man had heard Dad survived, but it wasn't right for him until he spoke with him himself. He spent over 30 years trying to track Dad down so that he could talk to him. They did not know it that day, but 10 years later they would finally meet again face to face.

Seems that every medic is nicknamed Doc, and this platoon was no exception. After his tours were done, Doc returned to the States and became a financial planner. He was also in touch with most of the guys, and began to plan a big reunion weekend in the Rocky Mountains in 2015. Everyone except those who already passed away or had health problems too severe to travel were going to be there.

July 2015. The platoon gathers at a ski resort in the Rocky Mountains. Most of the guys had not seen each other in over 40 years, and in an instant "a bunch of old guys" (Dad's phrase, not mine) are young again. They talk and laugh, get misty eyed, talk some more, and make up for lost time. My Mom said "they never shut up." Doc had planned multiple activities and meals the whole weekend, gave each guy a book with collection of photos and other things he'd created at his business, and provided the perfect forum for healing. They would plan to do it again in 2016.

This September the guys will meet in San Antonio. A few others that were not permitted in Colorado's high altitude by their physicians will be in attendance, and one passed away after last year's reunion. My Dad is as excited as a kid going to Disney World about seeing his friends again. This is the last day of this challenge where I'll be posting videos, but I'll be quietly continuing on my own. Our servicemen and women need our support every day.