Miata Update #3

Oh look, another Miata post. 

I suppose this is an accurate reflection of my activities over the last few months as I've been stuck in kind of a post-Hardrock hangover and haven't been running much at all. Fall is drawing close and I need to get this car done before it slips through the cracks. Currently it's still stuck in project car purgatory - not road worthy, yet not crushed and on its way to China to be recycled into cheap patio furniture. This is a very dangerous place for any car to be, especially one that's not considered especially collectible. Like that white Miata I bought.

Do you see this? This is what happens.

So, what follows is really a condensed summary of many days of work and frustration, encompassing four separate paint spraying sessions, many, many hours of wet sanding, quiet contemplation, and occasional outbursts of profanity.  

Here's my makeshift paint booth and masking job. You might notice that the car is already blue - keen observer that you are. So why paint it blue again?  Mostly because I botched the paint badly enough the first time around that I had to redo it (yet again). 

In an effort to keep dust from drifting up off the floor and getting into the paint, I tried laying down some plastic sheeting. This turned out to be a comically bad idea as the lightweight plastic got sticky from paint overspray and clung to my shoes like a giant piece of toilet paper. When I tried to walk, I ended up dragging half the floor with me. Note to self: next time use paper.

As with every time I've tried to use a spray gun, my paint came out with quite a bit of orange peel and a few runs. Pretty much the only way to fix this it to wetsand... a lot. The funny thing about wet sanding is that if you take off too much paint you break through into the gray primer underneath, and the only way to fix it is to repaint that part of the car. Then you get to wet sand it again!

So now I'm left with a reasonably smooth but dull finish. Time to break out the power buffer!

That's a little better.

Amidst all that, I managed to re-assemble most of the body panels - doors, bumpers, fenders, hood, and trunk lid - which is more time consuming than it sounds. It takes special attention and adjustment to get everything lined up correctly, to get the doors to close and latch smoothly, and to make all the body panel gaps even.

Finally, some visible  progress. Sleep tight, little car.

With the hard part out of the way, now I can move on to the mechanicals and putting everything back together. Spinning wrenches suits me much better.

Tecumseh Thursday

Mighty Mount Tecumseh; the lowest and perhaps easiest of New Hampshire's 48 four thousand footers. This mountain was one of my first forays into peakbagging way back in the fall of 2003. Back then I was slower, heavier, and burdened with a backpack crammed with stuff. I didn't know what I really needed, so I just kept packing things in until the bag was full. Two liters of water, a ski parka, a half dozen flannel shirts, and a comically large digital camera. I sweat and panted and probably took four hours to do the 5 mile and 2,200 foot round trip, but I learned.

Almost nine years later (has it really been that long?) and I was back to visit Tecumseh for the umpteenth time. Though I was here only a few days ago, I decided to focus on just this one peak as an after work adventure. In many ways, the trip would be similar; I'd pant and wheeze and return to the parking lot feeling thoroughly worked - except this time I'd be trying to make the round trip in under 60 minutes. Rather than a 30 liter pack I'd have... a pair of shorts. And some shoes. And a tiny headlamp in my back pocket (you know, for safety).

Starting my GPS as I passed the trailhead sign, I rock-hopped across the stream that starts the trail, and ramped up to a full-on run. Normally I run much slower, at a pace that I can sustain all day and sometimes I find it difficult to differentiate between different grades of fast. Is this a half-hour race pace or a full hour race pace? Who knows? Just keep running. I probably went a bit too hard down low and ended up paying for it higher up when I had to walk a few of the steep sections.

Experiencing familiar trails at a hard run is very different from walking them, you almost experience the ground under a microscope. Your vision gets narrowed and you focus on the next few steps in front of you in close detail. Minor changes in steepness and footing take on a whole new meaning that I never got at a walking pace. Unlike some people, I won't try to say that any one pace is superior to another, they're just different. Sometimes I like to hike, sometimes I like to run, and sometimes I like to run as fast as I can.

I tagged the summit cairn in 36:25 and immediately turned around to begin the descent. Running this kind of technical downhill is always fun and stimulating. It's a challenge to scan the ground ahead, planning out the next few foot placements and trying to ride the line between speed and control. I was wearing a new pair of New Balance MT1010s and was happy to find that they grip wet rock marvelously and still offer just enough underfoot protection for this kind of terrain while still being light and flexible. As the trail leveled out near the bottom I stole a glance at my watch and saw that things were going to be close if I wanted to go under an hour. Splashing through the stream crossings, I picked up speed and popped out of the woods and back onto the pavement, stopping my watch at the trailhead sign in 59:05.

Thirsty, sweaty, and satisfied, I got in my car to head home. A couch-free evening well spent.

Waterville Value Pack

Sometimes the only thing that makes any sense to me is running. Daily life is noisy and confusing. Running in the mountains is simple and quiet, where all I know is that I need to get from one place to another. Instead of work and chores and politics, I can just worry about weather, pace, fueling, and finding water. I'm in charge. I make all the decisions and there's no one there to second guess me or dictate what I can and can't do. There's no temptation to blame anyone else, either. I suffer my own mistakes.

The best thing for this is mountain loops. I prefer them 20-30 miles in length, with 8,000 feet or more of elevation gain and a few peaks along the way. Planned correctly, these loops scratch all the right itches. I get to revisit and explore, make thorough use of the day, blow off some steam, experience a little isolation, and get some training in. I can leave my car in one spot and return to it at the end of the day, no ride needed.

Last Sunday I put together another one of my loops, this time in Waterville Valley. The plan was to park at the Livermore trailhead and run up and over Mount Tecumseh to Tripoli Road, then pass over Mount Osceola and down to Greeley Ponds. From there, I'd link up a few connector trails over to Livermore Road, scramble up the North Slide on Mount Tripyramid, descend the South Slide and run back to the car. This totaled up to about 25 miles, 8,500 feet of gain, and five ranked four thousand footers.

The day started out rather wet and humid from the previous night's rain and I was drenched by the time I summited Mount Tecumseh. It had looked overcast from down in the valley but I got a few views from above the clouds near the top.

Off to the East, I could see the three peaks of Mount Tripyramid, with my afternoon route up the North Slide clearly visible.

The run down off Tecumseh follows an old logging road for part of the way, with good footing and a really mellow grade. A little over a mile on the dirt Tripoli Road and I was working my way up to the outlook on the main peak of Mount Osceola. Below, you can seen the connecting ridgeline that the trail follows over to Osceola's East peak.

Descending off East Osceola is kind of a pain in the ass. The trail is steep, rough, and slick and makes for some slow going down to Greeley Ponds.

At the ponds, the clouds had begun to part a bit and let some blue sky and sun shine through.

The Greeley Ponds Trail is in pretty rough shape after being washed out by Hurricane Irene last fall. The nearby river has been diverted in a few spots and turned the trail into a streambed.

I had to walk in the water for a few short stretches but otherwise didn't find it to be a big deal.

Here, I made something of a mistake. My original intention was to take the Flume Path and Old Skidder Trail over to Livermore Rd., but I got the urge to explore the Kancamagus Brook XC Ski Trail instead. Both trails go to the same place, so it shouldn't make much difference, right?

Shortly after the junction I found a few old buckets hanging on some trees. Leftovers from logging operations a generation or two ago.

The trail followed an old logging road and was pretty overgrown in many places, but not too difficult to follow. Often the ground was soft underfoot and I would squish through mud up to my ankles.

And then... the old road led into a swamp. One minute I was walking merrily along, the next I was thigh deep in a bog, trying to figure out how to get out without losing my shoes. The farther I went, the worse it got. I tried bushwhacking along the edge of the bog without much luck and was seriously considering turning around, but I only had about a 1/4 mile left to reach Livermore Road, so I ended up just struggling through. You know that scene in the Never Ending Story where the horse sinks into the bog? The experience wasn't far off that.

Finally back on dry land, expressing my regards for XC ski trails in the summer.

While the swamp kind of sucked, the North Slide is always fun. 1400 feet in a half mile up an old landslide? That's more my style.

Part way up the slide you hit some open slabs and can see back towards Tecumseh (left) and the Osceolas (right).

This trail has something of a notorious reputation among hikers but I think you'd be hard pressed to actually fall down it for any significant distance. The bigger danger comes from loose rock and I had to be careful not to dislodge anything on a few people I passed below.

By the time I topped out, I was running pretty low on water. I scooted down the South Slide and was happy to get to a clean stream near the bottom where I could refill my bottles before the last stretch of trail back to my car. Seven and a half hours of peace, quiet, and simplicity and I was ready to face the world again. 

Wasatch Wanderings

Every now and then my job sends me somewhere interesting, usually at the last minute. This time a call came on Friday night and by Tuesday morning I was on the ground in sunny Salt Lake City, Utah. While I'm kept pretty busy with work when on the road, I do usually manage to fit a few runs in. SLC is a great place for that, with good quality trails accessible right from downtown, as well as the Wasatch-Cache National Forest only a few minutes away.

And so it was, that I was able to hook up with a few other runners for a night run in Millcreek Canyon.

The famous "Boxing Bear" carved into an aspen tree in some high meadows many years ago by a shepherd named Frank.

I also managed to slip away long enough to run up Mount Olympus early in the morning. The Salt Lake valley sleeps below.

Sunrise on the summit.

Good mooooooorning, Utah!

The top was a cool place to hang out alone for a while. I wish I could have stayed longer and explored some more, but my flight home was calling.

As much as I like the West, there's no place like home. It's good to be back in New Hampshire.

Hardrock Hundred

There are hundred mile runs... and then there is Hardrock. Like many, I'd heard this before. Unlike many, I finally got to experience the truth of the statement for myself. There are foot races that are longer and side-shows that are regarded as harder but no other event has the same perfect storm of beauty, ruggedness, danger, self-sufficiency, community, and obscene amounts of elevation gain.

I used to be a bundle of nerves before a race, but on Hardrock eve I was relaxed and content. My preparations were complete and there was nothing left to do but wait. The finish line glowed outside our third story hotel window and when I got up, I could peek out at the clock counting down to 6:00 a.m. Lying back in bed next to my wife, I felt my daughter kick for the first time; a good omen. Many other preparations were also made alongside those for the race and I felt ready for all the challenges coming up my life, Hardrock and beyond. I slept like a baby.

While the night before the race was different, the start was filled with the same familiar anxiety. 3...2...1... - Oh shit, this is really about to happen! - and then we were off down the dirt streets of Silverton. Shortly, we hit the first hill on the steep road up to the Shrine of the Mines above town and I fell way back in the field. It always works this way and I knew I'd see most of those people again once we reached the first real climb. Soon enough we were off the roads and onto a section of trail called the Nute Chute before descending and crossing route 550, the "Million Dollar Highway", down to Mineral Creek. I waded across in water up to my shins, much lower than in previous years, but still enough to waterlog my shoes and socks just the same. Only 100.5 miles left to go (the official distance this year was 102.5 miles).

After the stream crossing the real climbing finally began; 3,000 feet up through trees, across talus fields, and above cliffs to the top of Putnam Basin where the first views of the day were waiting. It was sunny, cool, and clear and a great day to be above treeline. I was lovin' life. On the way up, as predicted, I'd power-hiked my way past a number of people to about where I expected to be in the field. It reminded me a lot of my other successful runs last year at Wasatch and Massanutten. The descent down to the first aid station, Kamm Traverse at mile 11, was mostly on soft ground and went swiftly. Looking at my watch, I was almost exactly where I wanted to be at this point in the race.

Photo: Ray Dileo

Next up was the climb past Island Lake to notorious Grant-Swamp Pass. The ridgeline that forms the pass is a mess of loose, steep scree punctuated by a handful of rocky outcrops and spires that give a snaggle-tooth look when approaching from below. There were quite a few people spectating from the top, including a bagpiper that was a nice touch, and when I hit the crest I soon found out why. To get down the other side runners have to negotiate a 45 degree gully for about 500 feet before things level out to merely "very steep". I started down before any second thoughts could take hold and found myself shin deep in a field of loose thick gravel and scree that slid down the mountain around me. While quite fun, it was a little disconcerting that I couldn't really stop if I'd wanted to. Luckily, no one was below or above me, as it would have been very easy to send some larger rocks flying down the hill.

I stopped for a moment at the bottom to dump the pebbles out of out my shoes as best I could, then ran down a more reasonable stretch of trail to the aid station in Chapman Gulch at mile 18, dubbed the "Bacon Station". While I wasn't all that interested in stopping for some greasy breakfast food, this station stands out as one of the most enthusiastic. A volunteer was ready and waiting with my drop bag while all kinds of people that I didn't recognize cheered my name. On the way out to the road up Oscar's Pass I ran across Joe Carrara from Vermont and gave him a high five. While it may have been deserving of the term "road" at one time, the route could hardly be called that any more. An eroded jumble of gravel and rocks switch-backed steeply up and over the top of the pass in the hot sun. A faint trail led to a much better road down past Bridal Veil Falls into Telluride at mile 30 where I knew my wife and parents were waiting. On the way down the sky clouded up and began to hail. This was a little annoying, as the hail stones hurt when they bounced of my earlobes, but after a couple miles the precipitation changed over to a steady rain.


The aid station in Telluride felt chaotic and claustrophobic with so many people around. I was happy to see my family and my friend Norm Sheppard there, but kind of bewildered by all the commotion so I only stopped long enough to change into some new Drymax socks and made a quick exit. By the time I'd climbed  over 5,000 feet to Virginius pass, another little notch in a jagged knife-edged ridge, the clouds and rain rain finally started to clear up. I wish I could have stayed to chat with Sue Johnston and Roch Horton a little longer at the tiny aid station they had right on top of the pass, but I didn't really need anything and wanted to stay close to Jared Campbell who knew the descent pretty well. Dropping down from the pass was another loose scree field, much like Grant-Swamp, and I had to be careful not to fall and mow down a nearby camera man. The scree led to a small snow field, some more scree, and then the dirt Camp Bird Road which would take us a vertical mile down into Ouray. Dropping from 13,000 feet to less than 8,000 in the span of a few miles I could feel the air perceptibly thicken as my breathing grew easier.


Ouray at mile 46 was another busy aid station in town that I reached in the late afternoon, high-fiving Jeff List, another New Englander, on the way in. The next section of trail followed an old mining shelf road on what is now the Bear Creek Trail, blasted out of the side of a gorge wall. I was having a bit of a low point here, bonking hard, and it seemed to take forever to get to Engineer aid station at mile 54. There, I just kind of stared blankly at all the aid station food before realizing that I should probably bring my blood sugar up and try to get some caffeine in me. It took conscious effort to get a cup of chicken noodle soup, some Mountain Dew, and a chocolate GU down with a few gags, but I managed to not throw up. 

Plodding up the last cross-country section to Engineer Pass I could see and hear a guy (I named him The Dude) up on the ridgeline hooting and hollering encouragement at me from the top of his lungs a quarter mile away. "Yeah! Whoooo! Do it to it! It's like going to town without any money!" I had no idea what half the stuff he was yelling meant but, combined with the food, it seemed to brings my spirits and energy level up a bit. Before I knew it I was on top of the pass, 5,000 feet above Ouray, and being offered a beer by The Dude from the back of a sweet 4x4 camper rig. While this guy was probably the most enthusiastic spectator, out there on some remote jeep road all by himself at 13,000 feet, he certainly wasn't the only one. Throughout the day, and surprisingly late at night, there were all kinds of people out on the course to watch and cheer us on. Random hikers would give me high-fives and I must have had my picture taken over a hundred times.

With daylight slowly fading, I ran down the long road into Grouse aid station at mile 60, reaching it just before 9:00 p.m. I was pleased to have gotten this far before needing to turn my lights on, about 5 miles ahead of schedule. Grouse would be the last place I'd see my wife and parents until the next morning. The next crew-accessible aid station at Sherman (mile 74) would require either a trip over a rough jeep road or a 100+ mile trip by car in the middle of the night. I didn't want my pregnant wife, or my parents for that matter, driving around so late in the mountains, so I had them to go back to the hotel for some sleep. In my hurry, I missed the chance to change my socks which had been soaked since the rain leaving Telluride. Working up Grouse Gulch towards Handies Peak, I made mental note to change them once I reached my drop bag at Sherman.

Cranking up the climb, I felt really good. Again, I was pacer-less but kept company by my MP3 player. I made it all the way through a good Left Lane Cruiser album and was looking forward to a few hours of Me First and the Gimme Gimmes when the player abruptly went dead. Crap. It was starting to look like a long night as I more slowly hiked my way in the dark up to the summit of Handies, the high point of the course at 14,048 feet. The Grizzly Gulch Trail down the other side was a little rougher than expected and I used my poles so frequently to vault myself down small drop-offs that my shoulders soon got sore. I suppose it was better than achey knees from jumping down. Along the way I passed a struggling Timmy Parr paced by Duncan Callahan and moved into 10th place. I felt a little bad, especially because Duncan was so friendly, but there wasn't really anything I could do to help so I just kept moving. Eventually I came out to the trailhead at Burrows Park where there was a small aid station. One of the volunteers was from Newbury, New Hampshire - just one town over from where I grew up.

I was finally able to ditch my malfunctioning MP3 player when I reached Sherman a little after 1:00 in the morning (forgetting to change my wet socks) and headed up the trail to Cataract Lake. Once above treeline, the course spends a significant amount of time on a really faint trail through open meadows without a whole lot of distinct land marks. A little concerned before the race about getting lost here in the dark, I was happy to have helped mark this section a few days before. There were only a few places where markers were missing or hard to see, but I always knew the right general direction to go. At one point I was using my bright Fenix flashlight to scan for markers when the light reflected off a single pair of red eyes staring back at me. They seemed to be lower to the ground than I'd expect from an elk and I was creeped out that it might be a mountain lion and I was by myself at this point. Luckily for me, the markers went in a different direction.

The hardest section came just before dawn on my way up Maggie-Pole pass. I felt like I'd been moving slowly for the last few miles and was barely making any progress uphill. Periodically, I'd stop and rest my forehead on my poles, staring down to watch my chest heave in the light of my headlamp. I thought of my daughter and the rest of my family, and all the people back home and elsewhere who had wished me well and were following along. I knew this moment had to come at some point, it does during all hundred milers. While I never wanted to quit, it was a struggle to maintain the focus to keep moving steadily forward. As it got light out, I started seeing things in my peripheral vision. It's funny how your mind will conjure up a hallucination and start to run with it before you can get some sense into yourself. A ReMax sign? Why is there land for sale up here? Holy shit, the whole hill is covered with them! Then I refocused my eyes and there was nothing there but some grass and flowers. At least it wasn't snakes this time.

I ran through the Maggie Gulch aid station at mile 83, where the volunteers seemed kind of sleepy, without stopping for anything. With the sun coming up and only a couple big climbs remaining, some of my energy returned. Steeply up over Buffalo Boy Ridge to Green Mountain and one of the most iconic scenes of the course came into view; the too-perfect symmetry of the Grenadier Range. A lot of people don't think you can possibly enjoy the scenery while trail running. After staring at the ground in front my feet all the way up the ridge, I looked up and this scene (with morning lighting) smacked me in the face so hard I stopped in my tracks. Following a long trying night, distorted by fatigue and endorphins, it was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.

Descending into the last aid station at mile 93 in Cunningham Gulch, I was in full view of my crew from a distance. It was almost 8 in the morning and they cheered and watched as I worked my way down through the cliff bands. We were almost done and I took the chance to unload some weight. My poles, race vest, lights, and spare clothing were all left with them as I set out on the final steep climb up Dives-Little Giant with only a water bottle and two gels.

I powered hard up the climb almost halfway before some of the energy started to leave. But I was almost done and I knew that at this point I would have to screw up pretty badly to not finish. Time was another matter and struggled to maintain the same sense of urgency on the last descent down into Silverton. I'd neglected to change my socks since mile 30 and my feet felt like they'd been worked over with a cheese grater. Everything else hurt too; my quads, my core, my shoulders and arms. I probably could have run the last downhill if I'd been able to muster the mental fortitude, I might have even been able to move up to 6th place, but instead I walked almost all of it. And considering the outcome, I can't feel too bad.

Back onto the dirt streets of Silverton I was running again, but only with great effort. It occurred to me that this wasn't so different from when I first started running back in 2005. It was the same feeling; knowing you have to keep going even though your body really really wants to stop. Back then, I had absolutely no clue that if I'd just keep going, someday I'd find myself in this particular situation. As soon as I rounded the last corner, I knew I'd get hit with a flush of adrenaline better than any prescription grade pain killer and I was not let down. The finishing chute came into view, my legs felt new again, and I was able to really run. You're about to finish Hardrock in less than 29 hours and eighth place, I realized. The weight of it hit me and I started to get choked up. 

Photo: Drymax Socks

:

Photo: Drymax Socks

Photo: Drymax Socks

And I could finally, after 28 hours 55 minutes, sit down, take my shoes off, eat some real food, and spend some time with my family. Over the next 17 hours I alternated between eating, sleeping, and cheering other finishers in - including my fellow New Englanders Bob Crowley, Levi Burford, and Mike Weigand. And last but certainly not least was Deb Pero, formerly of New Hampshire, who finished dead last after almost 48 hours on the course. I really can't imagine what it's like to be out for that long - she certainly has my respect.


While 28:55 sounds like I really good time for Hardrock, I want to be careful to keep things in perspective. From what I've gathered, this was one of the easiest and fastest years the race has been held. I had to deal with almost no snow. Many stream crossings that are often deep, fast, and dangerous, were trivial to walk across this year and many of them didn't require wet feet all. There were only a few hours of rain, no lightning to dodge, and I never faced extreme hot or cold temperatures. Other than general soreness, I suffered no injuries and never felt the need for any ibuprofen. Compared to some of the horror stories I've heard, I got off easy. Hell, a sub-30 hour time would have been enough to win in many past years, but this time thirteen people managed to pull it off, which says as much about the depth of the field as does about the conditions.


One thing I really liked about Hardrock was that this event actually treats its participants like adults. Instead of over marking the course, fencing off every little danger, and nannying over minor medical conditions, you're trusted to use your own judgement and make good decisions. There are places that you could fall down a cliff or get hopelessly lost but you're expected to, you know, "not step there" and "watch where you're going". The lack of hand-holding was very refreshing.


As always, I owe a lot to those around me for making a dream-come-true possible. First and foremost to my wife, Miriam, for months of uninterrupted support from lottery day to race day, to my parents for their love and encouragement (and genes), to the race management and volunteers for putting on a first class event from start to finish, to the Hardrock community for always making me feel right at home in Silverton, to Steve Pero for sharing his vast knowledge, and to all my friends and others who sent me encouragement before, during and after the race.


Someday I hope to come back.

Hardrock Prep

I don't normally like to publicly emphasize the lead up to races on my blog, usually just sticking to race reports after the fact, but I've had so much going on during my last week of preparation for Hardrock that I'd like to share. Since I got here, I've been dirt-bagging it alone around Colorado, running/hiking every day, eating off my Jetboil Sumo, sleeping in the car or on the ground, and bathing almost entirely with baby wipes.

I'm also looking for a way to express how excited and fortunate I feel to be running this race. So much gets said about the community and the race course and the town of Silverton that I thought there was no way it could live up to my expectations. Let me just say that I was wrong. I've been totally blown away by almost everything out here. This is in fact the real deal and I doubt I'll ever look at ultras the same way again.

So, without a whole lot of further blabbering, here's what I did (so far) on my summer vacation!

Never having had any kind of altitude problems before, I made the ill-advised decision to run up Greys and Torreys Peaks (over 14,000 feet) within 24 hours of arriving in Denver. After anointing the summit of Torreys with the contents of my stomach a half dozen times, I got the point. It was still a very cool place to be.

For the rest of the day I felt drowzy and lethargic, so I made my over to Rocky Mountain National Park where I set up my tent and slept for a solid twelve hours. By the time I woke up in the morning I was feeling much, much better, so I set off on the Keyhole route on Longs Peak. On the way up I ran into a really pissed off ptarmigan. You might call it... an angry bird.

The sun came up over the boulder field.

I traversed around the backside of Longs up the third class scrambling of the Trough, the Narrows and the Homestretch. Given that there's a thousand feet of exposure, I'm surprised that this route is so incredibly popular.

The summit is broad and flat and made for a good place to take in the view for an hour before things got too busy.

My half day of sleep must have done a lot of good because I had absolutely no altitude related issues. The headache, dizziness, and nausea that were such torment the day before, had totally disappeared. It's a good thing too, because I wanted to creep close to the edge of the summit cliffs to peak down towards Chasm Lake. I didn't get too close though, after over a year off climbing my fear of heights has made an unwelcome return.

A couple friendly gentlemen from Malibu signed into the summit register just behind me. They must have copied my handwriting.

Saying goodbye the Diamond over the Boulderfield on my way down.

The next day I decided to check out the Maroon Bells Four Passes Loop outside Aspen. Usually done as a four day backpack, it's become reasonably popular as a day hike for trail runners. At 28 miles and 7500 feet of gain it seemed pretty similar to the Pemi Loop by the numbers. After getting a little mixed up on some tourist paths before it was light out, I was finally on my way and was treated to some beautiful alpenglow on the Maroon Bells.

Looking back from Trail Rider Pass (#1).

Wildflowers above Snowmass Lake on the way to number 2, Bucksin Pass.

Fravert Basin was possibly the greenest place I've ever been and had endless smooth single track. Serious Sound of Music scenery over Frigid Air Pass (#3).

Exquisitely runnable trail descending off the final West Maroon Pass.

 It took me just under 8 hours to complete the loop at a casual gawk-and-stare nap-in-the-wildflowers pace, probably the equivalent of a 10 hour effort on the Pemi Loop.  If you're capable of doing the Pemi and are looking for something similar in the West, google the details and book your flight. Right now. Don't wait. It's that good.


Next up, I made my way into Silverton for some course marking and recce. I paid special attention to learning where the course goes over Handies Peak and Pole Creek, where I plan to be passing through in the dark.

Lovin' life after power hiking Handies Peak (I'm not hip enough to shorten it to "pow-hiking").

Handies Peak pika peeking out of the rocks.

Half the fun was just exploring different scenic spots on the course that I might not otherwise get the chance take pictures of. Like Green Mountain...

...Buffalo Boy Ridge...

...Dives - Little Giant Basin...

...Grant-Swamp Pass...

...and Island Lake. This was the picture that really grabbed my attention for Hardrock in the first place and was pretty cool to sit down for a few minutes and enjoy the real thing.

I kept hearing about how marmots tend to cause damage to unattended cars in the high country but I wasn't expecting to return to this. Enterprise is going to be so pissed!

So, with a week left to taper and do more restful things with my better half, I'm feeling really good about the race. I feel like my training in the Whites has prepared me well and I seem to be acclimating to the altitude nicely. Based on my comparing my times to others, I'm prepared to publicly state a handful of goals that I think are reasonable if all goes well. I don't normally do this, but what the hell?

1. Finish, even if it takes the full 48 hours. I'm determined not to go home empty-handed.
2. Finish before the second night.
3. Sub-30 hours.

Above all, I'm grateful for the opportunity to come out here and be a part of all this. I feel like Hardrock is the culmination of all my efforts over the last seven years since I struggled to run my first mile on the road in a pair of cargo shorts and worn out hiking boots. 

I cannot wait.