Mountains, Finishing, and Little Round Top

I was out for a short run this morning. 3 miles was all of it. Chat (the dog) wondered what ever happened to the 12 mile odyssey that happened last week. He really thinks that their were some chipmunks and ground squirrels that could be fomenting a rebellion. And of course he is the only one that can deal with those little creatures.

So I read about "visualization" in a book somewhere. It helps you to put yourself in the place and in the time for an event. I think that this is helpful because then you can see yourself lying in a hospital bed 30 years from now and in my case dying from nothing.

"Nurse, what do you mean he is dying of nothing?" Doctor Bob says.

"Well Doc it seems that he ran a lot, swam sparingly, gave away all the fat he could to others, and is just dying of nothing. You should go visit his next door neighbor - he has got at least ten names to what he is going to kick out for..."

The other more pressing thing is the whole marathon "thing." I mean it is 26.2 miles. That does not trouble me. It is only 26.2 miles and most of it is downhill. What is troubling is that I might not have enough oatmeal to power the engine. I might not beat the Africans that are in the race. I might not really have the solution to world peace and the worst thing is is that I might have crappy music on my pod that could slow me down. Oh the horror and the agony of listening to the "best of michael jackson" and having not put in any songs by Ozzy Ozbourne.

But, the past 15 weeks have been spent building the engine that could. The past 15 weeks have been gathering the sharpening the shovel and building up my coal pile to drive the locomotive that is me. I visualize at times my body. The feet and legs are the drive wheels of a great locomotive. The torso is the furnace that burns the fuel to power the legs. The arms pump and move to get the rest of it going. The head is where it all happens. Thinking of what is going on and what needs to happen. Guaging the distance and relaying to the rest of the body what needs to be done. Pinching off the thoughts of agony and defeat and replacing them with images of power and resolve.

I draw an image from from the Civil War. Joshua Chamberlain was a General commanding his troops from 20th Maine at Gettysburg. He was in charge of holding the end of the line. If he did not hold the end of the line the Confederates would flank the Union and collapse the line. At the very last moment he recognized that the Confederates were coming up the hill - and he ordered his men to "fix bayonets." Joshua and his men saved the union that day as numbers were against them and through the smoke and haze of battle he saw an opening and took it.

I am not yet as brave as General Chamberlain. Not by a long shot. But during this training stint I have seen the goal through the pain, fog, and uncertainty. Taking the opportunity and seizing it gives me the drive to see past mile 20 and see that there is only 6.2 left and even the most mentally unstable person would be able to get his butt in gear and go for it. If men with bayonets fixed can charge down the hill and secure the victory, then even I, Fat Man, can withstand 26.2.

The Taper Weeks....

On Saturday I ran for 12 miles.

Monday I ran for 3.

Wedensday I did 4.

Thursday I did 3.

The only thought that really stuck out to me was: Was that all?

All of them were short compared with the 20 miles I did two weeks ago and the 18 before that. Dinky little runs that get you ready for the monster run that happens two Saturdays from now.

I think it is a bit like the lull before the battle begins.

There is quiet - relatively.

Whispers of impending trauma and destruction filter among the crowd.

And then it begins.

Running, walking, moving, going.

All the preparation and the buildup is coming to a resolution. What happens is the end result is that we have run this far together and then we really get to go and do what we have prepared to do. All of the pounding, grunting, sweating, hills, turns, and twists of the run have been in prep for doing something bigger. I don't think you go out with no goals. People just don't run somewhere because they want to smell new trees.

People do things for a purpose. Sometimes the purpose is a shallow and despicably selfish one. Mine is because I like to eat food and food likes me and likes to stay in the form of fat. Another reason would be the genetics of the whole thing. I want to run further than anyone has in my family. (Save my wife). I want to become a conquerer of myself. The doughnuts help that drive.

There is a science to it. Fat = Fuel. Fuel = burnable. Burnable = not needed. It is time to figure out that the fuel I give myself is not to be horded. It is to be spilt upon the road of tribulation. Death to the fat. Fuel to the fire. Fat men store no doughnuts.

Rocky Ridge

Today and yesterday were 4 mile days. Today was supposed to be a 6 mile day but life did not start out normally and I lost some time and thus my long run is tomorrow. Chat, the dog, did not know the difference. He was just as happy to go out and run as he was to chase squirrels and hunt for deer.

Epiphany #1: Nothing is as hard as it would seem. Running up hill is never as easy as going downhill. Making the uphills hard is the job of yourself. I make it hard because of what I eat and how I train. The harder I train the easier the run gets.

Epiphany #2: This came to me while I was running up City Creek Canyon.

"This road is paved."

"Rocky Ridge was not."

"What I have now is a lot easier than what those handcart pioneers had to do."

"What is my personal 'Rocky Ridge?'"

Two years ago - or so - our church decided to truck all the youth out to Martin's Cove, Rocky Ridge, 1st Crossing, and other highlights of the Mormon Handcart Pioneer Trail. I was not involved in the pulling of the handcarts. I was on the luggage crew. Which entailed throwing bags and hauling tents. Fairly easy duty compared to pulling a heavy cart up and down hills, blisters, snakes, BLM officials, and unlimited supplies of Gatorade.

I was at the time training for a Triathlon with my sister Anamarie. She wanted to have me along for some suffering so I wanted to assist. I had brought my running shoes and had vowed that over the couple of days that I was out there that I would run a bit to get some conditioning in. Needless to say - Mike Bennetts "power beans," Blaine Overson's cooking (excellent), and the fact that I was out by my lonesome did not contribute a whole lot to getting my shoes on.

The last day of the trek is possibly the hardest one. For the youth. For the leaders it was a lot of driving and chucking bags, and driving, and chucking bags. But on the last day of the Trek I got my butt out of my tent. Strapped on my shoes and went for a run. The location of the run was along the trail of the Handcart Pioneers, Martin and Willy, respectively. I ran along a dirty, dusty, rocky trail. It was up and down and straight along a mesa/mountain/large hill. It wound all the way down to the base of the hill. And then it took a 90 degree angle. And then you headed up the hill to Rocky Ridge.

At the base of the hill is a grave. It has several names enshrined in metal of those that did not make it and perished at the base of the hill. It has a little fence that surrounds it. It is hallowed ground. Those that sacrificed everything to come to that point and much more to assist those to go beyond that point. They had fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and those that depended on them. They had hauled their handcarts further than humanly possible. Their spirits were undaunted - but the tabernacle of clay could go no further.

I took the 90 degree angle. And began my ascent of Rocky Ridge. I did not have to far before I realized that I would not be able to make it all the way up the hill before everyone else needed me to help pack up camp and move along for the day. So I turned around and came back down to the cemetery at the bottom of the hill. I paused again.

At the bottom of the hill, facing east. I witnessed a spectacular sight. It was a sunrise. It was not the normal "hey planet how are you." It was a glorious witness of God and His love for me. I understood at that point why these poor wretched souls had struggled up to that point in their lives. It was because they believed that God loved them. That the Creator loved them and that He, had helped them all the way along the plains until that point when He wanted them to come home.

I share this, because during life, my life in particular. I have found my own "Rocky Ridge." I find it at times when I don't expect it. Those pioneers did not expect to be faced with one more trial. But they persevered and took the next step. I don't know if I have the mettle that they had. The iron in the soul that is a witness of their close communing with the Almighty. All I have is myself to conquer. Shoes on my feet. A heart full of desire.

I need to remind myself of what matters. When I get all wrapped up on my menial existence. When I think my burden is too heavy. I think back to that day of the Sunrise at the Foot of Rocky Ridge. I think of the burdens so heavy, feet wrapped in rags, hands gripping the cart, wind blowing cold, snow so deep, the trail outstretched in front. I wonder what really matters. I wonder if I have the juice to keep it going. Stripping away the layers of doubt and finding out what really lies beneath.

I am not sure I know the answer to those questions. But I can take the lesson of those at Rocky Ridge. Just keep moving Dave, Just keep going.