A Hard Night

In a flurry of activity we jumped into the car late for Jonathan's baseball game. All loaded we were verbally making sure everything he needed for the game was accounted for; glove, cap, bat, shoes... Gabe had to know the snacks were also covered. All was good. We were going to miss the warm ups but would make the game no prob. So I calmed the frazzled nerves and turned off our gravel road onto a paved back road of Monroe. We were talking about the chance of rain, if Gabe would be allowed to play on the playground, when mom would be at the game, when Cheryl's folks, (known as Ama and Daco) would be there, what would be for dinner, why the sky is blue, why Jonathan's stomach felt all funny before games, why stealing bases is okay but stealing other things is not, if dragons are real...the typical stuff. As I crested the last roller hill prior to turning onto 132nd street a small scruffy dog ran out in front of my car. He was small and moving way to fast to stop his little body. Everything went into slow motion. (I've always wondered if this "slow motion" reality is due to some chemical in the brain that allows us to process information faster...) I saw the dog's head turn to see my car, I knew I could not avoid hitting him due to my speed, how fast he appeared, and the fact that another car was in the other lane. He dissapeared from my view and I braced myself for the soon to come noise of an animal under my car. I have only experienced the sound and feeing once before on a trip back from California. The truck in front of us hit a deer and we could not stop prior to running over it. The thud under the car was gut wrenching. I didn't hit my brakes very hard for fear of skidding out of control. The boys didn't see the dog but when they were thrown forward in their booster seats, caught by the safety belts, and heard the thudding under the car they both asked, "What was that?" I quickly pulled over to a safe spot on the side of the road and told them, in a strong voice, I had hit a dog and to stay in the car. They know when dad pulls over fast and they are told to stay in the car something bad has happened. Three times I have had to quickly leave them with this strong order and all three time they have respected my command knowing it is for real and daddy is helping someone. It was a terrible experience. Through my limited emergency vehicle driving training with the fire department and way back in Driver's Ed. I have been taught when this happens; hit the dog. But to actually make the decision to not avoid the dog and hit him, well, I was sick. I ran back to the pup who was motionless in the middle of the road. A woman ran from the unlandscaped yard of a newly build house screaming, "It's not your fault, it's not your fault...He was chasing the motorcycle." She was wearing an oversized green sweatshirt and jeans with a metal studded belt. Why I noticed I'm not sure. When she crouched down and reached out to comfort the dog her triple diamond wedding band stood out in stark contrast to the blood matted fur. I had her slide him onto a piece of scrap plywood to keep him immobilized but the dog wanted to move so badly she had to just hold him. A man ran out seconds later spewing obscenities about how people drive too fast and the idiot who ran off after hitting the dog. I said nothing to him, neither did the woman. The dog was bleeding from his ears and appeared to be bleeding from his mouth. I felt his head and it was solid but he was not moving his legs. I was pretty sure he would not make it, but I'm not a vet. I quickly assisted the woman into a car the man had parked in the street, told her I was sorry the dog was hurt, shut the door, and they were off. And within 3 minutes it was over. I doubt I will ever know if the dog made it. The boys and I drove off to the game, an exciting back and forth competition ending in a 13-11 victory for Jonathan's team, the Timber Rattlers. I shared the story with a few friends at the game to help myself process and come down from the painful excitement. It made it a bit easier but I still have deep pain for the dog and woman with the big diamond ring and ratty sweat shirt. Tony

Memories of Broken bones

It's 1980 and I'm in 8th grade. Every kid has to have at least one broken bone. It is a right of passage to break a bone and display the trophy cast for all to scrawl their names on. I had delayed this occurrence for a few years until taking an untimely fall from a Jungle Gym and snapping my wrist. Nothing major, just a broken wrist, soon to be crowned with a cast. I was in Jr. High and I felt well deserving of the coming recognition. And it all fell right into place; x-rays, casting, trophy presentation, stories, and signings. Finally, the long anticipated four week deadline for removal was upon us. When the day came I removed all the itching tools stored inside and headed to the doctor to get the trophy removed. I was sad. It had become a part of me, a valuable part of my person, now I would have to use other ways to get girls to talk to me. I was introduced to the special vibrating saw used to remove plaster casts. Interesting, it really didn’t cut the skin. Cool. The cast came off without a lot of fanfare until the smell of my arm filled the room. Four weeks earlier I was so excited to get a cast I paid no attention to the dirt and wood chips all over my arm. I just wanted the cast. I was a Jr. High boy; God made dirt, dirt don’t hurt! (Unless it is left in a cast for four weeks.) The technician just about lost his lunch, called in a nurse and left. Mom was none to happy and went off on the nurse even though she had nothing to do with the presence of the dirt and stink, nasty stink. I survived but my image of HMO’s was a wee bit tainted. And in the end I did find other ways of getting girls to talk to me.

An older running story for today.

Avalanche Story Spring of 2006 During my training for the Western States trail run I spent a lot of time running the trials on the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie River. On one particular day I planned a long run way up in the densely forested valley to the back side of a beautiful lake. Snow Lake, a small pristine alpine lake near Snoqualmie Pass, is a popular destination for hikers looking for the classic Cascade Mountain’s hike and for climbers staging a technical climb of nearby peaks with names like “The Tooth” and “Chair Peak”. I drove through the dark morning a few miles up the ever deteriorating service road and gained the hidden, twisty and moss carpeted trail. The narrow infrequently used trail takes a round and about route clinging to the south wall of the sharp river valley then hooking sharply to the right it climbs into a cirque, a crescent shaped geological bowl. I had been on the trail for an hour or so when I began the climb out of the valley to the steep walled cirque. The trail, a soft brown ribbon of decomposing evergreen needles, dirt and moss wove its ever steepening route slaloming around boulders and secondary growth timber. My footfalls were near silent on the cushioned path. Soft breezes of cool air slowly descended the mountains through the woods rustling branches and chilling my skin. I was happily traversing through a stand of thick Douglas fir and towering hemlock moving along at a comfortable pace clicking off the miles when I began to encounter snow. Small patches at first, hiding from the heat of the sun in the shadows and behind trees, then larger and larger fields of the hard packed ice. The snow always holds on longest on these protected north facing slopes where the sun rarely reaches the ground. As the snow cycles through spring and early summer days it slowly melts and refreezes consolidating into a solid sheet of ice; not the best surface for soft rubber soled trail shoes. I was a bit concerned because I wasn’t really prepared to be on snow today. I was dressed in a tech-t, shorts and an ultra-light wind jacket. My trail shoes were fine, but not really designed to be on hard packed snow and ice. I figured I’d continue until the snow was continuous, then turn around and call it a day, relinquishing my goal of reaching the lake. Below in the ever increasingly sharp river valley of the Snoqualmie’s Middle Fork I can hear the dull roaring river. The sound of the rushing water, filtered through hundreds of needle laden fir, hemlock and cedar boughs, fills the woods with a calm background din. This is where I feel most alive, alone in the woods conquering a trail awash in greens and browns of God’s creation. On hundreds of similar runs I have encountered various forms of wildlife from bears, to deer, to multiple birds and smaller creatures. Today is quiet, very quiet, as if I arrived before the morning wake up call. Still the lack of the normal random animal sounds seems odd. The trail straightens as it traverses continues to slowly climb the east cirque wall exposing itself for intervals allowing me to seen well ahead. I continue on the trail deep into the glacial bowl often times leaving the protection of the dense trees and slicing across an exposed swath created by an old snow slide or avalanche. These snowy treeless areas are evidence of the power behind tons of moving snow and I ice under the command of gravity. As I begin to traverse a third avalanche path about fifty meters wide, the amount of snow now really concerns me. The evergreen canopy has for the most part protected me throughout the run. Now as I stand exposed on the edge of this snowfield on a line between trees and destruction I am taken back by the contrast of the debris littered white ice and the darkness I am emerging from. The snowfield is not smooth and inviting like the images of many slopes inviting skiers to venture out, this snowfield composed of rough and jagged ice chunks and blocks churned up as they tumbled down to their current resting place. Mixed in among the blocks are many pieces of rock, smears of dirt, and the remains of tree debris testifying to the incredible forces created by the moving snow. It is hard to imagine the small beautiful and harmless crystalline flakes of ice becoming an explosively powerful and potentially deadly torrent of ice. Now I am thinking it may be time to go home and have a cup of cocoa. Yet I need to continue the run to complete the many miles I had set out run toady. I step out onto the uneven ground of this resting slide that has covered the trail with several feet of uneven ice, seeing the trail right where I guessed it would be reentering the woods on the other side. I carefully place each footstep on small patches of somewhat level ice falling only once, until I reach the comfort of the brown ribbon. Heading back into the trees I continue deeper into the cirque decide I’ll continue to the next snow field and call it a day, knowing I will have to retrace my steps on this long out and back run. The trail throws down a few unwelcomed switchbacks and climbs higher. Slowing to a walk and pondering my options of shortening the run or just heading back to the car and adding a few road miles I hear the low frequency sound of an airplane passing overhead, reminding me I can rarely escape progress. The sound of planes normally tapers off into silence but this time the sound seems to remain constant and, unimaginably grows. I stop; stewing on the oddness, a morbid part of my imagination dwells on the possibility of a jetliner in distress crashing into the mountains nearby. Quickly dismissing the thought I resume my slow running pace around another switchback and forward to a long straight section of relatively flat trail. The trail tunnels through the trees with barely a waver in its direction. This is the stuff photographer’s love. The contrast of brown and green with a few moss spotted rocks tossed in to break up the soft texture and add depth, the simple trail fading into the future. Way ahead I can see the bright white reflecting light of another snowfield. I pick up the pace guessing it is a few hundred meters ahead. I check my time and take a stab at my distance and think, maybe I give it a go and cross this one too. As I approach the ever brightening treeless snowfield I hear the rumble of the plane again. Maybe it is circling and heading back to the airport to land, maybe the sound is just bouncing off mountains and playing tricks with my mind. I get within a couple hundred feet of the edge of the woods and experience a touch of vertigo, an uneasy feeing in the head and stomach when what your brain sees doesn’t match up with what the rest of the body is feeling. I slow to a walk and look down at the trail to shake of the queasiness, the feeling is gone. I think I must just be a touch dehydrated, so I take swig from one of the water bottles wedged in my hip pack. The water is refreshing and cool, and in a way comforting. I stow the plastic sport bottle and resume my journey only to look up and have the same disturbing feeling rush over my body again. I get within twenty feet of the snow and experience a deep feeling of wrongness. I stop, do a sideways look, listen to the jet engine sound, and realize something is really wrong. The sound isn’t right; it’s to…..close. I straighten my head up look directly at the snow and realize the problem and the source of the very low end sound. The entire two to three hundred foot wide snowfield is slowly moving downhill. The sound is coming from the grinding of ice on rock as the frozen water churns up the soil underneath bulldozing a deep path. It is amazing. The slow yet steady and destructive motion of the snow was just perceivable enough from a distance to set off an alarm in my brain. Yet I was not paying enough attention to discern the motion. I approached the edge of the sliding mass, standing only a few short feet from the edge. I reminded me of video footage of ice chunks floating down a thawing river. The natural erosional forces in process before my eyes mesmerized me, holding me captive for a few minutes. I realized after what was probably an increasingly dangerous amount of time that I was not in a safe place. I could hear the slow motion crash of trees uphill as they were overwhelmed by the ice and debris. The banks of this river of ice were increasingly less secure, and yet I couldn’t pull myself way. I was held by the attraction of the destruction knowing full well it was time to get out of there. It took a few more minutes for common sense to overtake fascination. I regained some sense of reality and bid farewell to the still slowly moving slide. I turned back and retrace my steps to the parking area leaving the sounds of the slowly crashing airliner behind. It was a true blessing to be so close to such a powerful and amazing natural event. I have seem many other avalanches since but none have held my wonder as did this slow motion event. Tony

Late Season Snowfall

Uhmm....it's April 18th in Western Washington and this is a shot of my back porch. Poor tulips.

It started snowing around 2pm with on and off snow showers, and now it is 6:30. I was fortunate enough to get a short run in with the first falling flakes. I love running in the snow..or the rain or hail or high winds or lightning for that matter. It seems the worse the weather the more I am inclined, or drawn, to run in it. It's the challenge, the raw nature of braving the conditions to log a few miles. Don't get me wrong, running in 68 degrees under overcast skys with a slight tailwind is nice and can make for a good pace but give me adverse conditions any time. The worse the better. Eighty mile an hour winds on the Pacific coast, 14,000 feet and 80 degrees up Mt. Evans, 90 degrees and 100% humidity in Nicaragua, 120 degrees in the canyon lands it doesn't matter I'll run there. Some of my "best", or at least most memorable runs have been in conditions and places like these. The pace can be terrible and the distance not worth writing home about but the experiences are etched in my memory.

What is it about the challenge that draws us to push the limits venturing out to endure way less than normal conditions or activities for that matter? For instance, last night I chatted with an old friend just hours before he might have performed a late night base jump off a building in downtown Bellevue. Some of his adventures include an excursion to Baffin Island to hurl himself off a 3000 foot granite face, a jump off a radio tower in Hungary and a trip to sail off some huge waterfall in Africa. Why? To me it's simple..because. But I have a family so I just run in weird places and in odd conditions with a lower level of risk, where as he doesn't have a family and cranks up the risk. At least I can stop and walk. I appreciate it, even to some extent understand the drive.

Okay, enough about selfactualization. The easy answer for me is that God made me this way, and that's good enough. Visibility wains as the sunlight dims. The snow is falling harder now, piling up on the deilcate early spring bulbs, their stems straining to remain upright. It seems like a kind of cruelty. The folks who try to predict this stuff said there would not be much of an accumulation, right. But hey, I don't mind, I can't wait to go for a run tomorrow moring. I HOPE IT SNOWS ALL NIGHT!

Tony

Pride and stubborness get ya burned.

I was in a hurry and needed to get to the board meeting for pizza. I knew the fuel light was already illuminated like an annoying beacon of doom, but my math was good and I knew I had at least 20 miles of fuel left, plus coasting.So, I am the kind of guy who can stop and ask for directions when I'm lost, as long as I can admit I'm lost. But when it comes to conquering the gas tank, pride and stubborness can be a powerful drug as I push the envelope of "miles per gallon". For instance, I know that in my wife's Accord the indicatior light must be fully on and not dimming on and off with hills and acceleration and stops before the 50 mile countdown begins. I have yet to miss that one, been close but never missed. My Civic is similar. The challenge is that you need to remember the math and estimate gas station location and availability correctly. A challenge I have been up to, until last night.I was heading to a board meeting in seattle for Club Northwest, a local running club (cnw.org), I have been involved in for many years. We host a social half-hour before the meeting and I wanted to attend. So I zoom out the door and jump in my trusty auto knowing I would need to stop for gas on the way. I figured Costco would have the least expensive fuel and I "should" have enough to get there. (Can ya see where I'm going here? It is painful but I need to come clean.) I head out of Monroe passing three stations thinking, "I can save at least 15 cents a gallon in Woodinville. And since the tank is empty that means the car is...8 lbs x 11 gallons = approx. 88 lbs. lighter and needs less fuel to maintian speed, right? " Makes sense; guy sense. I confidently travel on Hwy 522 to the Snohomish River bridge and up the long grade. Five miles down and no problem. Then the bottom fell out. The car lurched forward and jerked back. OH NO! I forgot to factor in the bike rack on the roof. My math was off! NOOOOOOO!!!!! Instantly I was sweating, nervous and fearfull of the looming potential of having to walk in front of all the cars coming home in the evening communte. I would be the poor sucker who ran out of gas and had to walk in the rain in full view of many. A second lurch and jerk. Now what? I wiggled the steering wheel trying to get the small puddles in the tank to coalesce in one spot near the output hose. "If I can get two more miles I'll be at a station and home free." The jerking and lurching started to get more frequent, with only a few seconds inbetween. I knew then it was inevitable, the walk was coming. I crested the hill and accellerated to gain speed for the soon to come coast to a stop, when miraculously the car began to run smooth, a glimmer of hope. Yes, I can make it! I was on flat ground and doing 60 miles and hour without traffic. Yeah baby, free coasting! Then with 1 mile to go the car lost all fuel and began to die. All hope was lost. I threw it into neutral and began the coast to a stop. I crept to stillness within view of a traffic light and a gas sation. I estimated the shame to last half a mile. Well, time to walk. I knew pizza was now out of reach. The walk to the station was a humbling stroll in the rain to buy gas that was 10 cents more expensive than the three stations I confidently passed by only minutes ago. The attendant was very helpful, offering a special fuel can for people like me, thanks. I made the walk back under the watchful eye of a Snohomish County Sheriff. I waved and raised the can, he nodded and waved back before driving off into traffic. By the time I reached the station with my car I was resolved to eat cold pizza. But I learned one thing, my tank can hold exactly 11.243 gallons of gas. Nice to know, it will help with the math next time.11 gallons x 36 mpg (+/- with mixed driving conditions) + 2 mpg with the rack off (gotta remember to take off the rack) = ready for another 418 miles, maybe.Tony