I’m nothing if not selfish. Isn’t life just too short to spend time doing anything that isn’t bringing you closer to the Life Bus, or finishing off that bucket list?  Work is compromise enough. Why would I waste any more of my life on anything that I just don’t want to do?

Which is why I was so surprised to find myself saying yes when a good friend asked me to pace her and her husband in March in Tri Cities, Washington, as she attempted the Badger Mountain Challenge, a 100 mile trail run/race. Spend vacation time, money, and hard earned frequent flyer miles to get her to the finish, with not even a t-shirt in it for me? Absolutely–no wait, what?

Even worse, it was an out and back, so I had to find a ride to my starting point. It is hard asking for help, especially with nothing to give in return. Luck was with me, though: I’m darn good at navigation and there was an incredibly sweet Canadian who wasn’t.  Dawn had never crewed before, and her son was an intense guy hellbent on a 24 hour finish. She had no time to get lost.

We made a great team. I kept her on track, and she kept me entertained with tales of growing old. I now am dreading incontinence, womanly dryness, and, worse, their respective “cures”.  We made time for a side trip to a winery, giggling like school kids getting away with skipping class.

Most runners there were from Canada, and Canadians are drawn to each other, as well as being some of the friendliest people I’ve met, so Dawn and I quickly made many new friends.  Another racer was an equally intense runner, hellbent on her own goals. The group of her friends had road tripped down just for this race.  They kept us laughing and well fed–chairs, beer, and burgers enough for everyone. I mentally dubbed them Crew Team of the Year.

We quickly learned the runners’ names (there were only about 50) and cheered like crazy for any runner coming through the aid station.  If we didn’t know a name, we made it up.  I’m sure Green Shirt and Hot Chick secretly appreciated our zeal, their bemused looks just making us cheer harder.

Did I mention “CREW” stands for “cranky runner endless waiting”?  These are the true heroes of a race.  Watching their attention to detail, their concern, their eventual fatigue, I could only hope the runners had a true appreciation.  I have some amazing friends who had crewed for me, and I know I now do.

The aspect of crewing that truly impressed me is the lack of discrimination and competition.  The runners might have had their agendas, but if a crewer lacked anything for their runner, another would certainly come up with.  One even lent me shorts when my runners ended up about three hours ahead of schedule, meaning part of my run would be much warmer than my leggings would allow.

Then it was time to begin why I had come.

Along with selfishness, I claim the description of overachiever.  I had spent the weeks prior to the race compiling stories and motivational quotes to keep my friends distracted through the long, dark hours of their run.  Prior to sunset, it was easy. They were well ahead of schedule and feeling really good. I was mildly panicked when I found myself barely able to keep up.

The miles continued under our feet as the dark and cold closed in around us.  It became harder to turn myself out of my own misery to keep them moving. I talked about work and my trip to Denali.  I talked about my cat and my plans for future adventures.  I told them what had kept me going at LT100.  I told them all about my new crew buddies.  I told them about the perils of childbirth and incontinence.  They were tired. They were cranky.  But they didn’t stop.

Soon the dark gave way to the glimmer of dawn. The miles remaining were down to the single digits and our spirits started to drag themselves back upright.  We began the final descent with our drunken sailor stagger. We crossed the finish line.  They got their buckles.  I got their post run clothing from the car.

I was hoping that I could say that I’m cured of selfishness, but what I got out of this experience is so much more than what I put in.  I might be more game for something I normally wouldn’t do, but I will still at least secretly be looking for what’s in it for me.  My friends made me feel like the greatest person on the planet–after waking up hours later. I have new friends.  New memories.

And best of all, I have a new adventure. Two of the Crew Team of the Year will be in Arizona in May, another road trip to another adventure. I’ll be joining them for part of it.

Stay tuned for my next Life Bus adventure.

When in Rome. That was going to be my travelling motto. No spoiled American stereotype for me.

My second great adventure took me scuba diving to Fiji. While there, my boyfriend at the time wanted to participate in a kava ceremony–an event that is suspiciously similar to boys night out in the U.S., in that it involves mind altering drinks and no girls allowed.

No girls allowed.

And so it was that I failed my first “When in Rome” test.

I failed the second test as well. In Fiji, women are not allowed to sit in the front of vehicles. I was already seated when I found this out. I sat stubbornly in my seat, glaring at no one in particular, and at everyone in general.

These incidents, small but significant, have stayed with me on all my travels. I love learning about and experiencing other cultures, but they’re not always as romantic as the travel guides make out. And I’m often torn on how to react.

Even within the U.S., there are some odd cultures. In Seattle, everyone drinks coffee. I now have a Starbucks addiction that I’m pretty sure I’d be better off without. In Helena, MT, Wednesday evenings are spent in the local brewery. I now know more about Montana politics than I will ever admit. And the beer isn’t even that good.

And Albany, NY. I have spent the last six months traveling every week to Albany. I’m a Georgia girl, raised on please, thank you, and Mother-may-I. They were not raised that way in Albany. In Colorado, my now home state, Mondays are for reliving the weekends. Not so in Albany. People stare at me when I ask how they are–well, when they acknowledged me at all.

I’m not really an extrovert but I do like talking with people; plus, I just believe in certain civilities. And I do care how you’re doing. Once again, I found myself torn. With six months of this travel, what should I do? I couldn’t see myself embracing it, but it was their culture. When in Rome, after all.

The holidays came during these travels and once again Facebook was awash in the “I’ll say Merry Christmas if I darn well please” assertations. And that’s when it hit me. It wasn’t so much about adaptation as it was about acceptance. I’m quite okay with receiving a Happy Hanukkah, but i do love my Merry Christmas. I can participate without letting go of what I love about my own culture.

And so it went for six months. I’d ask about the weekend. They’d ask me about the software. I’d smile and nod at fellow runners. They’d give me wide berth. I got to where I almost didn’t even notice when my good mornings were greeted with frustrated rants about something entirely unrelated.

Then one morning, the frustrated rant stopped. My client-slash-coworker broke off mid sentence and turned his chair so he fully faced me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Good morning, Lynda. How are you?” I just grinned.

When in Rome, sometimes it’s okay to make the tourist feel at home.

My cousin is living my life. The life I dream of. That dream I have during long, painful meetings where I’ve slipped the surly, golden bonds of corporate America and am living one crazy grand adventure after another.

Last I saw him was Key West, FL. I had just completed a triathlon, a sport I love but in which I infrequently participate, because the sport seems to attract the most obsessive of gear heads. Not many seem to do tris for the pure, unadulterated joy of movement. He had arrived there one month prior via a sailboat ride from Anaheim. The boat’s captain is a bush pilot my cousin met in McCarthy, Alaska, home to both. I am pretty sure he is living my life as well. To him, it is all routine, shuttling the adventurous off to their dream kayaking/mountaineering/skiing expedition. I have learned, though, that one man’s routine is another man’s lifetime experience. I hope one day to have the chance to buy him a beer or two, and hear the stories.

If you’ve never been to (or even heard of) McCarthy, it is truly the last of the last frontiers. It is nestled in the Wrangell-St Elias National Park–at 13.2 million acres, the largest national park in the U.S., and larger than Switzerland. I visited him there after my bitter disappointment on Denali. His home is a beautiful, modest log home that he built himself, on a piece of land with a small lake, plentiful trees, and no sign of neighbors. Completely off the grid, energy comes from a generator, the sun, or a cozy wood stove. The outhouse is the only downside of this arrangement.

Well, not the only. The town is at the end of a sixty mile dirt road (when I first looked up McCarthy, I thought the road name was “Closed In Winter”). The nearest grocery store is six hours away. That’s a long haul to get Ben and Jerry’s after a sucky day, but then, how many sucky days could there be in McCarthy, Alaska? And keeping it warm at night requires a couple of wake up calls.

When I ran into my cousin. in Key West, he had just become best buddies with some Alaska transplants and was beach and bar hopping around the Keys. I’m the epitome of introvert and rarely meet anyone new, much less connect with this group as deeply as I did. I spent three days with them, alternating drinking and having the most honest discussion of fears and dreams and growing up and old since the long ago college late night runs to Taco Cabana.

Mark left in the middle of this break from reality to hop a plane to Arizona. His next adventure was on the Grand Canyon. For most, this is a once in a lifetime adventure–for Mark, well, let’s just say it wasn’t his first time, and probably not the last. He promised to send the next invitation my way. Now all I have to do is convince work that one month vacations are totally normal. They’re still reeling from the last one. I guess I should be relieved they don’t like me being gone that long.

When he’s not out living my life, Mark is at home, spending the long summer Alaskan days working for the National Park Service, restoring an abandoned copper mine. He took me for a tour last summer, and it is quite the glorious wreck. Breathtaking in its disarray, I’m not sure how OSHA would view it. He had spent the prior winter on a balmy island somewhere south, where he had spent a couple months recuperating and rehabilitating from shoulder surgery. Working to restore copper mines is tough work, and his rotator cuff was the unfortunate casualty.

When I dream of chucking it all, I seldom think about it with a realistic bent. Truth is, lifestyles of any type require some kind of sacrifice and compromise. My job allows me only three weeks of adventure a year, but also gives me a decent budget for those three weeks. It demands a lot from me, yet allows the flexibility to explore while “working from home”: five days in Key West cost me almost no adventure time. And I like coming home to a hot shower. I’m spoiled having a grocery store and take out Vietnamese within walking distance.

If I can just figure out how to get internet connectivity in a raft and a waterproof laptop, I think I’d have it made.

Not many feelings compare to the one you get when, with thirty-five miles of running to go, you reach behind you for a drink of water. And realize your water bottle isn’t there.

Running the Bear Chase 50 miler was somewhat of an impulse decision. Located in Bear Creek State Park in Lakewood, CO(www.bearchaserace.com), it was a mere fifteen minutes from home. With a price tag of $65, it is cheaper than most marathons I’ve run. Besides, I was still smarting from missing the last fifty miles of Leadville.

Nicely organized, the 50 mile runners began right at 6:30, with the 50k, half marathon, and 10k starting at intervals after. While the trail never felt crowded, there is something demoralizing about watching runners fly by, even knowing their race is half or less the distance.

The second loop was a bit more solitary, making it easier to settle into a pace, but also meant there was no one around to let me know my water bottle had slipped the bonds of my waist pack. The morning cloud cover had kept the temperature a pleasant 60ish degrees, but it was threatening to warm quickly.

I didn’t mean to sound quite as panicked as I did when Randall, the photographer from Running Guru, asked how my race was going. He dug in his pack and pulled out his spare bottle. A Nalgene never looked so beautiful.

At the end of the second lap, I handed back the bottle, grateful and hopeful mine was still on the path. I was saved by a thoughtful spectator in case it wasn’t. As luck would have it, it was still there.

Most GPS devices have a battery life of ten hours or less. My beloved Garmin 310XT has twenty. Three runners had given up finishing in time after their devices died and their morale waned as they had no idea the time. One told me I had already inspired her to keep running just by running myself. She, I and Ben, on his first ultra, came around the last stretch together. I had “pulled” Ben up the last hill, and he repaid the favor by encouraging me to run across the finish, he last and me next to.

But never mind that. A race that long isn’t about winning or losing. It is about what it takes to even show. Finishing is a bonus. Helping someone else is icing on the cake. The amazing thing about small races is that your victory is everyone’s, especially the under-applauded volunteers, who were still at the finish line, junk food and beer in hand. Thank you.

“You’re slightly less incompetent than my last partner.”  This adventure was equally the most amazing and most awful experience of my life.

I never thought i would actually climb Denali (Mt McKinley to many), but there I was, at 14,200ft, being berated yet again by my chosen climbing partner.  Our brief relationship reminded me of my first and only marriage: we had both so wanted it so bad that we ignored all warning signs.

But still.  Denali.  Arguably one of the most difficult, most challenging summits on earth.  Its proximity to the artic circle and lack of any significant companions means it gets to make its own weather pattern.  “Don’t like the weather? Wait five minutes.” takes on a deadly significance on Denali.

And one of the most beautiful. Devoid of color and wildlife, its beauty is in its wildness.  Dramatic, rugged peaks.  Blues deeper than I’d ever seen–the sky as well as the ice. Avalanches pouring down all around, most fortunately far away, but at least one close enough to strike absolute terror.  And the crevasses–they seemed to drop all the way to the center of the earth.  Even the seemingly small ones were not to be trivialized, as you never knew what you could not see.

Denali terrified me.  I’d never felt more alive, more in-the-moment.

Through a miscommunication, we had not brought the snow baskets for our poles, rendering them worse than useless, since it was still weight we had to carry and slowed us down significantly.  Our first night was not in a standard campsite and my partner began to show the colors I would see over the next ten days.

“Why are you standing there?!” she screamed.

“Because you just gave me five completely different orders and I have no idea what to do first.”  To her credit, she backed down and we got the tent set up.  I set up the stove. She moved it five millimeters to the right.  I unzipped the vestibule. She unzipped it three more millimeters. “You’re going to set everything on fire.”

Each day was the same, but somehow completely different.  Wake up early, the minus thirty degrees doing more than nipping the nose.  Be grateful you really didn’t make camp on a crevasse. Light the stove to start the endless chore of melting water and the hopeless one of warming food. Eat. Pack up everything—it’s amazing the equipment required for a month on a mountain.

Into the rope system, slightly less complicated due to only two of us, but still a reminder that any step could end in a crevasse that one might never leave.  Try to get a head start on the dozen other climbing groups headed up the same day.  Set up camp, melt more snow, eat more cold, half cooked food.

Prior to this trip, I thought I could get along with anyone.  I was so naive.  The more I tried to get along, the more she beat me up.  The first breaking point came on day four when I was already tired of boiling water all. the. freaking. time.  I decided to eat my oatmeal cold.

“HUGE MISTAKE!”

Whu…?

“IT’S NOT AS NUTRITIOUS COLD. YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN OUR WHOLE TRIP.”

But it’s actually more nutritious not boiling the vitamins…

“WHAT DO YOU EVEN KNOW?!”

I know you’re eating Pop Tarts and complaining about my oatmeal not being nutritious enough.

The only time she spoke to me the rest of the day was to lecture me on how MP3 players were ruining mountaineering.  I resisted telling her it was my only salvation against her constant screaming at me. It is really hard to climb a mountain when your partner won’t talk to you.

In between, hike. Trudge. On the first few days, this was nothing more than a pleasant cross country ski.  At 11,000ft, the skis were exchanged for crampons and falling became “not an option”, according to my climbing partner. As though there was a choice. I was starting to wish it was.  I started to be disappointed we didn’t set up camp on a crevasse.

The sled containing our gear was much more obedient in the first days.  Now that it mattered, it refused to follow any direction, insisting on heading into any nearby crevasse.  And whether I was leading or following, the disobedience of the sled was entirely my doing, at least in the eyes of my partner.  I was too close.  Too far away. I was managing it too much, not enough.  I wasn’t helping her by pushing it. Why in the hell was I pushing the sled?  The constant criticisms wore on me even more than the fifty pound pack that was my other daily companion.

The views opened as we climbed. On the way to 14,200ft, the route from the 7,200ft camp to the 10,000ft camp was visible.  It was amazing.  The specks of tents gave true perspective to our location.  The distance to anything not covered in snow and ice added to that perspective. Mile upon mile of white purity.  White insanity.

Mt Foraker was our nearest neighbor, its ragged edges playing witness to the technical challenges it afforded climbers who dared.  Relative, Denali was truly a walk in the park.  Each morning, we’d watch it for signs of a change in the weather–if the summit wasn’t visible, bad weather would be visiting soon.

Despite the morning chill, we could not have asked for more brilliant weather.  The sun warmed the soul and baked every inch of visible skin.  Everyone had blisters and raw sores.  The sun never truly set, the evening light moving straight into the morning glory.

On our first day, we met an Aussie, solo, on his way out.  He had spent ten days in a tent with his climbing companions, the snow and wind never letting up.  The first sign of calm weather sent him sprinting down the mountain, his climbing partners abandoned.  His expression showed his thoughts on us continuing on. His sagging shoulders and defeated tone told us about his own adventure.

We spent our rest day at 14,200 talking with new friends and watching climbers on the headwall, a two thousand foot nearly vertical wall. It was the one area where fixed ropes are used. Two days prior to our arrival at that camp, a German climber had died at the top of the headwall. His pack had started sliding down the mountain.  He unhooked from his team and followed it two thousand feet down the other side.

We watched as the remaining team members began their return trip.  My heart broke for them, remembering a similar journey I’d made off Kilimajaro.  My climbing partner told me to turn off my “search and rescue brain” and deal with it. I wondered if she had had even a small idea of what I had been through, she would have been more sympathetic, but I knew the answer. She wanted the summit so badly, she would not forgive or acknowledge anything that might interfere. She was so against the idea of failure that she was inevitably setting us up for just that.

The next day found us at that spot. The day had gotten off to yet another rough start.  She’d lectured me about the importance of peeing with one’s pants on, lest one suffer “frost bit butt”.  I’d giggled and received a lecture on how my cavalier attitude was going to get us killed.

Karma had the final say: she soaked her thermals on her first attempt to pee like a guy.

At the top of the wall, we paused to catch our breath and take in yet another breathtaking vista.  I thought about the German.  I wondered about his life, about who and what he left behind.  I was listening to my MP3 player.  A song came on that a dear friend of mine composed, the chorus “Never argue with someone more stupid than you.”  I looked around again, and took a deep breath.

As amazing and awe-inspiring a mountain, as much as I was learning about myself, as challenged as I felt, and as proud as I was to be doing this, the feeling was undeniable.  It wasn’t worth it.

My climbing partner was unforgiving.  We descended mostly unroped, possibly the most dangerous thing you can do on Denali, she angry and frustrated, me guilty and relieved.  The second evening, a storm threatened to keep us tent bound.  She screamed at me for an hour about how we needed to find a way to get along and who the hell was I to take up so much space in the tent.  I sarcastically apologized for being 5’11” to her 5’6″.  Thankfully, the storm passed quickly, and the sun greeted us again in the morning. Luck held, and we caught the last flight off the glacier that afternoon.  We ate dinner in an deeply uncomfortable silence that evening, parting ways the next day, but not before she got in more sarcastic comments about how rich I must be to just be able to change my flight back home while she was just stuck there.

I am appreciative of the opportunity she gave me as much as I am sorry the story doesn’t have a better ending.