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.

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.

I love triathlons. I love Key West. The idea of a triathlon in Key West was more than I could dream for. But here I am, recovering on Duval Street from the most fun I’ve ever had beating myself up: the Bone Island Triathlon.

The race, aside from the perfect tropical location, boasted a completely flat course. Back in August, knowing how dreary winter can be in Colorado after the holidays, I signed up. I probably should have thought through bike training in December, but I’m really glad I didn’t.

The adventure to get here was almost as daunting as the race itself. I’d forgotten that my bike box handles were gone (thank goodness for duct tape). A delayed flight and an even more delayed rental car put me at the hotel past midnight. Having to overnight a bike tool I’d put on my carry-on kept me there until noon.

Check-in for the race was the only painless part. I missed dinner due to the food not being ready in time and having to get to the last pre-brief meeting by 5pm. That meeting came to an abrupt end when the fire alarm was tripped (yes, seriously). Still having to check in my bike (not to mention putting it together), I left the meeting, unfortunately missing information about a turn on the bike course and, consequently, the turn.

But I made it to the start with time to spare and all the important stuff. One thing I truly enjoy about Southern competitions is the lack of, well, competition. In Colorado, I’m used to getting the once over from other athletes, then being dismissed. Most of the people I chatted with were first timers, excited and terrified. One gentleman was celebrating his thirteenth tri, hoping that doing it in 2013 wouldn’t be too much bad luck.

In tris, I just survive the swim part. This race was no exception, with the ocean swim. If the San Francisco bay counts, then this was my second such swim. I managed two miles before becoming seasick. Getting out at Higgins beach, I staggered through transition, hoping the earth would stop swaying before I had to get on the bike.

The bike ride was pure child-like joy. The ocean breeze, straight flat road, and scenery to die for, made the 112 miles pass like a dream. The only downside was the mental energy needed to not stop at the tiki bars and seafood restaurants that pepper the route.

The run is always my favorite part. Just me and my feet, half gliding, half limping along to the finish. This run began with three laps beside Roosevelt, each lap a little quieter as runners finished and headed to the end; a little darker as the sun found its rest over the waters.

After an eternity, I had my three bracelets, proving my laps, and I began the meander through the now very dark, quiet streets of Key West. Suddenly, I was Duval Street, a stark, welcome contrast with the bright lights, loud music, and hoards of happy drunk tourists to cheer and applaud and high five me along what is normally the hardest and loneliest section of the race.

A whole new version of the Duval Crawl, it was the perfect finish to a Key West adventure.

Riding along the long winding road, moss covered trees bowing and greeting the guests, my first glimpse of the breath-taking Mohonk resort (www.mohonk.com) in the Catskills near New Paltz, NY, elicited one thought.

Heeeeere’s Johnny!

The eighth-of-a-mile long, seven story, eighteenth century castle, stunning in an almost overbearing manner, cannot but bring make memories of that 1970’s classic movie, The Shining. I cannot believe work has chosen this for our holiday party. The two hour drive from Albany, with a stop for coffee, was worth the time as we stepped back in time for an evening and night of luxury. I was a bit taken aback when greeted by the smell of smoke as I entered my room, but realized it was from the fireplace. Yes, a working fireplace in many of the rooms. What a nice touch.

The view from my room was just as amazing as the room itself. The fireplace warmth was matched by the decor of the room, complete with a balcony for soaking in the serenity of Mohonk Lake. I didn’t have much time, though, as drinks and dinner were less than an hour away. I don’t often have the chance to dress up, so I’d brought my LBD, which fit well with the dark , antique, richly decorated bar and dining area. The food was as amazing as the rest. Appetizers, dinner and dessert.

Choosing what to eat took almost as long as the drive. I decided on the scallops for an appetizer, filet of sole with an incredible polenta for my main dish, and warm apple cobbler a la mode for dessert. The wine list looked amazing, but with a triathlon in less than a month, I forewent the alcohol. I figured that at least would justify dessert.

As much fun as it is hanging out with happily inebriated coworkers, I left as soon as it was decently possible–I had an early morning date with some of the 85 miles of trails that surrounded the castle. Ignoring the rules forbidding running in the pre-dawn hours–and on the trails ever–I snuck out, with the intent of finishing my run at The Lookout, a tower at the high point of the Mohonk Preserve (www.mohonkpreserve.org), the largest wilderness preserve in New York state.

As the landscape began to reveal itself in the morning light, I regretted having run so long by headlamp. A gently sloping horizon blanketed in the now naked trees, the Gunk Cliffs (just begging to be climbed), valley after valley of browns and greens. I imagined a return trip, riding the carriage roads and trails in summer by mountain bike and in later winter by skis and snowshoes.

I finished my run along the lake, a steep trail leading me to the tower. I paused for a few moments to soak in the sunrise and one final drink of early morning peace, before returning to the breakfast buffet with some decidedly quieter coworkers.

I’ve been accused on occasion of being accident prone. Let’s just say if scars tell a story, my body is a novel. Add to that the fact I prefer to hike solo, and you end up with some very nervous friends.

To help, I try to follow the first rule of safe hiking: Let someone know where you’re going and when you’re coming back. The theory is, if someone knows where you are, how lost can you be? I’ve been lucky and haven’t had to take advantage of my ICE (In Case of Emergency person). Yet. Knock on wood.

I’m always looking for ways to be just a little safer. Which is how I became curious about the Spot (www.FindMeSpot.com), a handy little device whose sole purpose is to get you help when you most need it. It is essentially a satellite based beacon that allows a hiker to send “I’m okay”,”I’m not okay”, or “I’m *really* not okay” messages to friends and family, with the hiker’s current location. For a small fee, you can also set up a website so your friends can “follow” you.

There are several such products on the market, and my decision was economical and logistical: Best Buy had it on sale and they’re within walking distance of home. The timing was good as well: I was a month from leaving for Denali.

My climbing partner and I decided to forego the $200 satellite phone in favor of the $65  Spot for our Plan B.  We tested it to make sure it worked in Alaska (while its coverage area is pretty good, the further north/south you go, the sketchier it becomes). We had half our social circles tracking our every move.

Until day three anyway.

That’s when Spot (I tend to animate my technical devices) decided it couldn’t find the satellites. The little help sheet on the back suggested I find an area with a better view of the sky. I cannot imagine there is one.

The temperature for those three days stayed below zero degrees Fahrenheit, and I suspect that was part of the issue. Fortunately, Best Buy didn’t ask if I’d exceeded Spot’s temperature range, and just gave me a new one.

Which I lost last weekend.

Spot comes with a small (and apparently cheap) carabinar. Since it works better with an unobstructed view of the sky, I generally keep it on the outside of my pack. This, combined with bushwhacking through large willows, had the unfortunate result of separating me from Spot. And of course, I didn’t notice until the last mile of the hike.

The extra fee for the tracking feature was about to pay for itself. A slow connection on my Crackberry eventually gave me Spot’s lat/long coordinates which I programmed into my GPS (I do love technology). And back I went.

My good luck continued in that the several inches of snow on the ground meant I could exactly retrace my route. The coordinates got me within two hundred feet and the tracks got me the rest of the way. And there was Spot, lying face up in the snow, happily blinking away.

The irony that I had to “rescue” my rescue device is not lost on me.

In retrospect, I am glad for the opportunity to test Spot’s ability to know where it is. It is good enough to get rescuers within shouting distance. However, with this incident and its failure to perform on Denali, I will still be emailing my whereabouts to my ICE. Being lost with Spot would be just that much more ironic.

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