Back to basics.

After failing to post anything for the past two months, one has to ask: Why the hell do I have a blog? 

Because I need an outlet for all the random crap bouncing around inside my head.  Such as the omnipresent hum of "I live in the sickest place ever."  Example #74 of why I feel that way -- sunset on the Shoreline Trail.  

The Shoreline: so close, so taken for granted, so awesome. 

Michael Corleone had it right.

"Just when I thought I was out . . . they pull me back in."

After the Wahsatch Steeplechase*, I came to grips with the fact that I wouldn't be able to run the Speedgoat.  My knee was tweaked and I was on the RICE-train to rehab-ville.  No training = no 50k.

And I was okay with that.  No more step ups in the corner, no more effing sandbag get ups, no more worrying about cramping up.  My running "season" was over.  I would just ride my bike and wait for dry land to begin. 

But then Karl threw a wrench in the works.  And now I have a whole year to think about step ups, cramping, posterior chain . . . ugghhhh.  Who needs a drink? 

Rollover?  Next year?!  No, you see, I was thinking that I wouldn't  . . . never mind.  Shit.  

* Finished 7 minutes faster than last year, but was on pace for much better than that.  Despite the geeky socks and the geeky pills, I cramped at mile ten and hobbled out the last seven.  Fail.

The beginning of the end.

I just joined Facebook. 

No good can come from this.

UPDATE:
I've been using Facebook for about 5 minutes and I'm already annoyed as shit.  Grrrr. 

SECOND UPDATE:
My brother and I have become Facebook Friends.  And I haven't gotten fired yet.  So far, so good. 

Crushed. Soundly.

This time last year I was skiing the Hotlum-Wintun Ridge on Mt. Shasta under ideal conditions.  It was a spectacular trip.  So good in fact, that it created a karmic debt that had to be repaid at some point.  The debt came due.  

Yesterday we skied a nice 3000' on Mt. Hood.  The weather was pretty nice, the snow was a tad wind-jacked.  Hey, it can't always be perfect.   















But today we got crushed trying to reach the Southwest Chutes on Mt. Adams.  Distance, lots of elevation gain, a pair of demonic boots, and some serious effing weather . . . the PNW was too much for me today.












There's another 4000' of mountain up there . . . somewhere.  The suck-o-meter went into the red zone shortly after this was taken.  

Thirty three years.

I'm 33 years old today.  There is nothing redeeming about your 33rd birthday.  Usually I wallow in some kind of "I'm running out of time, my best years are slipping away" bullshit, but a birthday message from my in-laws snapped me out of it this year. 

Rich:

Wow.  You are 33 already.  By that age, Christ had figured out how to walk on water, raise the dead and turn water into wine. But don't feel inadequate.  He also pissed off so many people that they hung him on a cross, and, besides, he couldn't ski worth a damn.

Happy Birthday. 

Well said.  So here's to being nice enough to others to keep nails out of my wrists, and fit enough to ski better than a damn.  Hell, maybe by the time I'm 34 I'll learn to pick up my uphill hand.

May 15 in the Uintas.  The strategic use of backseat skiing is an underrated skill.

A vicious rip-off.

I found this on Teton AT.  I would feel worse about re-posting it here -- it seems fairly plagiarific to do so -- but it was crafted by Tom Diegel, an excellent local skier and all around good guy.  And it really sums up some of my frusrtation this time of year.  Enjoy. 

In-flight wifi . . .

is amazing. 

I'm somewhere over Wyoming, returning from a trip home to see la mia famiglia.  Might as well post another teaser from Deseret Peak. 

That familiar feeling.

It's equal parts weariness and anxiety.  Weariness because I'm falling behind at the firm and I can see the late nights and weekends -- at my desk -- in my future.  Anxiety because it's snowing.  Where am I going to ski?  Who is available for partners?  Should we spin tram laps or hike something loooong?  A lot of new snow, but not much wind, so . . .  And so on, and so on. 

The anxiety is a nice problem to have.  The weariness, on the other hand . . .

From a recent trip to Deseret Peak.  More to follow . . .

I aspire to 1993.

Part of my obsession with skiing is the constant reassessment of my "goals in skiing."  Perfecting a GS turn, taking air at speed, skiing the Alps  . . . skiing the Alps well.  All of these are among The Goals. 

But most of all, I aspire to ski as well as the stunt skiers in Aspen Extreme. 

They rip 200cm GS skis in variable snow (to put it kindly), they float a classic "extreme" tip cross off the cat track, and they apparently have ACL's made of steel, 'cuz they backseat everything and ski away. 

Maybe -- if I stay committed, stay fit, and keep working at it -- maybe some day I'll ski as well as Dexter and TJ. 

The Luck of the Draw.

I thought I had timed it right.  I bailed on work last week and I skied the four best days of my year -- in a row.  We floated through an effortless Thirds to Eagle's on Thursday; arc'd hero snow on Baldy at The Bird on Friday; ripped an untracked Lone Pine and a windbuffed West Rustler on Saturday; and then porpoised through fluffy craziness in Gunsight and the Backside on Sunday.  It was as good a string of days as I've ever had. 

And then we received another four feet of snow.  LCC didn't open yesterday.  The lifts at Alta never turned.  Today is going to be epic . . . at my effing desk.
 

From this morning at The Bird, 'cuz Alta's website is down.  Probably buried under too much snow. 
I hate everyone.  Perhaps this guy the most. 

My new idol.

He can pull a lincoln loop on a jet ski, he rides a mean mechanical bull, and he has great taste in tattoos.

Yes, it's official, my new idol is: the monkey sock puppet from the Kia Sorrento commercial.



Mr. Monkey was nearly beaten out by The Most Interesting Man in the World. But the Monkey has a kick ass theme song, so he gets the nod.

Praying for the Holy Grail of Snow Conditions . . .

Once upon a time, a group of us were skiing at Alta on a day in March. It was a storm day and an honest 6-10" had fallen by early afternoon. As we hopped on Wildcat for a lap in the 'Ho, the liftie pulled the "Closed" sign across the lift line behind us. At 2:30 p.m. "That's odd," we thought.

Before we heard the thunder, we heard the lift cables sizzling. No shit -- sizzling. And then came the lightning. The liftie at the top of Wildcat was abandoning ship by the time we got to the top. Later, we would hear rumors that the hippy in the top shack at Supreme was on his megaphone yelling "Save yourselves!!" A quick run down Collins Face and we retreated to the GMD for a pitcher. The storm had gone nuclear, the lifts were closed, and people were headed for their cars. We assumed our day was over.

But is wasn't. An hour later, the front passed and the lifts started turning again. And it was ON. Two inches of windbuffed graupel coated everything. The High-T was effortless and West Rustler was buffed-out silk-tastic-ness. Everyone who had enough vision (read: luck) to wait it out spent the next hour going very, very F-A-S-T.

Why bring this up now? Because this:


sounds like an afternoon of this:

Graupel a.k.a. silky ball bearings. Pure speed.

Keep your fingers crossed . . .

The Age Old Question.

If you could be any kind of pro athlete, what would you be?

After watching the Olympics for the last two weeks, "alpine ski racer" is an intriguing choice. Alpine racing has a rich history of hairball competitors (see Exhibit A, below) and exotic locations. And you go really effing fast. What could be better? Well . . .


Exhibit A: Bill Johnson may have valued speed above all else. It eventually cost him, but not before he won gold in Sarajevo. A total stud.

MotoGP Racer. Hairball characters, exotic locations, and a throttle. And you go really, REALLY effing fast.


Il Dottore: Valentino Rossi. He has side burns, I have side burns. Coincidence?

If I could do it all over again -- I'd be an engineer. But I'd still dream of being a MotoGP racer.

Grrrrrr...

My shoulder is still f*cked. I rested it for a full four weeks, but . . . I may not have been entirely consistent with the prescribed physical therapy. And I'm pretty sure that my (now failed) Lent-time resolution of doing 100 push ups a day didn't help.

So now I'm back to wincing whenever I reach over my head with my left hand. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Frickin' Lent...

Every year at this time the vestiges of my childhood surface as I try to commit to giving up something for Lent. I have failed for as long as I can remember. But this was going to be THE year. The year that I did something drastic, something heretofore unheard of. I was going to quit drinking until Easter.

To which Grom said something like "you're an idiot." And he has a point. To poach a great line from Roger Dodger: "You drink that drink! Alcohol has been a social lubricant for thousands of years. What do you think, you're going to sit here tonight and reinvent the wheel?"

So, as Grom suggested, rather than giving something up, I'm taking something on. 100 push ups a day until April 4th. Simple, boring -- but at least I'll be able to enjoy a few bottles of pinot along the way.

Looking forward.

I've been in an athletic slump lately. I'm coming to the realization that my skis are too stiff for me, and I've been spotty at best in terms of working out. In an effort to re-energize, here is a list of upcoming events for which I've registered -- or repeatedly shot my mouth off about doing.



Wasatch Powderkeg: Dr. Off the Couch guilted me into this. I was looking for a way to bag it, but then The Wee One said she would do it with me -- in costume. Now I'm psyched.


Skiing Mt. Adams: Supposedly the second best ski line in the continental U.S., after the Hotlum-Winton, the Southwest Chutes on Mt. Adams are becoming an obsession.

The SW Chutes are the lines spilling off the false summit on the right side of the photo . . . I think.



Wahsatch Steeplechase: This year's goal is the same as last year's -- run across the line.


Speedgoat 50k: 32 miles and 10,000 feet each of ascent and descent. It's basically two Wahsatch Steeplechases, back to back, at elevation. What could go wrong?

Mid Mountain Marathon: I expect my rematch with this mofo to be the hardest of them all, but it's worth it for the downhill finish -- and the two free Heinekens.

Comedy in unlikely places.

From the gym's website:

Grrrrrrrrr.

Working on the weekend -- while sometimes necessary -- always blows. Today is no exception.

I woke up in a toxic mood, so I headed to the gym for a beat down before settling in at my desk.

10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1 reps of:
Deadlifts @ 185#
Box jumps @ 36"
KB floor presses @ 35#
Sand bag get ups @ 80#
37:48

A quick trip to the Bay Leaf for some hash and eggs, and the suck begins . . .

"What then, when ridges are not safe?"

I feel compelled to keep ringing this bell:

THE BACKCOUNTRY IS AN EFFING NIGHTMARE RIGHT NOW.

When an experienced backcountry professional gets ripped off a 20 degree ridge line, it's time to crawl under the bed and hide. I'm jonesing to tour, but I can wait it out. I went to the gym yesterday; I think I'll go for a run today. The mountains will be there.

"It's all about us" -- a sad part II.

ksl.com - Man trapped in avalanche near Solitude

Fuck.

"It's about us."

Most of us know enough to keep a lid on it when the danger is high -- when it's been nuking for a couple of days and the wind hasn't quit, we stay away from uncontrolled avy terrain. But what about times of transition? It's been snowing hard for the last few hours, or the storm cycle ended yesterday . . . That's when most of us are capable of doing something stupid.

This excellent graphic from Drew Hardesty at the Utah Avalanche Center lays it out. Human factors -- it's all about us.

Keep your head up. Everywhere.

I had planned to write something about the fantastic skiing from the weekend, the great time I had ripping around with The Wee One, and the stereotype-defying peeps I met in the gondola at the 'Basin.

But then everything came crashing down.

The season's first avalanche fatality, just outside of Snowbasin. Rumors of Baldy sliding to the ground -- en masse -- at Alta. Not to mention the three Alta Ski Patrol members who took a nasty ride in Gunsight. West Monitor and West Desolation Ridge slid 1/2 mile wide each, with crowns ranging from two to ten feet.

It's gnarly out there right now. Everywhere. Let's all keep our heads up and take a deep breath.

No good can come from this. Photo courtesy of Brett Kobernik and the Utah Avalanche Center.

Long day.

Cooking dinner at 11:15 p.m. means this has been a long day. Nonetheless, I made it to the gym.

10 rounds
Mini leg blaster (with 10 squat jumps instead of 5)
3 x Scotty Bob @ 25 lbs
23:58

Shit got real in round six. Luckily, I had Annie with me to shout encouragement.


"What's the matter, Sally? Are you getting tired? Pick it up!!"

SLC at its finest.

The sun is shining in the valley. It's snowing in the mountains. This is why I live here.


The view from my office. Not bad.

It's time to re-engage.

The air has been bad. The skiing has been so-so. I haven't been sleeping well. My shoulders hurt and my legs feel weak. All in all, the slump-o-meter has been in the red zone.

And then I walked into the gym and saw a local fire fighter doing a truly awful workout in full gear. It was somehow scary and inspiring at the same time, and it was enough to knock me out of my funk.

It's time to get back in the game.

A hard man doing a hard thing. And a prime example of why action sports photographers do no use the iPhone.