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 . . .