Glamping in June.

Some call this a "mini Hardrock 100," but I would like to point out that we would need to squeeze in another 4,000+ ft climb to be stoichiometrically correct. Hat's off, Hardrockers.

How Not to Train for a 50 Miler

Get plantar facistis.
Stop running.
Run an average of nine miles/week during the three critical weeks you should be running closer to 65.
Run 30 miles in two days less than two weeks out. This is in order to test the foot's resistance and resillience...and to panic train.
(DISCLAIMER: "How Not to Train for a 50 Miler" may or may not be coach endorsed.)

How to Train for a 50 Miler no one, Including Yourself at Times, Thought you Would Start

(Same circumstances, different list)

Get over your fear of cycling.
Ride an average of 120 miles/week during the critical weeks, ending with a 20 hour week of "moving" (sensu E. Forsberg).
Stay consistent with 2 hrs/week of core (ie core, physical therapy, plank, push up, weight routines).
Be the best you can in every moment (sensu L. Hawker).

But mostly, I just glamped.

June 02, 2014, Lamoille Canyon, Ruby Mountains, NV

Urban Dictionary defines glamping as (v.) shorthand for glamorous camping.

More Rubies

I stayed outside, since that's what I like doing.

June 04, 2014, backpacking 35 miles of the PCT with my Ma and Murph, Carson Iceberg Wilderness, CA

June 05, 2014, More PCT

June 07, 2014, more PCT

Eventually, I had to stop glamping. I spent my first week of graduate school reading about the outside. Reciprocal subsidies, the difference between stream metabolism and and energy budget, Google Scholar stalking scientists.

Then I blinked, and we were glamping at Lake San Cristobal, and the Front Ragers were few and far between, and the San Juans overwhelmed me like I my glamping binge had been akin to ascending something like Dante's Inferno, and I was running 50 miles.

San Juan Solstice, near mile 12

SJS, near mile 14

SJS, near mile 24, PC: ever-loving John Fitz.

SJS, near mile 25

SJS, I don't know same area

SJS, near mile 46

My foot is fine, although I wonder if the sheer amount of hiking spared me. I felt good, then I felt really bad. Short of breath, and my breath's shortness was filling with nausea. The last 2,000 ft climb at mile 41 I spent leap-frogging uphill with another man as we took turned trying not to puke on the side of the trail. I walked some, I let gravity run me downhill some, and then it was over.

12:34, 8th woman for the day, 1:36 back from female winner Kerrie Bruxvoort. Nothing to be too disappointed with. Onto the next.

Glamping on the Solstice's eve, Lake San Cristobal, CO

When asked who inspired her, Ann Transon replied, "happy trail dogs."

It is illustrative to imagine a giant's finger tracing the Earth's surface. Feeling a skim of liquid across the oceans, ripples over the grand canyons, bristles of patchy burns, and braille peaks of the tallest mountains. Velvet farms, spongy lowland, sandpaper poles. Strokes of cities catching like the barbed side of Velcro. A giant could tilt the world in his fingertips, peer closer, and watch a city's pulse.

There would be other pulses, like the sporadic gaseous blemishes exhumed from Earth's infernal core. But cities pulse in tune with human-paced entropy, in diurnal rhythm no matter the speed a giant spins a globe. Regardless, a giant fingertip skips over the intricacies of a season's pulse, or feel the pressure of living in that pulse.