I can never spell exercise.

I few days ago I came home from schwork feeling slightly less obsessive depressive about my thesis research. I just triumphed at the gym! For the first time in months, no meat heads or hip niggles prevented me from doing single leg box jumps or guided squats. Although I feel like the last year of grad school has been countless wrong decision after wrong decision, I can at least feel victorious over this. Just as my adrenaline was slightly dulled by the irrational thought that this was the only thing I had going for me, John told me to read this Time article. "Why Exercising is a Higher Priority than my Career," singing me praises!

I've written on this theme numerous times in my blog. I fully believe exercise is the solution to most physical and mental health issues. As the author states, "when I exercise, it makes me better in every role I have, whether its as a husband, father, friend or entrepreneur." However, I cringe at how staunch the author sounds. Your career--and especially your family--should definitely take higher priority over exercise occasionally. I hate to think what a drag this guy would be working as Lani's technician, the habitus of passerine birds dictating his work schedule. This article also failed to mention the myriad of other ways people can rejuvenate their life balance. While I would love for every human to enjoy exercise bar none, I recognize that every one has their own special way of getting their head on straight at end the day.

The compatibility between work and training is the most utilitarian answer to achieving the utmost in both. Not that I am claiming to be the most excellent budding scientist in my department. I am just saying that however balance is achieved, it should usually be given top priority. This article is extreme, but I think most people need to realize how seriously beneficial regular exercise is. Likewise, some athletes can be extreme, and we should recognize the severity of taking this article too seriously.

A big s/o to my friend Lani who turns what could potentially be an all-consuming stress project into a fun adventure complete with belly laughs.. This is us in our P.P.E.

When I was in the field, I worked an average of 11 hours per day for 12 days straight. I was able to eek out 40 miles of running, which is what I normally see in 5-6 days. C'est la vie, I could not put exercising first for these 12 days, but I would certainly not neglect it. So here are my tips for training when life ebbs on your flow and work becomes the top priority.  These particularly apply to life in the Piceance (almost rhymes with nuance, although I prefer to think it sounds like fiancée).

10 Don't eat, you die. Same for not drinking water. This is amazingly common sense, but it is wondrous how such a simple concept is overlooked when you are trying to stay energized through a long day.

9 Embrace life. Its jelly knees, its flues, its stuck toe joints, its travel, its work, its play.

8 Field work usually means a rare type of shoe for your foot. This summer for me it means hiking boots and pinchy steel toe boot covers. Hot spots + bug bites = cankles galore. In the past, it meant swamp foot waders. Beware, this is an easy and inconspicuous way to get injured (see number 4).

7 For trail time, find a cattle drive trail and pray you are not trespassing.

6 Cross train when you can. It's hard to access a weight room, or even throw down a yoga mat for some core work when you are living in a trailer with three other people (don't be that girl). Take opportunities to engage yourself. For example, when our septic system was clogged, and we needed to use an old Christmas tree to poke the poop out of the way, we also needed someone to javelin the poop stick far far away. This was my opportunity to use some life skills FEC taught me.

5  I find it snooty how athletes call "work outs" a specific session, yet everyday joe's know a work out is a work out. This goes to show everything is context dependent.

4 Continuing on that topic, you deserve a rest day after twelve days in the Piceance. Even if you already took five of those twelve days off (see number 8).

3 Continuing on that topic, get your "work outs" in before you are pooped. I got in a fartlek, a 20 minute tempo, and sprints post-run the three occasions I felt up for it.

2 You are you so don't listen to me.

1 Be the best you can in every moment.

Thanks to my friend  Zander for so timely sharing this article.

A week where Johnny was made.

Low tide, Manomet Bay, Plymouth, MA

We missed what I presumed would be the best fireworks shows in the country. Instead, we were on a delayed redeye flight the night of July 3rd. We would not lay our heads horizontal until the birds sang for the sunrise near Brian's house on Locust Street. We spent the morning with Brian, Milla, and smart little Leila, then the evening with Mary Ellen, Erin, and Martin.

While the Manomet beach front expended most of their fireworks the night before, we got to see what I found much more spectacular. As John helped explain, we sat at the thumb joint of a fist with an index finger curved out in the air. Cape Code bay is an approximate circle 40-50 feet in diameter. From where we sat on the darkening beach, fireworks shows pulsed along the entire horizon. Their base explosions resounded across the Atlantic ocean. Steady beams of bonfires illuminated the peripheral horizon extending from our feet. The moon eventually rose through the center of it all, casting its blood orange beam across the water to our summer fire. The moon rose and grew larger while the famous fireworks of Massachusetts pulsed steady and small at the edge of our world.

We talked about the Fitzgerald, O'Donnell, Fitzpatrick, and Flaherty families. I listened to them banter in a familiar Fitzgerald fashion I could never keep up with. I learned more about the Manomet Conservation Center, originally gifted in pieces from around the world. It was co-founded by a wife who lay headstones for her dogs.  As we spoke, the moonbeam inching towards our feet with the tide, it was all washing away. Slowly, but with the same permanence as the bonfires that would disappear by tomorrow morning A grand show before us, and an infrequent, audible peanut gallery of dry bluff eroding behind us.

Dogwood dream Manomet house.

After a couple nights in Massachusetts, we headed to Vermont for four nights. This is the beautiful cabin hand-crafted by John's uncle Mark, a carpenter. He's built this cabin on his weekends, and although it is far from the "finished" carpentry of his craft, it is a work of art. 

Dream stream downslope from Uncle Mark's cabin.

The princess and the fiber glass bed. If princesses snack on fresh caught brookies, write by candlelight, hike/run all day, and bird bath in sinks and cold rivers, then I was the prettiest princess of them all. Waking up at 5 am each morning, beside this picture window, to the sounds of birds (HAH HAAAAH HAAAAH you ripped your shoe), percolating coffee, and popping wood stove fire was heaven. 

Toll road run up Burke Mountain on John's birthday! My kind of road running. 

07/08/15 Pemigawasset Loop. Mount Flume, Mount Liberty, Little Haystack, Mount Lincoln, Mount Lafayette, Mount Garfield, South Twin, Mount Guyot, Mount Bond. This is 29 miles with 12,000 ft of elevation gain in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The first 1.5 miles and the last 4 miles are on a perfectly flat, perfectly straight old railroad grade. If your brain is like mine and has a hard time comprehending square or vertical feet, that means this hike/run was 12,000 ft gain in less than 25 miles. That means each mile either climbs or descents 1,000 ft. Pain!

Rocks were more common but these ladders up Mount Liberty at least gave a semblance of rhythm. 

Mount Lafayette. People always tell me they don't run because it hurts their knees. We weren't really running much, but my knees HURT on these rocky trails.

I was definitely not smiling by the end of this run. John tried to get me to stop and smell some pine needles and I think I just ran by with my claws out.

Bondcliffs. Strong John smiled the whole way through. In fact, he just kept getting goofier! The last group of people we stopped and chatted with were having a hard time understanding his slurred words, devoid of calories.

The Pemi loop seems to circle the headwaters of the East Branch Pemigewasset River. Pemigewasset means "where the entering current is." I went straight for this perfect plunge pool at the end of the trail and was finally able to put my claws away.

The next day we hiked up Mount Washington with Martin. We had plans to do the 18-22 mile Presidential Traverse, but decided on an out-and-back in order to have time for breakfast at Polly's Pancake Parlour. With 17 miles under our belt, we basically did it. Mount Pierce, Mount Eisenhower, Mount Monroe, Mount Washington. 

Mount Washington summit [line] selfie! This is the tallest peak in the northeast, and you can get here on foot, by trail, or by vehicle. Needless to say, it is kind of a zoo. The trail we took up, Crawford Path, is the oldest footpath in the country!

Double fun day with double Fitzcereals!

We left the cabin in Vermont at 5:30 am on Friday and made it to Grannie Annie and Gramp's hotel room Portsmouth, NH, by 8:50 am. We were there for Joey and Kara's wedding, the most extravagant affair I will probably ever attend. John had completely ripped his running shoes he planned on wearing golfing the day before. So by 9:15 we had taken our first shower all week, by 9:30 John bought a new pair of running shoes from the blasphemous Dick's Sporting Goods, and by 10:00 am John made tee time (not tea time like I at first assumed).

Photos are "worth a thousand words" but they do not describe how sweet Grannie Annie and Gramps are.

Last night of our trip, back in Brockton, MA. A couple of Johnny's at Johnny Macaroni.

Eric Carle's Fibre Optic Light

Before there was much of anything, there were plenty of fireflies.

"Are you a firefly?" Asked one, looking for a mate.
But it was only a campfire. Few and far between, but cherished for their warmth, cooking abilities, and light.

"Are you a firefly?" He asked again. Not all firefly genders light up so obviously.
But it was only a candle. More common now than the campfire, but cherished for their mobility and brilliant light so luminous that paranoia still mistook it for yesterday's fire.

"Are you a firefly?" He kept trying, lighting his most unique signal.
It was only a porch light, enjoyed for its immobility and everlasting signal of home. Definitely not a firefly.

"Are you a firefly?" He asked again, ready to give up.
But it was only a cell phone screen. Unbelievably cherished for all its cracks and nonsense. It was the first cold light he had even seen, so he'd been easily fooled.

Cold light is 100% efficient and emits no heat with its glow. But the firefly learned that no light was coldest light of all.
"Are you a Lampryinae?" Asked the microscope.

Good bye beautiful trails. This is a shot from Mount Pisgah near Lake Willoughby in Vermont. One night at home with my Murph dog and shnuggs then the rest of the month in the field for me.