Training Circuit

by Matt Gray
photos to come soon!

Most every runner has a series of runs that they return to again and again in their local area.  Whether on the road, in the parks, around lakes, across the plains, or up and down hills and mountains, these routes become a part of their favored training circuit.  With my brother on his way to Colorado, I thought it would be fun to put together a brief look at five runs from my training circuit which cover a fine variety of trails and landscapes in and near Denver.

The Local Lakes
1 mile ... 3 miles ... 15 miles+


Sometimes in order to ensure high weekly mileage, convenience is absolutely key.  Across the street from my house, Rocky Mountain Lake offers three different one-mile loops to circumnavigate the park. To the West, Berkeley Lake offers another one-mile loop, and a couple miles South, the Sloan's Lake trail comes in at 2.6 miles. Great views of mountains, changing trees, wryly geese, and the enchanting calls of Red Wing Blackbirds make any of the loops aesthetically pleasing even with the roar of traffic. Depending on my mood, how much time I have, and the snow/melt conditions, I might run around just one lake for an hour, or connect all three for a much longer day. No matter what, these runs are a great time to practice speed, form, and meditation.

The Red Rock-Hogback Loop Challenge
6.5 miles (4 mile, 9 mile and 13 mile variations)

There are several mileage and route variations to the trails leaving from Matthew Winters Park just north of the famed Red Rocks Amphitheater. My favorite though is to head across the street and up onto the hogback (incredible geologic feature which displays dinosaur fossils) for a heady 2.5 miles of rolling and rocky trail.  Views abound as you cut back across the valley into the Red Rocks and then up onto an incredible inter-canyon mesa. The trail remains challenging, but the Colorado panorama unfolding all around you keeps the rewards high. 

The Waterton Canyon Half
13 miles (and shorter variations)

This run will always hold a dear place in my heart as it was the first continuous half marathon I ran.  It became the foundation for all the many incredible trail runs and ultra-marathons that have followed in the last 18 months.  The route follows a dirt road into the canyon, winding around bends in the river, skirting the granite walls, and offering the occasional Big Horn Sheep siting.  Like all canyons, there's a special poetry that exists in the light and the air, which keeps the focus of the run on the surrounding wilderness.


The North Mesa Mash
2 to 14 miles (loops, out-and-backs, flats, steep hills)

Named for the highlight of this run, traversing across the North Mesa above Golden while looking up at the Front Range peaks and smelling the aroma of malts mashing at the Coors brewery, I return to this set of trails again and again.  The wide diversity of terrain, with some extremely challenging hills, keeps me feeling tuned-in and in-shape.  While I don't always enjoy dodging speedy mountain bikers, everyone stays pretty courteous.  This is single-track I'll happily share.


The Infinite High-Line
1 to 66 miles (seriously)


Okay, it doesn't go on forever, but it is THE place for me to knock-out long mileage days. The High Line Canal trail might not have the elevation gain and loss that I need throughout my training, but it is a reliable route, even in the heart of winter. I've run some of my fastest times on this wide dirt trail which parallels the historic canal across wetlands, into McMansion neighborhoods, and up against beautiful ranches.  And with the wide open expanse of the plains, Rocky Mountain vistas, and multiple trail heads, the High Line Canal trail is a familiar, comforting friend that prepares my mind and body for full-day adventures.

Gear

by Matt Gray

For family and friends who know me well, they're well aware that I've never been one to overly indulge in material possessions.  Particularly when it comes to clothes and shoes, I live by the motto on a ratty old Patagonia T-shirt that I've worn more than enough times, "Live Simply." I made one pair of Clarks' semi-dress shoes last nearly five years, wearing them throughout Italy, across Europe and into Southern Mexico. Even a crack running across the entire sole on the mid-foot couldn't keep me from still going out for a city wander in those great kicks.  My Clarks were magical. One day they disappeared; I suppose someone was tired of looking at them.

As can be seen in the picture above, all this changed when I started running.  In between those long sleeve shirts, short sleeve shirts, fleece pants, fleece tops, rain jackets, windbreakers, and rain pants, (all for running in different weather conditions), are seven pairs of running shoes that I've acquired in just over a year, (and two more pairs don't even fit into the organizer).  Each pair is for a particular surface or terrain I might be running.  And most strange for me, I happen to also adjust my clothes to match my shoes. The last part is hyperbole; most moments I look at my gear stash and think, "this has gotten out of control."

Unfortunately, it doesn't stop with the shoes and clothes.  To run comfortably, there are all sorts of packs, bottles and accessories I've acquired.  Each serves its purpose for a different length run or for a mood I might be in on a particular day. Some items serve more basic needs: band-aids, anti-chafe cream, and shoo gu to fix that broken part on my Clarks ... when I find them again.

Why is this stuff important? It's not really, but it serves as another running metaphor ... we have a habit of surrounding ourselves with material goods to be comfortable and to seek happiness when all we need is a beat-up old pair of sneakers, some shorts, a cotton undershirt, and the wide open road disappearing beneath our feet.

Running Against the Wind

by Matt Gray

When the thermometer rests between 35 and 55 degrees, it's the perfect temperature to go for a run: not-so-cold that your lungs burn, and not-so-hot that you're drenched in sweat. These Goldie Lox running days are relatively rare, even if you strategically plan your time and only run when the mercury hits that perfect threshold. You must get outside often, and often in less-than-ideal conditions.

Late last fall, I'd been waiting for that arctic cold snap to break and for the sun to come out and melt some of the ice. Finally, after almost ten days without running, my criteria were met.

I laced up my road/trail hybrids and hit a route in the northwest suburbs that traveled a mix of dirt paths, canyon trails, and meandering tract-home streets. I circumnavigated a lake, crossed a ravine, and came up over a rise to an incredible view of the the Front Range, and a fierce wind ripping over the Divide. 

I contemplated turning back to the safety of home, but I'd only covered a little under 2 miles and I was eager to push for a longer day. I ran against the wind for another two miles until I was able to make a right turn.  While the side wind was less difficult to manage, I looked down on a couple occasions to see my legs landing not directly below me, but slightly to the right. I estimated that the gusts were hitting me at 30 to 35 miles per hour.  Strong, cold, and unrelenting.

Gypsy Sun & Rainbows

Zeppelin in my mind

I turned up the tunes on my i-pod to focus on something other than the pain as the wind tore at my skin and pierced my ears. But the roar drowned out even the loudest of Jimi Hendrix solos and Led Zeppelin riffs. Now five miles from home, I had no other choice than to work with the elements. I gave into the wind and let my body and my mind ride the gusts, the discomfort, and the exhilaration.

Reminded of Garuda Running

On the backside of the loop, I relished in the few miles when the wind came from behind, and was broken up by some of the low rolling hills.  It was in these moments that I took stock of the situation and realized how wonderful I felt. It was far better to be out moving and breathing in these conditions than the groggy days I spent hiding behind my computer waiting for the weather to change.

So if running continues to serve as an inexhaustible metaphor for life, learning to hit the trail on a less-than-perfect day is a lesson in overcoming challenges and facing adversity head-on. Running against the wind is what reminds us how great it is to be alive.

Happy New Year!

Walking On Infinite Light

Text & Photos By Matt Gray

On my last run of the year yesterday, I reflected on a number of our adventures from the past 18 months.  I realized that I've contemplated several times on this blog why running has suddenly become a major component of my life, and how the different aspects of running emerge at different times while on the trail and in the world.  From Running Recovery to Running the Wind Horse, I have found a sense of peace and purpose on the long, slow distances, and I have enjoyed the outdoors more thoroughly, more often. Most importantly, and this became abundantly clear in the final stride of 2013 as geese wandered in the setting sun on a frozen lake, I have seen the subtle and the grand Beauty hundreds of times this year, which I too often missed before ... 

2013 was an incredible first year for the Lymphedema Awareness Team.  Through our running and sponsorship efforts, we raised nearly $2,000, and covered more than 3500 combined miles on trails in stunning scenic places. These distances included the Joshua Tree Traverse, the Beyond Limits Ultra, the Oriflamme 30, the Dirty 30, the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim of the Grand Canyon, and countless training runs across the mountains, deserts, and plains of California and Colorado.

We can't thank you enough for all that you did to support our inaugural year through donations, kind words, and spreading information about our project on Facebook and to your networks. We hope to see you again in 2014!

Recovery

by Matt Gray

www.UtahRedRocks.com Photography

Believe it or not, it's extremely helpful to your body to go for a short, low-impact run within the first or second day following a long distance effort.  When it hurts just to stand up, even a ten or twenty minute jog seems impossible after a 40 + mile day. But just as we overcame moments of intense pain and even frustration on the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim of the Grand Canyon, we must overcome the apathy of resting.

On the Monday after the Grand Canyon, I woke up in Moab, Utah.  It still took a great deal of effort to walk through my stiff legs... I felt like a pirate with two wooden pegs.  Even hitting the gas and brake pedals in the car took uncomfortable effort. But I pushed myself through the wall, grabbing yogurt, a banana, and a mug of coffee from the hotel breakfast, and then driving into Arches National Park.

Lindsay and I camped in the same red rock desert over three years ago, and enjoyed several walks to see the magnificent arches. Delicate Arch has remained etched in my mind as a favorite vista. So when the park ranger handed me the map at the entrance, I immediately found the trailhead and headed straight there.

The mile and a half trail up to the best vista of Delicate Arch gains a decent amount of elevation, travels across a small stretch of desert, and most significantly, it heads up and over some beautiful red rock. It was the perfect path to stretch my legs, breath in the refreshing desert air, and feel alive.

Having just completed the greatest running adventure of my life, I felt somewhat arrogant striding briskly up this trail and passing several other tourists. Many carried full packs with water and supplies, probably taking most of the morning to complete the hike. I breezed by, wearing only my running shorts and shoes, and questioning the exhiliration I felt from the whole experience. How could I be so fortunate to be here, running free?

Delicate Arch appears quite suddenly after ascending a narrow portion of the path that's carved right out of the rock.  There's a slice of profound solitude at that vista as you catch your breath and become aware of what you are standing in front of: an incredibly subtle geologic movement, representative of the cosmic improbability that has allowed for any such beauty, that has even allowed for our existence. I stop questioning my fortune for being able to run so free, and I instead sit down and soak in the view, thankful for my metamorphoses into a runner, thankful for this most delicate of all moments. I am indeed, recovered.

Because I Am Here

Text by Matt Gray
Photos by Daniel Gray

In 1924, when asked why he wanted to climb Everest, George Mallory uttered the three, now infamous words, "because it's there."  Time and time again this response has been quoted by other mountaineers, used as justification and rational for going to the edge, and offered in place of the much longer, much more complicated explanation which any person seeking wildness and wilderness has contemplated over and over again during arduous miles and soul shaking ascents. While Mallory's phrase is profound, it can also be interpreted as too definitive and as an over-simplification of our most incredible experiences on this earth.

During my last two running stories, I've explored the concept of Wind Horse as an attempt to further clarify my own answer to the question, "why do I want to run so far?" As we quite literally descended into the depths of the Grand Canyon at 4 am on November 9th, hoping to complete the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim challenge, I immediately returned to this sense of bliss and personal fulfillment found in these other Wind Horse experiences. 

With only the glow of somewhat bright headlamps to guide our way down the first ten miles of the steep and technical Bright Angel Trail, my world consisted of a microscopic area of earth. If it hadn't been for the changing color of dirt beneath our feet, we would have no other indicator that we were covering any ground whatsoever. And when your horizon becomes that minute, you have little else to do than turn inward and contemplate that all-to-familiar question again and again.                                 

But the pre-dawn silhouettes, the sunrise, and the brilliant illumination of day does not offer any reprieve from the question.  By then, we are deep, deep into the canyon.  The sandstone walls rise a mile above us. The trail creeps and bends around fold after fold of inter-canyon geology. Our horizon is no longer minute, but the incomprehensible expanse of the grandest of canyons makes us feel small, not only in this present moment, but infinitesimally tiny in relation to time and the millions of years that the canyon represents.

Does such thinking about our magnificent insignificance deter us from finding the will to put one foot in front of the other? From waking for another day? From thriving in another moment? No. Nihilism has no place amidst such a beautiful landscape.  In fact, quite the opposite is true.  We are not deterred, but determined: our will is strengthened, our resolve to carry on made firmer.

And just as we are nearing the edge of the North Rim and coming to terms with our existence, we are tested again. A dozen other Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim runners pass us already on their way back south, moving faster, lighter, freer of pain. How are they in such better shape?  Where did we go wrong with our own preparations? Several other runners on previous days have also left their mark on our minds and on a chalkboard just a few miles from the trail's end. Even this remote experience that we thought we were having is not unique. So why then would I want to run and suffer and go beyond and travel to the edge and climb mountains and traverse canyons?

Because I am here, and as long as I am here I am going to savor the hot taste of life and thrive in every moment given to me by the unwieldy probability that I even exist to begin with. I will run, simply because I am here and I have the privilege and opportunity to see the grand and miraculous expanse.

A Little Bit Louder

The guys are on the road to their adventure as I type.  They'll hit the trail at 4am tomorrow for their self-supported, 48 mile, run of insanity.  I've been thinking a lot this week about the power just a single voice can have, and I hope that we can combine our voices together to be as loud as we can to raise awareness.

I recently read a blog post on lymphedema and acupuncture.  The author’s purpose was to debunk the idea that acupuncture would be useful in treating lymphedema, but I got the sense that the real driving force was to just debunk acupuncture in general.  True, treating lymphedema with acupuncture could potentially be a very bad idea.  You really want to avoid any break in the skin in a lymphedematous limb, including acupuncture needles, but needles elsewhere in the body aren’t an issue.  I personally am a huge proponent of acupuncture, as I myself have experienced transformative results from acupuncture treatment, but I get that there are folks out there who see the world as black and white, with no areas of gray, and research on acupuncture is kind of a mixed, gray, bag.

Well, lymphedema is basically a whole world of gray.  You frequently hear that lymphedema treatment and management are an art not a science, and my experience holds that to be true.  I think that is why there isn’t a whole lot of research done on lymphedema: it’s not something that some (many?) scientists know how to approach.  I’m being general here, and sorry if I’m offending any of you science minded folk, but I am not one of you, especially when it comes to my daughter.

Being a mom has taught me that following my instincts is almost never wrong.  In fact, I have, in the past 17 months, not once regretted a time I followed my instincts with regard to Juniper.  I have, however, regretted many, many times that I did not go with my gut, and instead went with logic.  Lymphedema treatment is much the same way.  There is no chart you can cross-check symptoms against, because it is so different for each person.  You can go with a basic understanding of what works and what doesn’t, but from there you have to forge your own path. 

This blog about lymphedema and acupuncture really riled me up because the tenor of the article was that lymphedema is a problem that is going away.  The author cites statistics, which state that since fewer patients are having lymph nodes removed, fewer patients experience lymphedema.  Well, hurray!  That means no more lymphedema, right?  If you’re reading this, then you know that’s not the case.  Lymphedema still happens to breast cancer survivors (and survivors of other types of cancer) and lymphedema still happens to kids and adults for no apparent reason.  Blogs like the one I spoke about aren’t helping us spread the word. They’re helping to sweep lymphedema under the carpet as a condition that ‘not that many people experience’ or that ‘just isn’t that big of a problem anymore.’  We need to have a louder voice than theirs.

 Please help us spread the word.  Lymphedema still needs research funding (in my opinion more than ever), and we still need support for the Treatment Act (again, more than ever with how polarizing health care issues are now). 

Then and now, like the race day mohawk?