The silver linings of failure

There are silver linings in those clouds.

One of the challenges of living in the middle of the country is that my opportunities to go to the places I love – namely, the mountains – are far fewer than I’d like. I envy my friends in western states where mountain adventures can be had in the span of a day trip, or maybe a few hours by car for multi-day outings.

For me, it’s planned weeks and months in advance, saving up money, getting time off from work approved, and all the logistical challenges that come with it. Being from a lower elevation doesn’t help my cause when I get there. In any case, I have to make the most of things when I finally get away.

And I guess that’s what irks me about my last trip, that it ended a mere 800 vertical feet from a lone summit on what was otherwise a perfect day in the mountains. The weather, the route conditions, pretty much objective variable out there, was in my favor. And yet I got stopped short because the one thing I didn’t do – prepare well enough physically – bit me in the ass.

A return trip this year was out. Too many car repair bills, not enough cash flow. Middle class ain’t what it used to be. So this failure gets to stick in my craw for a while, maybe as much as a year.

I suppose there are plenty of adventures to be had close to home. But summer in the Southern Plains is not that inviting. Blazing hot temps, high humidity and plenty of bugs. There’s no cool of the alpine air to which I can escape, no splashing in an ocean nearby. Just hundreds of miles of baking earth in the Sun Belt.

I got home a little ticked off. It was great to see friends and family, and really, any time in the mountains is worthwhile, even if it’s hard, uncomfortable, or ultimately leads to less than what was planned. I spent four hours driving from my campsite to civilization, and another 10 hours from Denver to home. Plenty of time to think about the whole mess.

And therein lies the silver lining. I knew my conditioning wasn’t up to snuff. I could do something about that. So as soon as I got back, I got to work. And worked harder. More miles on the road. Bigger effort in the gym. Getting outside in the heat and tackling it head-on. I sucked on the trail, so I was going to make myself pay for it now so I wouldn’t suck later.

In about two weeks, I’ll be starting a training cycle for fall races. Looking back on the last few weeks, and the improvements I’ve already seen, I may just enter that 12-week cycle better prepared than I have in years. Which means come November, I might not suck at all.

So there it is. Failing to plan begets failure in execution. But failure in execution can be a great motivator for the tasks to come.

Bob Doucette

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Not quite ready for prime time: Stopped short on Colorado’s Mount Lindsey

Not a bad view, folks.

Humility is a good thing to have. It’s also a hard thing to receive. Receiving it, by definition, means being humbled. And that’s not a fun process.

I came into the summer doing what I usually do with the hopes of getting into the Rockies to see some new peaks. In the past, I’ve had various levels of conditioning – sometimes excellent, sometimes not so great. If I have a weakness, it’s that there are times when I try to see how little I can do and still get my butt up these things.

I took that a little too far this time. Sure, I lifted a bunch. I ran a little. I did other bits of “conditioning.” And then I drove myself to Colorado to climb Mount Lindsey, a peak in the Sangre de Cristo Range that has a fun route up its northwest ridge.

My hiking buddy for the day, Laura. Strong lungs and legs on this gal.

Some things that went right: I had another one of those meet-a-partner-at-the-trailhead moments. Laura is a Colorado gal who had roughly the same kind of experience as me, and as it turned out, she was a great partner. Knowledgeable about the high country, great conversationalist, and overall a pleasant person to be around. She was also remarkably patient. Girl’s got Colorado lungs, you see, and she could have dusted me at any time but didn’t.

We had a perfect weather day, too. No storms forecast until evening, warm temps, light breezes. Given the mileage (8.5 miles), the gain (3,500 feet) and the route difficulty (Class 3-4  on the crux wall), this was a mountain well within my wheelhouse. That is, if I was in shape.

Normally I can find a rhythm between 10,000-12,000 feet. It’s not a fast rhythm, but it eats mileage just the same. Once I get past 12,000 feet, I slow down considerably, but by then I can usually chew up the rest of a route in decent enough time.

Not so this time. The night before, I didn’t sleep. Not even a bit of dozing. I tossed and turned for seven hours at camp. Not exactly a good omen. Once we got going, I handled the easy portions of the trial just fine. But the route up Lindsey includes some steep sections in the trees, easier hiking in a basin below its summit ridge, and then steeper switchbacks going up to 13,000 feet.

I was struggling right off the bat, maybe like I never have before. Poor Laura was having to stop and wait on me every couple of minutes or so, even when we were below 11,000 feet. By the time we hit 13,000 feet, I was getting a little dizzy and was pretty much zapped. We struck up a conversation with a couple of dudes who’d come up behind us, and they were going to do the same route we planned. At that point, I suggested to Laura that she continue up with them and I’d call it a day. I’m sure I could have topped out, but I feared that I’d have nothing left for the downclimb, and that’s just not safe. This way, Laura could get her summit and I could take a slow walk down to contemplate my failure.

This is where I had to stop, below the crux wall at 13,200 feet. Behold the scene of failure.

I’ve been turned around before. Lindsey is the fourth mountain I’ve attempted and turned back short of the summit. But the other three times there were reasons that were either beyond my control (weather and route conditions) or something understandable (pooping out after having done three peaks the previous two days). In this case, the fault was entirely my own. I didn’t prepare myself for the task, and I got my butt whooped accordingly. I deserved what I got.

That’s not to say it was a total loss. The scenery was, again, drop-dead gorgeous. I met some cool people. I got a heck of a workout. But no summit. And that’s too bad. It’s rare that everything lines up so well for success, but you find yourself unable to seal the deal. This one’s going to stick in my craw for awhile.

Anyway, here are some pics of what is one of the more scenic mountain scenes I’ve laid eyes on. Maybe next summer I’ll come back, and have the fitness to get it done.

Blanca Peak showing off over this broad meadow.

Going up!

A bluebird day, folks. Shame I couldn’t make the most of it, but the scenery was grand.

Looking down at all the vert I ate. Heartburn ensued.

Rugged stuff. Lots of rugged stuff.

Looking down the west slope basin from 13,000 feet.

Blanca Peak (left) and Ellingwood Point.

A scenic creek close to the trailhead that included an interesting crossing.

Laura looks ahead toward the summit.

Until next time, folks.

Bob Doucette

Happy first birthday, ‘Outsider’

I was hiking with my friend Bill on a hot July morning when we got to talking about the book I wrote. He’d already read it – he was actually in it – and gave me the kind of cool feedback you really dig as a writer. It was a fun way to keep the conversation going that morning as we put in a few miles on some of my favorite local trails.

Altitude wasn’t the issue, obviously. Bill was used to hiking at 12,000 feet and up, and nothing goes much higher than 800 feet in Tulsa. But he’d been kind enough to surprise me by showing up for an informal launch party the night before, so I figured I owed him a hike before he flew back to Denver.

“Hot,” was his main observation. Colorado gets heat. But not Southern Plains heat.

As far as the book? He noted how its title, “Outsider,” was appropriate to me. I’d orbited Colorado’s 14er hiking community for years but wasn’t really quite part of it. At least not in the way that Coloradoans are. The same could also be said for the local trail running community, one I don’t get to interact with nearly as much as I’d like because I work nights and they all have normal gigs that allow for plenty of night time, early morning and weekend get-togethers. So I orbit that group, too.

Not that I realized it. It took someone looking at that book, and at me, to point it out. As it turns out, there was a layer to “Outsider” that even I wasn’t aware of.

That’s the kind of thing writers live for, to see how something we create affects others, to see how readers interpret it, relate to it, and maybe even get moved by it. As of this week, I’m one year removed from when “Outsider” was published. You dream in your head it was like a countdown to a rocket launch, or some other big deal, but it was just a click of a button on my computer and presto! People could order it without the slightest bit of ceremony.

When a book comes out, I imagine a lot of writers fantasize about hitting that New York Times best-sellers list. Maybe getting interviewed on the Today show, or get chosen by Oprah’s book club. You dream about launching this new, big thing that will finally give you the freedom to do what you love for the rest of your life, and live out the rags-to-riches tale of J.K. Rowling. I know I did. But it usually doesn’t work out that way. It didn’t for me.

I told people I had three goals. First, break even. Even self-publishing has costs, and if you really care about your work, you’re going to invest in it. My hope in this regard was to at least recoup my costs. Second was to make enough money to fix my car. Years of deferred maintenance had piled up, and the price tag to cover this multitude of sins wasn’t small.

So far, check and check.

Third, I really wanted to make enough to get an adventure-worthy rig that could take me to the backcountry places I love. It would be nice to not always be the guy bumming rides from people with high-clearance, four-wheel-drive vehicles. I haven’t made that goal yet.

But those weren’t really my aims. And I knew better than to pin my hopes on becoming the next big name in the publishing world. What I really wanted to do was write something honest, something I could be proud of, and something that would affect people in a positive way. I hoped to communicate the way the outdoors has blessed me and describe how wonderful the people I’ve met and traveled with really are.

“Outsider” is about all those things, and more. It’s about family. About grief. And God. It’s about being lost, but finding yourself in the midst of wilderness, both physical and metaphorical. It’s about finding healing in those wild, difficult and beautiful places. That’s what I hoped to communicate, anyway.

On that note, feedback was more valuable than the money. My friend Matt brought a bunch of his California friends to town late last summer, and one of his buds had read it. She wanted to talk to me about it, particularly about the chapter on my oldest brother Mike. Reviews posted online were gratifying. And just this week, a friend of mine texted this: “Your book struck a deep chord in me.” These conversations, reviews and other messages help me believe that maybe I don’t suck after all.

That might sound a little sappy, but here’s the reality of writing a book: It’s a lot like anything else someone builds from scratch. You write a paragraph, then a page, then a chapter. You string those chapters together. You edit. Revise. Tweak. Edit again. And again. And again. Eventually, you check the last box, call it good, and send it to market, the same way a carpenter might take simple boards and end up with a fantastic piece of furniture, or a custom bike builder would take sheet metal, a frame, a motor and scores of parts and fashion a road-worthy machine. A lot of time, effort and love goes into that kind of work, and that’s what makes it meaningful. The hope is that the effort and meaning you place in that comes through with satisfied buyers.

And this is the point where I have to offer some gratitude. A good number of you all plunked down a few bucks to buy a copy of “Outsider,” and for that I’m hugely grateful. You invested in the thing that took me a few years to build. My sister and parents became a pro bono marketing machine, so there are a bunch of copies of the book floating around in Texas right now. And more of you helped the cause by word-of-mouth via social media and in person with your friends and family. It really does take a village.

So what now? Well, there’s always something on the fire. A few interviews done here, a few more to get there. A chapter written. I guess I need a little more time in the shop.

If you haven’t read ‘Outsider’ and would like a copy, you can order it here.

Bob Doucette

A break in the storms and some time on the trail

Look how green that is.

The weird weather cycles have kept me away from the trails of late. We get big storms, huge rain dumps, maybe a day of no action, and then it starts all over again. It’s been like this for a couple of months now.

It’s not that I’m shy about getting dirty. I’ve gone through plenty of mud. But a big part of me believes in giving the trails a chance to dry out before I beat them up with my boots. It’s been too long, though — too many rained-out weekends, too many tornado warnings, and too much flooding. I’ve put in enough road miles. My feet need more dirt and less pavement.

I finally caught a break this week. The rain backed off long enough for me to get out on the trails and at least hike a few miles. Man, I needed that.

All this went down around the same time another series of articles came out extolling the benefits of spending at least a couple of hours every week in nature. Not in a park, or in your yard, but in true natural settings like a forest. You don’t get the same sounds, smells and sights in man-made “natural” settings as you do in the woods.

What I noticed was the change of seasons. It’s summer now, and the forest has, indeed, moved on from spring.

Seen on the trail: things that grow.

First of all, the foliage has gone from that bright “new growth” green of spring to a more mature, deeper shade. It’s still dense — the heavy spring rains have guaranteed that. But the greens are darker, maybe even flatter, as trees, bushes and grasses maximize their ability to turn bright sunlight into sustenance.

The sounds are different, too. In the spring it was all birds, all the time. The birds are still there, but they’re quieter. Instead, you hear the bugs. The heat of summer seems to liven up the chirping, buzzing, screeching insects of the forest to the point of being loud. Summer songs of the woods are distinctly invertebrate.

Then there’s the heat and humidity. If you’re living anywhere in the Sunbelt, your attitude toward summer hiking has to come to terms with the fact that you’re going to get very sweaty, kinda smelly, and feeling a bit gross when it’s done. Maybe well before that. If you’re cool with that, you can enjoy yourself as long as you’re hydrated. If not, well, you’re going to end up waiting a good four months for the temperatures to come down.

I don’t plan on waiting. I’ll take the sweat and get my miles as long as the seemingly ceaseless train of storms doesn’t wash me out.

Summer in the woods.

Bob Doucette

An Ohio man needed rescue on Mount Washington, and he may get billed for it. But should he?

Mount Washington, N.H. (Wikipedia/Danielc192 photo)

If there is one seemingly unsolvable quandary in the outdoors, it’s whether people who are rescued should be billed by their rescuers.

There are a lot of threads to this narrative. First, search and rescue costs can be expensive – even with volunteers doing most of the work, it costs money to reach remote locations and sometimes fly helicopters to find and extricate distressed hikers and climbers. Many of these rescues happen in rural counties that are strapped for cash as it is. In some cases, they’ll get help from military units (flight time for helicopter rescues goes down as training for the crews involved), but a lot of times you’re also involving county personnel like sheriff’s deputies, firefighters and EMTs who get paid to be out there. Someone must foot the bill at some point.

Federal workers get wrapped up in it, too. As do their resources. They often work alongside state and county rescuers, mostly because the bulk of these rescues are taking place on public lands, and most of those are federally owned.

Some search and rescue efforts that stretch into days, involving air and ground crews, can run up a serious tab.

Another subplot: Those in need of rescue are often at fault for their own predicament. That sounds harsh, but usually it’s true. Dehydrated hikers in the Grand Canyon often underestimate the heat and don’t bring enough water. Alpine hikers and climbers misjudge the terrain, the weather and sometimes their own capabilities in environments that are inherently challenging. Gear junkies sometimes place too much trust in electronic devices that fail when signals are lost, or batteries go dead. Those with emergency locator beacons are, at times, bolder than they’d normally be, either taking greater chances or, in some cases, activating their locators when they are simply tired of the effort.

Given the greater numbers of people who are heading into the backcountry, the costs of rescues are piling up.

This has pushed some states to enact policies that would make rescued parties liable for the costs of their salvation. New Hampshire is one of those states, and a recent story by The Associated Press highlighted one such instance where an overwhelmed hiker might end up getting billed for the trouble.

The hiker, 80-year-old James Clark, was ascending Mount Washington with two of his grandsons when he told them to go on to the summit without him. The younger men did so, then took a different route down, the AP reported. Clark didn’t meet them back at the trailhead, and that’s when search and rescue was called.

“Clark was found Friday immobile in the fetal position with signs of hypothermia hours after telling his two grandsons to go on without him. Clark was treated at a hospital for non-life-threatening injuries and released Saturday,” the AP reported.

Mount Washington and the surrounding peaks can be tricky. Already, two other people died in the area within a week of Clark’s rescue. The mountain is known for having some of the worst weather on the planet. Rescuers said Clark wasn’t dressed for the potential weather extremes seen on the peak, which can be summery and warm at the base and full-on winter conditions on the summit, often with little warning.

That alleged lack of preparation is what might end up being the reason Clark gets socked with the tab.

I’ve got mixed feeling about this. Part of me thinks people should be held accountable for the bad decisions they make. Plenty of information exists, available at your fingertips, that can guide your preparations for the outdoors. Choosing not to be informed is just that: a choice. And in most areas of life, bad choices have consequences. Maybe some of those consequences should hit folks in the wallet. Perhaps a financial incentive would make people more self-reliant, more prepared, and safer.

But my thinking gets turned around when human nature comes into play. It goes something like this:

A hiker gets lost. Or injured. Or something else happens that makes that person think, “I’m in some trouble here.” But before activating that beacon or pulling out the phone for a 911 call, the hiker pauses.

This is gonna cost me. A lot. Maybe I can tough it out.

And then the hiker gets deeper in trouble, maybe irrecoverably.

That’s the fear I’ve heard expressed on forums by people who are part of the search and rescue community. They worry that folks will choose saving money over their own lives when they get in trouble, and that leads to more search and recovery missions instead of search and rescue. Crews will still take risks in recovery missions; they differ in that the ending of a recovery mission is always a mournful one.

As I’ve thought about this, the prospect of saving lives outweighs the irritation I feel about people being dumb. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want people pushing the button on their SPOT device because their feet are tired. I want people to be responsible. But I don’t want people dying in the bush because they were afraid of a five-figure bill coming in the mail.

Will New Hampshire authorities charge Mr. Clark for his rescue? It sounds like they might. But should they? I’d hate to think they’ll be pulling more bodies off Mount Washington because financial considerations won out when a call for help should have been made.

Bob Doucette

Tulsa’s triathlon win: IRONMAN picks T-town for three-year deal, and here’s why

Cyclists race by as crowds cheer – and drink- at the Riverside Criterium of Tulsa Tough on Cry Baby Hill. The success of events like Tulsa Tough is likely one of the reasons IRONMAN picked Tulsa to host its Midwestern race.

When I moved to Tulsa eight years ago, the city surprised me. I was more or less expecting all the stereotypes that go with a metropolitan area smack in the middle of stroke alley: it would be flat, hot, and not much going on in terms of fitness or outdoor recreation.

I was proven wrong. It’s not that my city or state is the healthiest place on the planet, but as it turns out, there’s an active cycling community here, a bunch of road and trail runners and loads of events catering to these crowds that have only grown over time.

So I found myself surprised, yet not that surprised, when the organizers of the IRONMAN triathlon series announced that Tulsa would be the site of its next three Midwestern races.

WHY TULSA

IRONMAN, if you don’t know, is the lead dog when it comes to triathlons. The race includes a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride and a full marathon road race. The two biggies include one race in Florida, and the premier triathlon event held annually in Kona, Hawaii. IRONMAN has sought to stage races elsewhere in the country and settled on Tulsa as that place.

I was surprised, mostly because of that whole stroke alley image Oklahoma has. We’re talking about one of the most high-profile endurance sports events anywhere is doing its thing right here in T-town. I’m not saying big stuff doesn’t happen here, but when it comes to endurance sports, this is big. Real big.

But why I’m not that surprised takes a little explaining.

As I said, Tulsa has some active endurance sports communities. Folks love their bikes. They love their mountain bikes, too. And both are used frequently inside our city limits and in nearby communities.

The city hosts Tulsa Tough, a three-day racing event that started out as a hopeful endeavor on the cycling circuit that has grown into a must-stop race for cyclists nationally. Upwards of 10,000 people show up to watch that last day’s race (and party a lot) every year now. That kind of support probably meant something to the IRONMAN crew.

In long-distance running, the Route 66 Marathon started out modestly and has grown into one of the finer marathon and half marathon events in the country. People from every state and several countries run in it every year, and it grows yearly. The Tulsa Run, the city’s venerable 15K road race, has been the USTAF Masters 15K championship race for a few years now. And the city hosts another marathon in the spring (Golden Driller) plus numerous other half marathon, marathon and ultramarathon races on both road and trail.

Open water swimming may not be big here, but northeastern Oklahoma has no shortage of lakes, with a big one – Lake Keystone – conveniently within riding distance for all those IRONMAN competitors.

All of these things, plus the amenities the city offers visitors (I had one guy from Texas tell me that Tulsa is being talked about as “the next Austin”) provided just the right mix. In that vein, I can see what IRONMAN chose my city.

BIGGER PICTURE

One thing I’ve told people is that Tulsa is underrated in terms of outdoor recreation. The city’s road and dirt bike paths are plentiful, and we even have some local crags for bouldering enthusiasts. I joked that Outdoor Retailer should have given the city a look back when it was looking for a new home.

But on a more serious note, consider this: There is a nexus between endurance sports and outdoor recreation. Many runners, cyclists and triathletes are also people who enjoy other outdoor activities. Trail runners in particular end up crossing paths with hikers, backpackers and mountaineers. Killian Jornet comes to mind as the most famous of them, but beyond the elites, there are legions of people who, when they’re not racing or training, are making the most of their time outdoors.

The city and the state are in the midst of a big tourism push, focusing in things to do and places to see along Route 66 — the Mother Road of old that stretched from Chicago to California and winds its way through Oklahoma. It’s a good theme, and I’m sure a lot of cities and towns will be able to take advantage of this.

But what I’d say is don’t sleep on the state’s outdoor recreation potential. People are interested in this stuff. The cycling community is active statewide. Trail running is booming, and road running is strong. The same people who run in the Route 66 Marathon, ride in Tulsa Tough or await their shot at IRONMAN will be looking around the state for other ways to get their outdoor fix, which includes plenty of hiking, backpacking, water sports and climbing. The folks looking for such activities include people from outside the state.

IRONMAN gives the city and the state another opportunity to keep that outdoor recreation momentum moving. Frankly, it’s low-hanging fruit and an opportunity to help the region shed its stroke alley reputation. Tell your story. Go get it. If you do, don’t be surprised if the city and the state cash in on another big win.

Bob Doucette

An appreciation of running: Five ways running has helped me

Ten years ago, I could never have imagined me doing this. So glad I have.

This week gave us Global Running Day. Or International Running Day. Or National Running day. Well, one of those three. I’m pretty sure all three had a hashtag or something, but in any case, it was a day for runners everywhere to say how much they loved it, take a post-run selfie and stick it on the ‘Gram.

I joined the crowd by tweeting/IG’ing a few old race photos, then going out for four hot, humid and hilly miles. Call me a sucker for a trend.

I also read some folks’ thoughts on the day — they varied from “well, every day is a run day” to “they’re just making up a day to sell more shoes” to the more typical “running has changed my life!” messages.

For me, every day is not a run day, and I didn’t buy any shoes or gear. But it did get me thinking about the past nine years, a span in which I picked the habit back up and stuck with it. And I asked myself, “Well, what has running done for me?”

Something to be said for being fit and having fun.

Obviously, I benefited in terms of fitness. Before I started running again, I kept in shape by lifting weights and playing basketball several times a week. I still lift, and I love basketball. But the latter is not something I can do long-term for much longer. It can be rough on the body. So I started running and found different kinds of fitness. Running helped me lose weight, improved my aerobic capacity and showed me new ways to get in shape. Here’s another fun nuance: Learning different kinds of running — long distance, shorter distance, and sprinting — put more tools in my fitness toolbox. I’ll take that!

A whole other level of toughness is needed if you’re going to run for hours at a time. (Clint Green photo)

Running made me mentally tougher. Competing in sports — team sports, combat sports or whatnot — can build mental tenacity. But running does it in a different way. For most of us (the non-elite runners), the competition is with ourselves. Training for a marathon demands toughness. Want to run a 5K as fast as you can? That race will test your will in ways you won’t expect. In either case, the training and the racing tested my limits. Discomfort hangs over you. So does pain. And the nagging voice in the back of your head that tells you to quit. Overcome those things and you will emerge a tougher person.

Running gets me outside, regardless of conditions. And it’s mostly been good.

Running got me outside more. I’m not a treadmill runner. I’ll do it if I have to, but most of the time I’m outside running the streets or kicking up dirt on the trails. Being outside on foot helped me get to know my community better. It got me into the woods, over the hills and into new places I’d never have seen in a gym, on a court or sitting on the couch. I’ve seen, heard and smelled things that will stick with me for as long as I have memory — the sweet scents of spring flowers, the cry of a bald eagle, the swoop of an owl bearing down on its prey. And so much more.

Just a few of the people I grew to know through running. Good folks, y’all.

I met some awesome people through running. One of the smartest things I did when I moved to a new town was joining a trail running group. I also got involved in a run group through my local YMCA. They greatly expanded the number of people I consider friends. One guy is the dean of Tulsa-area trail running. Another is a dude who went on a road trip with me to go backpacking and climbing a couple of peaks. I have two running friends doing big though-hikes — one on the Appalachian Trail, another on the Pacific Crest Trail. This new group of friends got me involved in preserving our local trail running hot spot, which in turn allowed me to befriend folks from other outdoor circles. Without running, I’d know none of these people and would have been poorer for it.

Here is one of the places I can work through the challenges life throws at me.

Running helps quiet my mind. Look, man. Everyone’s got problems. I don’t know anyone who’s lived such a charmed life that they can say they’ve never dealt with some sort of hardship or hurt. But there are events of loss, pain, anger and sadness that can pile up and overwhelm you. Especially if they pile up all at once. That’s where running came along at just the right time. The meditative rhythm of footfalls, the time spent unplugged, the miles in which you could empty your mind, pray, or otherwise work things out — that’s the stuff that helped me deal with difficult times. My life ain’t any harder than most of yours. But it sure would feel harder if not for the miles and hours I spent pounding pavement and devouring trail.

So that’s what went through my head this week, all prompted by that goofy little hashtag. What about you? Holler at me. How has running helped you?

Bob Doucette