My Toe Hurts

Running is tiresome, running is boring. It is an inane, fatuous activity with little benefits and many detriments. Ruined knees, achy hips, sore feet, and a ravenous hunger. Ain't a runner alive on this earth that doesn't eat copious amounts of food. They need it. Their bodies are disintegrating into themselves, wasting away. They need food to fuel the machine. Food that is no longer enjoyed, but inhaled, gormandized, sucked into the blast furnace of the runner's stomach and instantly converted into fuel. Food is no longer judged on the merits of taste, texture, smell, or presentation. It is only judged on calories. Calories to fuel the machine. Give me carbs, give me protein. Pasta, pasta pasta!

Running is miserable business, made enjoyable only through the brain's release of "happy chemicals" that provide the illusion of pleasure. And though humans do possess the ability to run, they certainly aren't meant to run very fast for long distances. Walking is much more preferred. Walking makes so much sense. Walking is much more efficient, enjoyable and healthy. Walking is the way to go.

But some people are silly, and silly people are gonna run. And I am one of those silly people. And for whatever reason, I like running. It's like a strange form of meditation. I fell out of the loop for a while, stopped running, focused more on walking in the woods. But last year I fell back into the groove and found myself once again infected with runnin' fever. 

And so I signed up for the Ventura Half Marathon. And I actually trained for it this time. And of course the training was silly. Got sick a couple of times, lost some endurance, had to begin anew, all that stuff. The training wasn't regimented or detailed; didn't follow any kind of rhyme or reason. I'd just come home from work, strap on a headlamp, and then run around for forty minutes or an hour and then stretch and call it good. No strength training. No speed training. Man, didn't even do no distance training. Longest run I did in preparation was seven miles. Figured that was enough. Fun fact: it wasn't. 

And so I ran a bit, rested a bit, got sick, drank a lot of water, ate a lot of food, and then before I knew it, race day was upon me and it was time to run. Sunday, the 23rd. It was a chilly morning. I had everything dialed in. Even had me a gel that I'd bring with me. It's always wise to bring some form of replenishment for really long runs. Gotta keep puttin' fuel in the tank. Gotta keep those legs working. And it worked for me at Joshua Tree and I figured it would work here. I was ready. 

I met with Ry at the start. He remarked that I'd brought my "speed uniform" and he was correct. We chatted a bit, shivering in the cold morning air, speaking of finish times, race strategies. Folks were runnin' around, warming up. Some were serious, completely dialed in, their faces focused and morose. These were the folks wearing spandex and synthetic singlets and $300 racing shoes; men and women with long, muscular legs and skinny arms and GPS watches and earbuds blasting David Goggins ASMR or something like that. 

And then there were those who were obviously doing it just for fun, wearing regular workout attire, chatting with their friends, laughing, smiling, having a good time. I was more intimidated by these folks, these people that showed no fear. Remember: running sucks. Running is miserable. Those who laugh in the face of oncoming personal bodily misery are those who should be feared. They are insane. Freaks of nature. Total badasses. 

Ry had already warmed up by the time I got there, so I went off alone, jogged a bit, and then realized that I'd forgotten the gel. Drats! How could I have been so careless? So hasty? There was nothing I could do about it now; I was on my own. I'd be running this thing un-aided. Oh well. These things happen sometimes...

I did some leg swings, popped my hip, and then met up with Ry at the start. He said he wasn't feeling 100% so he was gonna run with the 2nd wave. I thought a bit, tossed some ideas around in my brain, and then decided with reckless abandon to join the speed freaks in the first wave. Ry was encouraging, saying "Yeah! Go for it!" And so I did. 

And then they played the national anthem and the race was soon to begin. A minute went by, and then another. People were getting antsy. Jumping up and down. Shaking out their arms. All around me were a bunch of those serious types, people with stoic expressions and synthetic racing singlets, all of them in their own worlds. To my right was a woman nearly as tall as me, hair in a high ponytail, dressed only in spandex. To my left was an older guy with graying hair, wearing a synthetic shirt a size too small. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them smiled. They were ready. Locked in. 

And then the announcer counted us down. Three...two...one...and that was it—the race was underway. And everyone sprinted. Everyone was going way too fast. The woman to my right took off into the huddled mass of stomping feet and heavy breathing; the guy to my left was gone before I even got a chance to see where he went. And we fell into a groove and the initial jolt of adrenaline began to wane and people began to slow down. The 2nd wave started and I waved at Ry, both of us passing by one another at an out-and-back section of the course. I never saw him again until after the race. 

The first mile went by in what seemed like no time. And then I stupidly decided to really go for it, to put the peddle to the metal, to run the fastest I've ever ran. My second mile was way too fast. And so was my third. But I figured I'd push it as long as I could, keep my hand on the burner until I couldn't bear it anymore.

I caught up to the tall woman with the high ponytail and spandex. And then I passed a group of three, led by a tall guy in a yellow shirt. And I passed more people, one after another, slowly picking them off as the miles progressed. I caught up to the older guy with the tight shirt just before mile 3. I passed a young guy in orange shorts, a muscular guy with a bushy mustache, and a skinny guy in a light green shirt with the worst running form I'd ever seen in my life. Homie was moving though, so he must've been doing something right. 

I continued to push the pace, running under six minutes per mile, much faster than I'd ever ran on any of my training runs (and faster than I'd ever ran in my life). It sucked, but I kept at it, trying to focus on nothing but breathing and catching the next person. Mile six rolled by, and then seven, and then eight. There was a group ahead, two women and a dude, running quick and easy, not slowing in the slightest. 

I tried to catch them. Slowly, ever so slowly, I closed the gap. I got to within 10ft of them. And then my legs began to scream. They were screaming for the gel. The gel that I didn't have. And then the gap widened, 15ft, 30ft. And no matter what I did, I couldn't get my legs to move faster. They were growing heavier by the minute. I was starting to fatigue. My hand was coming off the burner. 

And then the guy in orange shorts caught up to me. Said, "C'mon! Let's get that group!" He was very encouraging. We ran together for a good four minutes, slowly gaining ground. And my lungs were burnin' and my legs were achin' and a curious sensation in my right toe was just beginning to make its presence felt, a faint, tingly sensation that spelled trouble. 

And I couldn't keep up with Mr. Orange Shorts. And he caught the group, and he kept going. And then Mr. Egregious Running Form zoomed by, passing on my left, hot on the trail of Mr. Orange Shorts. And then others came, passing me one after the other. Every person I passed in the first half of the race was comin' for me. Oh well. Sometimes that happens. 

The older guy passed me. And then came that group led by the tall guy in the yellow shirt. Short folks, tall folks, bushy mustache man, they all caught up to me, ran with me for a bit, and then kept going, shifting to a gear that I couldn't find in myself. Out of desperation, I tried to drink some electrolyte water that the volunteers were handing out. Not stopping, I nabbed one, splashing it on my face as I tried to direct the cup to my lips, swallowed some, spit it back up, tried again, only got a few drops, and tossed the rest in the trash bin. Turns out drinking water while running is kinda hard if you've never done it before. I decided to not try it again. The race was coming to a close; wouldn't do much help anyway. 

Mile ten, mile eleven, mile twelve. The sensation in my right toe was screamin' now, a sharp, stinging pain. The tall woman passed me, running smooth and strong. I tried keeping up with her, matching her stride, and then fell away, unable to maintain the blistering pace. And then I rounded a corner, passed mile thirteen, and I was on the home stretch, the last length, the final stretch.

I took a deep breath, shook out my arms, and mustered whatever energy I had left to sprint to the finish. There were three people behind me. I could hear their footsteps. Their breathing. They were coming on fast. I couldn't let them catch me. I was gonna finish strong. 

And so I booked it, driving my arms up and down like an idiot, surging ahead and creating a small gap. And then my legs said, "No thank you" and I said "Ok" and I slowed down to a jog. And those three people caught up and passed me and I waltzed across the finish line all casual-like, put my hands on my head and said, "Wow."

I walked, got some water, met up with my mom and sister (who graciously drove me back home). Ry crossed the finish line not long after I finished, his eyes watery and his face carrying an expression of exhilaration and pain. We ended up running almost the exact same time. Ry remarked that he should've started in the first wave. And I said something like "yeah." And then we bumped fists and I was out of there.

'Cause that's when the real challenge began. Drove home, took a shower, grabbed a breakfast burrito, and then I was on my feet all day at work, my right toe purple and swollen. And then I went home, slept a bit, and went off to my second job, not getting back home until 2:00am. I was beat. Slept a few hours and then I was back at my first job, back on my feet all day, my toe more purple but less swollen this time. It hurts like the dickens, but I don't care. I'll take the purple toe any day over the chaffing I experienced at Joshua Tree last year. Any. Damn. Day. No question. 

It was a good race, one of the best of my life. Smashed my personal best by over seven minutes. Ended up running my fastest ever 5k, 10k and half marathon all in the same race, which is nice and all but that means I didn't pace myself correctly in the slightest. Ah well. It was worth it. 

This was my 5th half marathon and it will be my last for a while. My interests are shifting yet again. Running is losing its appeal. When I run I don't hike and when I hike I don't run. I've been needin' to get out there in the woods again. There's so many places to go. So many things to do. Peaks to climb, flowers to smell, views to observe, waters to swim. Gotta walk, walk, walk. Slow down. Take 'er easy.

High Desert Sojourn

Rise and shine. Morning time. The early hours. The sun has yet to crest the horizon. Not a single bird graces the morning air with its song. The stars are still out, blinking tiredly in the sky. And then we hit the road, driving east, off towards the blueish glow on the horizon. 

Long miles ahead. Lots and lots of driving. Not for me. Haha. I'm riding shotgun. And we go down through Ventura, out past Santa Paula, out into the valley, out into the desert. The sun comes up, I fall asleep, the miles pass imperceptibly under the wheels of the car. 

And when I wake the sky is a piercing desert blue, and the brown, barren expanse of the Mojave is all around us, swallowing us whole, the Interstate just a tiny little line in a vast expanse of nothingness. Well, at least it seems that way. There's a whole lot of stuff out there if you've got the eyes to see it. I never see it. Perhaps I need prescription glasses. 

Out past Barstow, out past Baker, driving alongside the Soda Mountains, passing by Cave Peak and Clark Mountain. These peaks are devoid of snow. Only the highest desert peaks are coated with snow. We saw them, off to the north, distant and tall and dusted in white, standing in stark contrast to their beige surroundings. 

Rest stops, truck stops, gas stations, abandoned buildings. There are Joshua Trees. Hundreds of 'em. And they look strange and alien with their multiple branches sticking out at crazy angles. And over there, way off by the rocks, is a lone burro, munching on something in the dirt. And over there, on the other side of the Interstate, is another lone burro, also munching on something in the dirt. And they both got long ears and they got their winter coats and they bumble along, munching in the dirt, waltzing in and out of the Joshua Trees.

Primm, Vegas, Mesquite. There's a gorge. And there are climbers on the cliffs. No bighorn sheep today; perhaps they are waiting for the climbers to go away. We pull off the road and have lunch above the gorge, feasting on popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and more popcorn. 

And then we make it to Utah and then we're there: the high desert. This is the most beautiful place I know. The Escalante. The Grand Staircase. Vast and rugged, it stretches from the Grand Canyon all the way to Cedar Breaks, filling a good portion of northern Arizona and southern Utah. This is where it's at. This is where I need to be. 

But we have limited time and we can't possibly see it all. It's impossible to see it all. No one can see it all. You could spend a whole lifetime exploring the canyons, climbing the mesas, rafting down the rivers, rappelling off cliffs, crawling through cactus and thorns and brush and stagnant creeks through mud and muck with the flies and scorpions and tarantulas and you'd still have only scratched the surface, you'd still have barely made a dent.

There exist certain hotspots, certain "points of interest" within this vast area that have been mapped and developed so that people can get a taste of what's out there. Captiol Reef. Arches. Canyonlands. Bryce Canyon. Grand Canyon. Zion. What was once wild and inaccessible can now be enjoyed from the comfort of a moving, air-conditioned automobile. There are many mixed emotions about this. Some like it, others don't. Some want these areas to remain completely wild, others don't. Some want this, others that. What to do with the National Parks? I don't know. 

At the end of the day there are no borders. No names. These places are just places—quiet, beautiful, incomprehensible. They existed before we came along, and they'll continue to exist long after we're gone. The wind will keep blowin' and rain will fall and the rocks will erode, ever so slowly, just as they've done for millions of years. And I'm just plain lucky to be able to witness them at this point in time, to see them right now, before they imperceptibly change forever. 

We decided to visit Zion on this trip. A short little trip; didn't get a lot of time off. No matter. Just being there, in that stunning canyon, is good enough for me. I've been there time and time again. I've seen most of it, multiple times over. And I never tire of the views. Never. There's always something new to see, some new way to see it. Whether it's slight erosion, the weather, the lighting, the way the snow has dusted a particular cliff; this place is always changing. And it's unfathomably beautiful. Some might even say sublime. 

For such a short trip, we decided to absorb the essence of Zion using a particular method that we've learned over the years. You see some of the main sights, some of the main attractions. Walk on some of the established trails, share the beauty with countless others. You know. All the touristy things. And then you mix it up a bit with some good ol' ramblin' and wanderin'. To take it slow, one step at a time, climb the sandstone, take a break, soak it all in. 

On that first day of travel, after the countless miles on the road, we entered the park and began our short romp through Zion National Park, a park that is but a small chunk of the Escalante, the Grand Staircase. We drove through the tunnel, an engineering marvel. We pulled off the road, entering a side-canyon that has grown more popular over the years. And we walked on the sand and rock and observed the towering, gargantuan formations of sandstone rising high above us. And the setting sun shone faint and fatigued on the slushy snow and gnarled flora. White, red, black, purple, brown, streaked, criss-cut, criss-crossed, textured rock everywhere, some in sun, some in shadow, all of it a feast for the eyes, overwhelming for the brain. 

We met some other people and then we left the canyon and started off for a popular trail to a popular view. There were a lot of people on that trail. Young and old, fit and not so fit, we all walked along, walking on rock and dirt and wood. And we came to the view and could see much of the lower canyon before us, could see the towering 1000ft+ sheer cliffs, the tiny line of the road, the even tinier cars like shiny little beetles.

A couple was taking wedding photos. They were dressed in their best. And all these people with cameras of all kinds were taking pictures of the sunset and the view and the light on the rocks. And others climbed past the guard rail and up sandstone ledges to get the best view possible. 

We stayed for a bit, watched as the red light of the setting sun moved its way up the face of a cliff. And then we headed back down the trail, back to the car, back through the tunnel, back into town. Grub time. Ate at one of the local joints. They had a trillion dollar bill taped to the window. Space heaters on the patio going full blast. I had me an overpriced burrito. Thing cost $22. Yowch. But man, it was delicious. 

The next day was gray. Took a while for the sun to burn through the wintery clouds. The Virgin River shone bright and silvery in the cold morning light. We had a full day of exploration. A full day of observation. A full day to relax, soak it all in, and take zillions of pictures. This is the kind of place where pretty much every picture is good. Just point and shoot. That's all there is to it. 

We checked out Emerald Pools, saw the waterfalls, saw the cliffs, saw the well worn path and the wood rubbed smooth from millions of touchy hands. And then we went for a drive through the canyon, sun roof down, observing the towering cliffs on either side. We stopped. Took pictures. Saw some deer. And then it was back through the tunnel, back to the sandstone, back to wandering around aimlessly amongst the trees and bees and spindly things. 

We saw Checkerboard Mesa. Crazy Quilt Mesa. Nippletop. Found a pullout and walked off on the sandstone, away from the road, away from the edifice of humanity. We ate lunch on the rocks, a picnic of popcorn and citrus and sandwiches and maybe a scone or two. And we wandered around, looking at the snow on the massive sandstone formations, watching it melt, watching the landscape change imperceptibly before our very eyes. 

And we bumbled along, much like the burros we saw the day before, wandering around without any goal other than to absorb the scene. And we got back in the car, drove around, found another pullout, explored yet another canyon. Saw some petroglyphs in the rock, carved by those who knew this place best. 

And we continued along, climbing, scooting, slipping on sandstone. Saw the rock turn from white to red to white again. Saw the lines in the rock, saw the infinite grooves and scars and divots and craters. Saw the water flowin' through the canyons, saw it caught up in big, circular pools. Some were clear, some were dirty. Some had life in 'em. Some were completely dead. And the day grew long and the sun kept on shinin', a cold, dry, wintery desert sun. And time didn't seem to exist. We just kept on exploring, taking in the whole thing, absorbing as much of it as we could. 

We followed this one canyon a ways, going along as it grew thinner and thinner. We had to turn around at several points; the whole thing would dead-end and we'd have to find another way to continue along. Through slow exploration, we finally found a good path, leading us up above the base of the canyon, on the side, avoiding a cliffy section with a few deep pools. 

We had found the entrance to a narrow slot canyon. Sheer walls, more than a hundred feet high, stood on either side of us. It was chilly in there; the sun unable to penetrate through the deep, red walls. Our steps echoed, our voices were loud, everything seemed to be magnified. And we continued along as far as we could, which turned out to be not that far at all. Slot canyons are usually pretty gnarly. This one was no different. Lacking sufficient gear, let alone a rope, we stopped, taking a small break. 

Looking up, the sky was a deep blue line, made more stunning against the contrast of the red cliffs. Looking back the way we came, we could see the faint rays of golden light, marking the entrance to the slot canyon. Golden light, red walls, blue sky. It don't get much better than that. But our legs were growing tired and we knew that sooner or later we'd have to leave, so we said our goodbyes and went back from whence we came, out of the slot canyon, out of the hills, out of the wash, back to the road, back to civilization. 

And our brief stay was coming to a close. Dinner that night was at a fancy restaurant, finished by a soak in the hotel jacuzzi afterwards. And in the morning we got a lazy start, deciding to drive down the main canyon just one last time. And so we did. And that was that—our sojourn in the high desert was over. Now all that remained was breakfast and the long drive back home. 

La Verkin, Hurricane, St George and beyond. We were back on the Interstate, back to the familiar humdrum routine of long miles, sore legs, and looking out the window. No climbers in the gorge. No bighorn sheep either. Much of the snow on the distant peaks had melted. Winter was slowly going away, making way for Spring.

Mesquite, Vegas, Primm. Jean is a ghost town. They've demolished everything except the biggest hotel, which now stands empty and vacant, the windows gone, the drapes flapping away in the wind. And we drove through the inspection gate and no one was there, not a single soul. Out in the desert, cutting through the Joshua Tree forest, we didn't spot a single burro. Oh well. Can't see 'em all the time. Maybe they were at the bar, shootin' the breeze. It's tough bein' a desert burro. Gotta take a break sometimes!

And then, several hours later, after driving through miles and miles of endless desert, we were back. And that was it; the trip was complete. Though it had only been three days it felt like we'd been there much longer. I suppose that means we had made the most of it. Hadn't been to Zion in almost two years so it was nice to finally get back out there.