Three Points of Contact

The run was colder than usual. The afternoon promised to bring above freezing temperatures, but the cool of the morning left the moist rocks frozen and slick. As cold as it was, today I was thankful for the freezing temperatures, they solidified the boggy trails, and my feet glided effortlessly across the surface of it all, instead of sinking into the mud as I knew I would later in the day. The ice was not the same as it had been in weeks past; this was not solid sheets of ice blanketing my entire way. Trying to remain optimistic as I shivered, I decided this was ice in which I could find traction. I made the best of the situation.  I ran quickly—well for me—to cover as much ground as possible before the thaw. Besides, I was warmer the harder I worked.

I made my way up a climb; the rocks were slick and icy, most of the trail washed away in the winter rains from the weeks prior. As I turned a corner, I breathed a heavy sigh of relief as I saw the stack of rocks from a distance marking for me the end of my climb. I had been here before, many times, and even if the trail was different from the winter weather, it was still familiar enough for me that I knew where I was and for the time being perhaps even where I was going. All the same, I was thankful for the marker, the sign for me the suffering was almost over.

With miles to go, no cell service, or music, I had plenty of time to think about the cairn. Sometimes they bring me such joy—those times when I am out by myself, way past tired, and not confident where I am. In those exhausted and pitiful moments, cairns are like a beacon of hope. They confirm my path, quiet my fears, and give me the comfort to know someone has walked here before me. These are the type of Cairns I respect—the honest ones.

Perhaps the hilltop cairn I just passed was a beacon for someone. I tried to imagine what it might feel like to make my way to the top of the rocky climb not knowing what was in front of me. I’m not sure I would even recognize it as the trail the way the water had washed down the slopes and eroded the side of the hill. I was glad I left the marker to stand.

I flashed back to another run. Jenni and I had made our way across the river to find a pair of hikers practicing stacking rocks by the river bank. It was hot that day. There was a middle-aged black man, solid build, casually dressed and a slightly younger, white woman with her hair pulled back. He was teaching her. Typically, I would have run on by, but being wet, tired, and not alone we stopped for a few minutes, thankful for the break. The man’s cairns were impressive, and there was something to instantly love about his quiet and humble spirit. The woman was not nearly as skilled, and we watched regathering her rocks time and time again as her stack tumbled. The man was patient and not critical, “Find the balance and three points of contact,” we heard him say more than once. Something inside of me longed to touch one of those rocks… but we were out of time.

Stacked stones… such a controversy. So much to think about—construction of the stack, three points of contact, the purpose of the whole damn thing.

When you run far enough, or allow yourself obnoxious amounts of time to think, you begin to see how seemingly unrelated ideas overlay each other. As if the same story told is told over and over and over again in all different mediums.

The ancients stacked rocks. Might very well be a practice as old as humanity itself. Piles and piles of stones marking the path, honoring burial grounds, pointing to the stars, or… so many reasons. I suppose I really don’t know much about the whole thing. What I do know, is ancient Christians (even in the time before Israel) were called to stack rocks to honor God. To honor God—stack uncut stones. To build an altar—stack uncut stone. Don’t build a temple—stack uncut stone. Cross the river—stack uncut stone. Stop to worship—stack uncut stone. My tired mind could quickly become lost in the symbolism of the whole thing.

Rock—a symbol for God. Cornerstone—a symbol for Jesus. In the physical sense, our ancestors were called to stack uncut stones. Stones as raw and rugged as nature intended at the point in time when the short life of a man intersected with the long journey of a rock. Stacked stones were not meant to be altered in any way by the tools of man. The jagged edges left untouched or made smooth by centuries of standing in the river. A state of natural, all balanced upon itself, not meant to be softened by man for his own aesthetic or personal gain. According to the Bible, to shape stones for an altar is to defile them and render them unfit for the holiest of uses…

Despite the warnings, human nature seduces us to meddle with the ‘Rock’ at every level of the story. With a prideful spirit, we shape away, never content to leave well enough alone. With our ‘perfectly’ altered stones we began to stack… building our altars to uniformity, our little tiny towers of Babel. They disrupt the ecosystem and litter the landscape.

But to build a solid stack, a reverent soul would need more than just enough respect to leave well enough alone. The builder would have to search for solid ground to build upon and suitable stones. Only then, with a quiet mind and a deep admiration for each stone in its natural state, would he begin to stack one on another—carefully finding the balance, ensuring each stone was standing on three points of contact.

Ha. Human nature. I try to outrun it, but the battle is woven through me on every level. I spent years trying to soften the edges of God so He (personification) would appear more appealing. Then I turned Him around and covered up what I thought was His bad side so He could save face. I was trying to be respectful. When I finally came to appreciate Him in all his natural glory, I rushed to build upon a faith before stopping to find the center and balance of it all. My stack was wobbly, and I could not defend it.

I can feel my Dietrich Bonhoeffer influence. Three points of contact—incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection—a perfect balance.

Crucifixion—the horrifying, tragic, selfless act of love to which I will forever be in His debt—this is Truth. But how quickly we forget this is only part of the story.

I was raised in a generation who focuses almost solely on the crucifixion. The stack wobbles… Crucifixion…the connotation evolves…where an angry and child-abusing god took vengeance on his very own son. All of us deemed by God worthless sinners deserving of death. All of creation, woven together outside of our standard of time, exists solely for the benefit of ultimate and we are encouraged to disrespectfully disregard it as nothing more than a means to an end. Fuck the world. We are all going down.

I am not fooled by the poorly portrayed image of god painted by the hand of man. My God is also the Creator who wrote incarnation into the playbook. God became a man. As an artist, I have some slight comprehension of the moment when you start to fall in love with your creation, when you begin to give your work the best of yourself, when you understand it might be worth something, when it starts to have a life of its own. To disregard creation is to disrespect the Creator.

In the resurrection we find hope. Hope where creation at every level of the story, perfectly flawed by its own free will, is melted down through suffering, passes through the fire of crucifixion, only to be reborn in grace and unity with Christ. The curse of the fall of man—the birth of new creation only comes about through suffering. The hope of the fall of man—we are still promised new creation from conception, through gestation, through the crying out and agony of delivery. He rises again — the third point of contact.

Only then, in reverence can we remain firmly balanced, with a faithfully and resolutely grounded in creation as is stands solid in today—with a hope, a vision, and a trust as we walk towards the ultimate of what is to come. The reality of today only set into context when it reaches finality. “It is finished,” and we can rise again in those words.

To zoom in so close as to see the parts separate from the whole offers nothing but a grave and arrogant injustice to the entirety of the work. Only in the unity of the elements, set into context by the whole, can we have any hope of accurately portraying the values of each piece. Illusion is a crafty serpent and before we can even process thought we are already deceived. 

So even if we could conceivably build an appropriate stack of uncut stones, there remain more pressing matters to consider than construction in and of itself. It seems in light of current controversies, one must reflect on the spirit of the stack or understand the motive of its creator. Proper construction ensures a stack will weather the elements. Construction answers the question, “Can it stand?” while understanding the spirit of the stack considers the question, “Should it stand?”

To stack stones—or build altars—for the sake of stacking stones and then leaving them up for the glorification of yourself is something of a sin, though I cannot claim to understand precisely why. Perhaps the sin lies in the certainty of it all, or maybe in the elevation of man. Sometimes perhaps we build faith alters as monuments to ourselves and our understanding, instead of constructing reverent, holy, and private stacks which point to God. In addition to defacing the elements, these well-intended but ill-placed stacks might even through a hiker off track. I am confident we are not at liberty to determine the heart of the matter, but I fear one day Someone might be.

So, the question remains, “Can we, should we, stack uncut stones?”  Conceivably some are still called to it. And we, with our brothers on the path, will pass the stacks of holy praise and know we are on the highway of the redeemed. Like beckons of light, purposefully and respectfully placed, well-balanced and centered in unity, the Word of God stands stacked upon itself as a signpost which can withstand the weathering of centuries. 

But to be fair, I have never tried to stack stones in a physical sense and trying to find balance remains for me the most humiliating and humbling pursuit of my existence. It has been a long run, but it is finished. I am tired yet full of hope with so much behind me, but I have yet to even start my day.

The sun begins to shine, and I am thankful it has risen again.

The End of the Road

You should never be in too much of a hurry to oversee your own gear. I learned this lesson several times, yet, here we are again. My friend and I were rushing to get ready for a run, for no real reason I might add — we had all been watch free for days — but I suppose we would not want to keep the sun waiting.

My shoes were wet and cold, wet I can tolerate, but the cold wears me down. My husband and kids were warming themselves by the morning fire, so I left them in charge. I suppose it was diffusion of responsibility.

Sadly, this is not even the first time these shoes have burned. At least this time my feet were not in them. I knew when I left the shoes by the fire it was a risk. Perhaps some part of me was ready for them to burn, as these shoes were over a hundred miles past their recommended wear guidelines and already had two small holes in the sole. Sometimes the only way to get rid of something you are not ready to let go of is to burn it away.

I tried to play it cool. I had no one to blame but myself and my own eagerness to get on the trail. But watching these shoes burn was a kick in the gut. My husband had some duct tape at camp… could I? No, this was the end of my Salomons, not even duct tape could fix this. It had to let go. It was well past time.

Not so fast, these were not just shoes to me. These Salomons carried me through hundreds of miles of wilderness — to meet my fear, to meet my failure, to meet my pain, to meet the dirt, to meet the water, to meet the sun, and to find my breath. Together (because mostly it was just the two of us alone), we made our way through rivers, crossed more logs than I can count, and pushed to the top of steep rocky trails. On muddy climbs and descents, we rarely lost our footing, and even when we did I am certain it was operator error— I could never blame the shoes. They brought me across finish lines, but even more impressive — they carried me from the commitment, through the lonely hours of training and the miles of self-doubt, all the way to the starting lines. These shoes brought me through the highest of emotional highs and through the darkest part of the other extreme. At times they were completely indifferent to the tears silently streaming down my face. They just kept pushing forward — because they were strong shoes. Once I thought they had failed me, I felt water pooling in my heel. How did that happen? It was not water, but the shoes did not care. They just carried me forward. Because that is what they do.

Too bad it is not socially appropriate to cry over shoes.

As I laced up a substandard pair of backup shoes and headed out of camp, I glanced at my Salomons and wondered what would carry me now. “They may be great shoes, but I hear they are flammable,” my friend reminded me. We laughed as we made our way through the mud.

Flammable. Strong shoes — yet fire consumed them in a matter of seconds. My friends had engaged multiple times over the weekend in rather lengthy and heated debates about the consuming properties of fire, so after seeing my shoes smoking and having several hours to run, I found myself mentally replaying the conversations. Some things are not so easily consumed by fire. Gold, when finally hot enough, is merely melted down, purified, and reformed. Perhaps the human spirit operates in much the same way.

I am not certain what carried me through the ten miles on the CDT last week, or what will propel me forward in all the journeys to come, but I do know it will not be my Salomons. I had put my trust in those shoes for years, but they burned. It was the end of the road for them. Moving forward, I will have to come to rely on something else, something not so consumable, to carry me. 

I have hope… because at the end of the road, some things burn, but some things don’t.

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Holding Running Water

It is human nature to collect and store. At times we collect out of fear—fear we might run out—fear tomorrow will not provide. Other times, we stockpile for a rainy day, slightly different from hoarding out of a spirit of fear, but, in the end, in a vain attempt to be good stewards, we still bury our wealth.  Then there are moments when—thinking ourselves pure-hearted and with the best of intentions—we stockpile so we can help others. Finally, there is the darkest period of all, though we shudder to admit, in which we store our wealth, our commodities, our knowledge, and our so-called wisdom, so we can appear superior to our neighbor.

The void is within us all, and we seek to fill it in any way possible. The motive varies, the stockpile changes shape, but the scurry to seek out store remains the same. So, like busy little squirrels, we scamper around collecting and burying in hopes that whenever the winter falls, we will have what we need to survive, or remain superior, for at least another day.

Capitalism baits us to store up material wealth, while false religion begs us to hold the word of God. All the propaganda of man pleads with us to collect. But what can we truly hold and what in the end is really ours?  Moths will eat away at anything we laid claim to, and our wealth will not cross into death with us.

As Christians, we often feel superior to the collections of man. As ludicrous as it sounds, instead of storing up material riches, we are so often solicited to store ‘God’ within our feeble minds. It is the laws of God we scurry around to collect, the scriptures, the rituals, the sacrifice, and the suffering, we bury in vain. Out of a spirit of fear, or preparation, or stewardship, or comparison, we work tirelessly to fill our void with knowledge, often without ever seeking to center ourselves in wisdom. If we do, by some circumstance, stumble upon the Word of God in all its glory, we pile it away as well. But shame on us all— hoarded manna rots.

Habitually, we distribute our collections with unadulterated intentions. Like the Pharisees, we publicly display our wealth of knowledge, openly flaunting our piety—its mere presence setting others in their place. We dig out our rotten manna, no longer fresh and pure, gone stagnant from its separation from God, and we serve it to our neighbors. While the moths have staked their claim to the treasures of this world, maggots writhe in our storehouses.

To attempt to hold the word of God is to attempt to hold running water. Perhaps we could collect it for a moment, bottle it up and use it to nourish ourselves and others, but as time passes the water will grow stale and slimy, bacteria will begin to cultivate and what once cleansed and nourished us will now become a distasteful poison.

What can we truly hold? There is a profound spiritual difference between knowledge—in which we seek to judge our brothers in a spirit of comparison, and wisdom—in which we stand in love and unity with the Creator.  While knowledge inspires collections, wisdom never shifts its gaze from Christ. With our eyes fixed on Christ, we can find ourselves full, capable of distributing gifts, we have enough for a rainy day, and never have to submit to the shame and humiliation of comparison.

How are we full if we cannot store water? We stand rooted in the river of love and let the running water fill us to the brim. It fills us to the top and overflows into the vessels of our brothers. We don’t clasp our fingers tightly around the water; instead, we open our palms and let the river pass through. We take in cleansing power with every breath, as we are connected to the source. We never thirst, yet our water never grows stagnant or moldy, never turns distasteful, and never becomes toxic. It is a love we allow to fill us then pass simultaneously and continuously through us.

This treasure of heaven is ours to share. It is infinite, so there is no need to hoard it greedily. We may rest because there is not a moth, a maggot, or a power in hell strong enough to subdue the river.

Pikes Peak Marathon

It was a childhood dream come true.

I heard about this race when I was just a teenager… at my first dance, in fact. I had begrudgingly agreed to go to the stupid event, with a young man I didn't care for but didn't have the heart to hurt his feelings. It wasn't long before I had dumped my date when I heard a group of old runners talking about their glory days. Forget my date. These guys had real wisdom.

I heard the words for the first time from the mouth of a chaperone—Pikes. Peak. Marathon. Having just finished my first marathon at 16, I was all ears. I could not imagine a marathon taking 8+ hours to complete. Must be some hell of a race. Running to the top of a mountain and then back down again, my heart fluttered. Someday. Someday. Fast forward 20 years…

It took me months to sell the hair-brained idea to Jenni. I sent her pictures of the mountain every day for about four weeks, she was resistant at first, but I knew she would come around. Slow and steady wins the race. Eventually, I brainwashed her, and she embraced the goal herself. Like a couple of nerds, we stayed huddled around our commuter screens the very second the race opened to secure a spot. It was the 60th anniversary of the event, and there was sure to be mad dash to the sign-up line. Somehow, we held our mouths just right and were both able to register.

Several months and hundreds of miles later, we gathered around with the other crazies who spent money to torture themselves. We were nervous. I was not feeling fully recovered from my last run, and I was a bit uncertain of myself. A middle-aged man next to us sensed our anxiety, leaned over, and asked, "First time?" We nodded but weren't really in the mood for small talk. He had run the race over a dozen times and offered up jewels of friendly advice, "touch the rocks when you get to the top so that you won't pass out. It orientates your brain." But most importantly, "don't go out like an asshole," he offered up with a knowing smile. And then the gun shot off and the time for words was over.

“Don't go out like an asshole.”

I chanted it to myself repeatedly the first few miles as we fought our way through town and up the first hill of the race. I suspected this was not an event that spared much mercy on arrogance.

It was not long before we were trapped in a long line of 100s of runners trying to make their way up a narrow trail. Frustrated, we kicked ourselves for listening to the asshole advice. I bet the assholes had a better place in the conga line. The whole event felt more claustrophobic than I had initially imagined. I began to worry about finding a private spot to squat should I need one. The timing of mother nature played the cruelest of jokes on me, and I knew I would have to change a tampon at some point. In my opinion, women in such a position should receive two medals if they finish any race. But we all endure the particular little torment which man can understand with silent suffering and contentment.

Jenni and I settled into a steady pace and listened to stories from other runners to pass the time. Pikes does not allow headphones for racers. It seemed like an annoying rule until you were on the trail, and then you recognize you could have it no other way. The first several hours of the race passed quickly, and before we knew it, we had made Bar Camp at 10,000 feet. Much to my excitement, we discovered an enclosed bathroom stop. The spirits of the racers were still high. We enjoyed each other's company and the variety of snacks the race organizers hiked in for us.

Somewhere between Bar Camp and A-Frame, I started to develop a more profound respect and fear of the mountain as self-doubt began to creep in. Jenni became increasingly agitated as we began to feel the effects of the thinning air. It was apparent the other racers felt it too, the joyful banter slowly ceased. If you glanced at your GPS, it would not appear that you had much ground to cover to make it to the top. However, the progressively rough trail and diminishing oxygen painted a much different story.

At this point, Jenni seemed just downright pissed off at me. I started to feel some twinge of guilt for pressuring her into the race. Jenni does not typically curse, but her oxygen-deprived brain started to heave repeated obscenities right at me. Until today, our friendship felt comparable to a rubber band you could stretch apart repeatedly and watch spring right back together. I wondered if this mountain had finally pulled us far enough we would snap apart.

Now my only hope for our relationship rested between the layers of a cookie. Jenni was a sucker for Oreos, not the ridiculous flavored ones, but the good old fashion originals with the perfect ratio of crème filling to chocolate wafer. I surprised her with a little tiny package of them to carry in her pack the night before the race. They were for the celebration at for the top, if circumstances allowed us to make it that far. In the miles to come, I placed all my confidence for restoring our friendship in the little pack of Oreos. If she made it to the top of the mountain and ate her cookies, she might remember she loved me.

We do not often separate in a race—running across the finish line of more than a dozen marathons almost stride for stride—but sometimes there comes a moment when you must preserve the 'I' to save the 'we.' If either of us hoped to finish, we knew we had each had to run our own race. She screamed at me, "just go…" and slowly I climbed away from her.

I met another man who was a frequent participator in the event. "First time?" he asked in a similar tone as the racer from the morning. It must have been somehow painted on my forehead. I flashed back to my first and only half iron man, where the race director felt it appropriate to write, 'V' for virgin in black sharpie marker if you were a first-time competitor. The label was meant to generate additional TLC from the race volunteers and spectators, but mostly it just brought about shame. I was sure the sharpie marker virgin tattoo was not still visible, but somehow these veterans could see it. I began to wonder if finishing the race would change me in some way others would recognize.

To my surprise, the man did not shame me. We hiked hard together for a few miles, where he offered as much encouragement and advice as he could. Runners are much more of a community than triathletes. He assured me the worst was yet to come. "Those last three miles after you hit A-Frame are a marathon all in themselves," but it was not meant to be a taunt, just a warning to brace for impact.

He was more than right. I hit A-Frame (nearly 12,000 ft) with a faint layer of optimism still intact, but all of it quickly washed away soon after leaving camp. From my reading, I learned the miles ahead might take runners, on average, up to 30 minutes per mile. I was soon painfully aware I was on track for just that. One might have navigated the course quicker, but uphill traffic yields to downhill traffic. So—not being an asshole who earned a respectable spot in line—we were cursed to spend a fair amount of time fighting for our right to take a step—all the while struggling to find our breath.

All the thoughts and worries of life which seemed so pertinent to me hours before grew gradually grew dim. I had not many thoughts left to hold onto. The faces of the people I loved most in life flashed before me—my children, my dearest friends, my husband. Oh, how I longed to see my husband…he would be waiting for me at the summit.

We were married now for more than 13 years, long enough I understood it was difficult to balance the I vs. we, long enough I could now catch a glimpse of the enormity of the covenant we had entered together. We had come through so many trials, and the future promised us many more. For years I could afford to focus heavily on myself, my career, my dreams, and goals. I somehow had the time and energy to focus on the I and still have plenty of space left to pour into him as we worked to balance the we. The equilibrium had shifted—now it felt impossible to juggle my career, his ambitions, our two children, a dog, a cat, four rabbits, and aging parents in any graceful way. Truthfully, these days, I felt we were spending more energy plotting our independent courses than trying to cover ground together. I was ever so slowly becoming irrelevant. But the most dangerous things happen slowly, in a way you might never even notice.

Somehow, I now understood through this self-inflicted torture so many things that were not evident before. If you run far enough, there is a moment when it feels as if your soul secedes from your flesh when you are offered a chance to stand outside of yourself, and at this moment, I recognized I still loved my husband.

I cannot even speculate what the final moments of my life might be like. I might not have the capacity or time to process thought. But if by chance I do, I believe there is a real possibility I might find this same handful of relationships being in my last conscious thoughts. Even if my husband wasn't standing next to me, there was a good chance if something happened to me that very day his face would be the last to flash through my mind. It was a love worth the fight. I knew that now , and I just had to make it to the top to tell him. I began to use the last of my thoughts to concentrate on what I might say when we saw each other.  

The trail was narrow, rocky, and steep. I joined a group of four 'runners' (at this point we weren't fooling anyone, 'hikers' was a better term.) We hiked many of the remaining miles together. The line went, woman, man, woman, man with me in the middle. The woman in front had on a pair of colorful compression socks, which went almost to her knees. The man in front of me wore a burgundy shirt with yellow lettering on the back, though my brain could not process reading the words, it just felt like too much effort. His hands were swollen, and yet he wore a wedding ring, which I worried might affect his circulation. The man behind me I could hardly identify, but I felt his arms around me many times. Once, I turned my head too quickly and began to faint in the wrong direction, and he bear-hugged me as I went down and saved me from falling off a cliff. "Pass out towards the mountain, k?" I nodded but could not reply. Mental note…I would need to pass out better next time. The four of us formed a tight line, holding on to each other as necessary to pause for the relentless downhill traffic to pass. With each runner who flew by, you were reminded how far back in the line you were. It was an insult to injury.

Somewhere along the way, all but one word of language melted away. For as many of us as there were, it was an almost eerie silence broken only by the sound of tiny mountain hail now hitting the ground, or the shout out of a downhill runner, or the word F*** cried out in an array of different pitches. Being raised as I was, I was familiar with the F-word functioning as a noun, verb, or adjective, but I had yet to see it be used in this sense. This was a F*** usage that was almost a heart cry. When all the other words of man seemed to fail, this one remained as the only descriptor of the current circumstance, the single call out for help which would suffice. I never thought I would see the day when the F-word was almost a prayer.

Some kind spectator dumped a large bag of starbursts on a giant rock a few miles from the top. I spotted a red one—my son's favorite color—and quickly grabbed it. My mother-in-law had volunteered to take him up the mountain in the cog train. If we timed it just right, I might see him… another happy thought. I would now have a gift to offer him — a very sweaty and slightly mushed red starburst. I closed my fist around the starburst and kept going.

The burgundy shirt man started to sway gently back and forth. I noticed his swollen hands were now almost the color of his shirt, with his wedding ring finger slightly darker. It was not long before he went down on a rock. I could offer him nothing, not even a word, but I put my hand on his knee as I passed in a gesture of support.

The clouds were rolling in, the attitude of the volunteers changed, and they were all edgy on their radios. I was worried they would call the race and send us down the mountain. If I was forced to turn back, I am not sure I would ever get over it. I think I would rather be struck by lightning and die. I let out a silent prayer that we were all allowed to finish and pushed myself to move as fast as possible.

The half-mile to the top was the hardest of the race. Every step was a fight, and the traffic on the trail was honestly next to ridiculous. I began to shiver hard. At the bottom of the mountain, the temperature was in the 90s, but we would later learn towards the top was under freezing, and I was wet with sweat and light precipitation. I took the advice from the man at the start of the race, touching every rock I could with an open palm as they stood tall around me, to my surprise, it helped a bit.

After what seemed like an eternity, I climbed over the last rock to see my husband's smiling face standing near the turn-around at the top. I could not hold back the tears. All the words I spent hours composing words in my head would fail me, and I was not able to locate a single one of them. I fell into his arms. As it turns out, I missed my son and but continued to hold the starburst in my hand tightly. The mushed morsel of red sugar would have to make the return trip now… Jenni's mom's smile faded and was replaced with an expression of deep concern when she realized we were not together. I tried to reassure her with my limited words, but my anxiety was almost too much to bear. As joyful as the moment was, we did not have the luxury of a lengthy reunion. I still had to make my way down the mountain as quickly as possible.

I headed back down; now, it was my turn to speed past the uphill traffic. The downhill trek was faster yet much scarier than I envisioned. When you are climbing up, you lean towards the earth; coming down was another story, and as the rocks moved beneath my feet, I was suddenly aware of how high we were. We were back to running again, but runners were falling all around me. It would not matter how fast I might be able to run down the mountain—if I had a broken leg—I was confident it would wreck my race time. I made a mental note to slow down and be sure of my footing.

I passed a water stop, and I knew I was running low. I reluctantly stopped for supplies. The volunteer asked me to open my pack, and we both realized with great concern that I was unable to work my fingers to unzip my bag. He reassured me and did all the work. He was also worried about my shaking. Somehow, though I was freezing in a tank top, I never processed that I should stop to put on a jacket. I could not have done it if not for his help, and he helped me zip up and sent me on my way with encouraging words.

I passed Jenni on the trail, making her way to the top. She was not as far behind me as I feared. I told her I would wait for her, but she yelled at me again and refused to make eye contact. I thought once more of the power of Oreos…

At this point, I settled into a steady rhythm of descent, always mindful of the ground beneath my feet. Downhills, for some reason, were still more difficult for me, and an old knee injury reminded me of every step. For the first time in the race, I was alone, and I was not a fan. I started to doubt myself while my mind replayed a persistent melody of self-pity, which took all of me to overlook.

The weather cleared, and after some time passed, I heard, 'Texas' screamed out in a very recognizable voice. My eyes filled with tears again for the second time. Early in the event, all the racers began to identify each other by their home state or country since people from across the globe had gathered today on the mountain. Since Jenni moved to Arkansas, I earned the nickname 'Texas' early on, and it stuck. She caught me, and we hugged.

"This race is a bitch," she smiled — no argument from me.

Jenni has always been a significantly better downhill runner than I am, and today proved no different. She is surefooted, with a confident stride, and is content to let herself fall faster than I am comfortable. I knew I would need her in the miles to come.  

We made our way down the mountain and passed once more the rest stop where I could stumble in to change a tampon. Jenni was content to wait by the container of salted grapes. We were committed to not losing each other again. Jenni regained her sense of humor with the increase of oxygen. She shot a sub pair grape across the trail and into the trash cash with impressive accuracy, which caught the eye of an attendant.

"Wow, incredible shot!"

She smiled and responded, "Yeah, I work-out."

We left the volunteers rolling with laughter as we found our pace again. After a few miles, we looked up and saw a medic station offering first aid for wounded athletes. The trail widened, and we both began to brag that we had not fallen yet during the race. And just like that, Jenni went down hard right in front of the medics. Power of suggestion, I suppose. We laughed it off, and for a brief second, I felt somehow immune—everyone falls they say—well, not me. As if on cue, I too found myself eating a handful of dirt. Well, I guess we both get to play bloody bingo…nice.

We passed another yellow PPM sign with an arrow.

Jenni is annoyed, "we have been passing those damn things all day. What the hell does PPM stand for?" I realized she was serious. The things this race can do to your mind are unbelievable…

"I'm going to go out on a limb… I think maybe PPM stands for Pikes Peak Marathon," I said, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, damn."

We checked our watches and did some quick math. We were not anywhere near our goal, but it was time to readjust. If we could run the next six miles at a 10-minute pace, we could finish the race with an hour to spare before cut-off. Six ten-minute miles, usually nothing, but after today all bets were off.

Somehow, we found it within us. The miles we struggled to climb quickly ticked by on the descent. We ran the last six miles stride for stride. Thankful for all the lessons learned in suffering, I crossed the finish line of the Pikes Peak Marathon in perfect sync with my best friend, just as it should be.