tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-726504121803888232024-03-13T10:43:56.131-07:00Rambling MoustacheAn unusual mixture of fictional/non-fictional short stories sprinkled with an occasional moustache rant.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-20680003059614883332016-03-17T17:11:00.003-07:002016-03-17T17:11:58.851-07:00Focus on the SavesTied to a pole and surrounded by water, the lone pit bull mix stood proud while eagerly looking at the people. Scattered in the stagnant waters, bloated and lifeless, humans floated face down. Nanette focused on the dog. Its fate was gloomy and she noticed others while out on the waters with the National Guard.<br />
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"We'll come back and get the dogs," said the National Guardsman to Nanette.<br />
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He lied.<br />
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Hurricane Katrina ravaged Louisiana in 2005, leaving a powerful wake of death, destruction and homelessness. While on assignment for People magazine, award winning editorial photographer Nanette Martin witnessed Katrina's devastation. Images of the abandoned animals troubled Nanette and weeks later, after learning the animals were ignored, she grabbed her camera and returned to New Orleans to help however she could. <br />
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She did the same on 911. The tragedy propelled her to New York City with her camera in tow. Unassuming and a having a heart of gold, first responders embraced her and brought her into areas where the media was not allowed. With her camera whirring, she kept taking pictures of the hell she encountered. <br />
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Likewise, seeing the pain and suffering in Katrina's aftermath, she captured memories with each press on the camera's button. But, something grabbed her attention and tugged on her heart strings--loads and loads of homeless and/or unwanted pets. Different agencies were there to offer help and Nanette stood nearby with camera in hand.<br />
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A group of rescued dogs were preparing to be transported to Atlanta from New Orleans and Nanette's camera captured each animal's unique spirit. Those pictures were sent ahead of the delivery and proved invaluable as they had been posted online and nearly every dog was adopted prior to their arrival in Atlanta.<br />
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A seed was planted.<br />
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Typical rescue photographs are generic and unflattering, but Nanette's photography makes the animals shine. With her caring heart and belief that she was doing the right thing, Nanette focused her efforts to use her camera to help save lives in rescue shelters and started Shelter Me Photography in 2009. <br />
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Since then, her non-profit has photographed over 9,000 animals in 75 shelters scattered in 16 states.<br />
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In talking to Nanette about her rescue efforts, I mentioned how heartbreaking it must be knowing, despite her valiant efforts, that many of the animals she photographs are still euthanized.<br />
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"I have to focus on the saves," was her sincere reply.<br />
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The odds of escaping death row are tough in a shelter, and even more bleak for dog with special needs. Zulu is definitely a save!<br />
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Shelter Me Photography is a non-profit who runs on the generosity of others. I have no doubt Nanette survives on a shoe string budget as she puts others' welfare in front of her own as I learned how her adopted cat sustained a severe head injury where most people would have put it down. Not Nanette. She swallowed the $4,000 vet bill, determined to later find a way to pay for it, and now has the company of a healed and devoted friend at her house.<br />
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This non-profit is genuine and I guarantee your donations are not squandered as I beleive if Nanette won $1 million dollars, $999,990 would be distributed by her generosity with the remaining $10 maybe being used to treat herself to a luxurious beverage at Starbucks. <br />
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On second thought, that $10 would feed a rescue animal and she'd spend it on the animal instead.<br />
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Nanette is a treasure. Her <a href="http://www.sheltermephotos.org/">website</a> is worth visiting as is her non-profit's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ShelterMePhoto/">Facebook page</a> that is up to date. Check out her magical photography of dogs, cats, rabbits and even a hedgehog. Perhaps her story will stir some visceral emotions and move you to donate some money to help finance her mighty efforts.<br />
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I'm going to quietly tuck this in right here. Time having fun and fiddling around with this blog is scarce and I'm now in full gear on a writing project where I recognize it may be awhile before I pound out another post. I like that the timing to stall on my blog has coincided on Nanette's post since it may bring in a few extra readers to learn about her specialty. Thanks to everyone who takes time out of their day to visit and read! I'll be back in a while. Cheers!D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-28673415517133666282016-03-13T14:27:00.000-07:002016-03-13T14:27:33.444-07:00K9 Veteran's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thank You!</div>
D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-3411722373303788412016-03-09T03:19:00.000-08:002016-03-09T03:19:06.766-08:00Officer Richard Cranium"Do you know why I stopped you?" asked the officer after boldly announcing that he is on the Traffic Team.<br />
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"Nope," was my simple reply that apparently struck a nerve with Officer Richard Cranium.<br />
<a name='more'></a>It was a pleasant Monday afternoon as I was stopped in the left turn lane. Traffic was heavy and while waiting for the green arrow, I noticed the police car also in the turn lane ahead of me with a car between us. Patrol cars are a good thing to notice as it makes everyone drive a little better.<br />
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At the green arrow, the left turn only cars began to flow through the intersection. As the police car entered the intersection, the green arrow turned to yellow. The car ahead of me entered the intersection on the yellow arrow as I focused on the color. As my front tires entered the intersection and I begin to turn, the yellow arrow disappeared. I never saw the red arrow as I proceeded out of the intersection.<br />
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Suddenly, the cop car jerked across the double yellow lines and entered the lane for opposing traffic. The car in front of me passed the police car and as I passed, I glanced over and saw a pedestrian walking nearby and I assumed the officer was going to contact the person.<br />
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Wrong.....<br />
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The police car whipped behind me with red and blues flickering and I pulled over into a parking lot.<br />
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Hmmmm.....<br />
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I rolled down my driver's door window and placed both hands on the outside of my steering wheel, clearly visible to the approaching officer that I watched in my side view mirror.<br />
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"I'm Officer So-&-So and I'm on the Traffic Unit for the XX Police Department," he began as he stopped at my driver's door. "Do you know why I stopped you?"<br />
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"Nope," was my reply.<br />
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"You ran the red arrow!" he fired as his confident and calm demeanor had vaporized.<br />
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"No I did not!" was my honest reply that only fueled the heated exchange.<br />
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We traded a few childish, "Yes you dids" and "No I didn'ts!" And then he changed tactics.<br />
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"You cut off traffic!" he added to his lame attempt for me to incriminate myself by submitting to his verbal blitzkrieg by saying "I'm sorry" so he could use it against me because who says they are sorry unless they did something wrong?<br />
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"Oh no I didn't!" I shot back as he grasped for straws.<br />
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"Okay, okay, we can agree to disagree," he tossed out as he proceeded to lecture me how the intersection was a high crash location and he didn't want anymore accidents there.<br />
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"And I thank you for your efforts," I extended to him.<br />
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"Well... I'm not writing you a ticket...I didn't see the arrow," he finally admitted as he withdrew his business card and handed it to me.<br />
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FINALLY! The truth came out!<br />
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He knew he had reasonable suspicion to stop me as he "thought" I may have run a red arrow. But, he also knew he did not have probable cause and craftily confronted me to admit being at fault where I believe a traffic ticket would have been issued. <br />
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BUT, I was legally in the intersection on the yellow and had done nothing wrong. <br />
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Regardless of the profession, no one likes a bully.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-12946148248201071772016-02-28T16:03:00.000-08:002016-02-28T16:03:01.378-08:00Moustache Unplugged #33"Are you kidding me!" I bark.<br />
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"Huh? Did it hit?" he replies while pretending to act dumbfounded.<br />
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Strong gusts of wind buffeted my vehicle forcing my turning the steering wheel into the blast. I slowed and turned broadside to the wind that rocked my car like a ship in rough water. Easing into a parking space, I shut off the engine.<br />
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Trees violently jerked around as debris skidded across the parking lot. A gap in my door's rubber seal allowed the invasive wind to whistle inside. Wind. Its my least favorite condition offered by Mother Nature as it is tough to escape. But once I ramble into the canyon, it will dissipate and I look forward to the reprieve.<br />
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But, added to the recipe of annoyance was a dolt (screw it, I'll say it--a real dumbass) in the car parked beside me.<br />
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A sporty looking Audi, white in color, with some hot shit behind the wheel and a lady in the passenger seat. Name brand clothing, custom "vanity" license plates and stickers in the windows telling everyone how badass he is sets the stage. Oh, and big money sunglasses are perched on top of his head.<br />
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Definitely not the kind of person that impresses The Moustache.<br />
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I go about yanking shoe laces tight and covering skin to avoid frostbite as I expected to step out and challenge the wind for a couple hours in blustery winter weather. The mountain trail was snow and ice-packed two days earlier so I snap on my Icetrekkers (still the best traction devices on the market) and I am nearly ready to start my run.<br />
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But..............................<br />
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Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Important reaching down to open his door. He cracks it open where the wind instantly rips it out of his girlie-man grip and his door bounces off my car. He catches his door on the rebound and closes it. His eyes bulge as I shove my door open.<br />
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"Are you kidding me!" I barked. (Okay, I admit, a fiery f-bomb was included.)<br />
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"Huh? Did it hit?" he replied, acting dumbfounded.<br />
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"Look right there!" I yell through the wind while pointing out where his door damaged my car which was clearly evident since the fresh mark stood out in my grimy car's exterior like a flashing beacon.<br />
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Too late. Mr. Important had already put his car in gear and was pulling out. I talked myself down from the anger that flared as I would have regretted following through with my initial thoughts...<br />
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Typical in this day and age. Catch someone with their hand in the cookie jar and they will look straight in your eye and claim it isn't their hand. <br />
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Pathetic.<br />
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The door ding isn't a huge deal as it joins several others on my aging car. But, its the principle of the matter!<br />
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Did I write down his license plate? Absolutely, but later I tossed it in the trash as I assumed his lady friend was appalled with his extreme cowardice and I hope that was punishment enough.<br />
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Come on, folks, doing the right thing should come natural! Even if it amounts to nothing more that saying, "Sorry."<br />
<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-63954422210508607832016-02-21T11:20:00.002-08:002016-02-21T11:20:43.472-08:00HelloHello, it's me. Although I've been quiet for awhile, don't think that you are forgotten. <br />
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Yes, the cycle of hours churning into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years steadily pass, but you're thought of frequently. Actually, very frequently, as in daily.<br />
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Reminders are everywhere and they spark the knee-jerk reactions of instant smiling and heart felt warmth.<br />
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Sometimes, when I'm alone so no one can hear, I quietly whisper your name. Simply saying it out loud provides an additional dimension of hearing it where my eardrums enjoy the sound. Some might say that's creepy, but I contend it's pure admiration.<br />
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Life has tossed in a few twists, but logging miles on the mountainous single track trails always triggers bringing you along as my virtual pacer and I still enjoy, and look forward to, your company. <br />
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A project has consumed any available free time with plans for it to be completed by summer. Yes, summertime is good and I hope it passes inspection! <br />
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We shall see.<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-71656791244040153272016-01-14T08:06:00.000-08:002016-01-17T08:58:38.570-08:00That'd Be NiceI just checked my powerball numbers for the $1.6 billion jackpot. I didn't win.<br />
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Bummer.<br />
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I joined the craze of buying a few tickets for the mega jackpot and openly admit that I did not even know what I was doing.<br />
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"Can I help you, sir?" asked the clerk.<br />
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"Yes, I'd like 5 powerball tickets," was my naive reply.<br />
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"Quick picks?"<br />
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Not wanting to appear like a rookie powerballer, I answered, "Of course." <br />
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"You want those to be powerplays?" <br />
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"Yes," <em>whatever that means</em>.....<br />
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He punched some buttons on a machine that spit out a receipt.<br />
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"That's fifteen dollars."<br />
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<em>What? I thought lotto tickets were $1 each? Geez, this powerballin' is expensive...and what does this "powerplay "add-on even do??</em><br />
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I handed over the cash and left-- glassy eyed that I had the golden ticket to something even better than Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.<br />
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One point six billion dollars $1.6 billion $1,600,000,000 <br />
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No matter how it's written, it is still a hog's load of money... a gluttonous amount of money...<strong><em>way</em></strong> too much money. I'm unique as I would rather see 1,600 instant million dollar winners as the ripple effect would most likely positively impact more people than three winners splitting an absolute fortune that they could never spend in their lifetimes. <br />
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But, I'm not in charge.<br />
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Patrick, I told you when I won I'd help you and your buddies out. I guess that old bingo hall that has been abandoned for over a decade will continue to stand empty instead of my buying and gutting it of all asbestos. My hiring you to be in charge of things will have to wait as well as my building walls of lockers will also be postponed. So, I guess you will still sleep in the park, with snow drifting down on your grizzled beard, and continue having your backpack of meager possessions stolen after you try to stash it under a bush while you head out to day labor jobs.<br />
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Perhaps one of the guhzillionaires will read this and reach out to me and ask where they can spend some of their fortune in a very good and meaningful way. <br />
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That'd be nice.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-22417139528355294852016-01-03T12:28:00.001-08:002016-01-03T12:28:35.038-08:00Justice for Junior?The setting sun, swallowed by gray, low clouds on a misty July evening, turns the trailer park dark. Burning marijuana, along with frying chicken and spilled motor oil, wafts amongst the trailers. Loud televisions, louder voices and cheap aluminum doors being slammed jolts Junior. <br />
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He's only eight months old.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Junior is hurting; a rib broken by a face he will never forget. With each breath his torso inflates, causing the break to separate. With each exhale, the gap closes and the pain is relentless in his 30 pound body. There is no way to escape it...he has to breathe. Gingerly, he rests on the dirt of the trailer's tiny lot. Ignored by the drug addicts inside the cramped trailer, he struggles to find comfort. <br />
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Soft whimpers do not ease the pain, but by making the muffled sounds, at least it sounds like someone is feeling sorry for him...even if it is himself. An infuriated mad man crashes out from the trailer. Crazed with bloodshot eyes, rotten teeth exposed by a grimacing mouth, and bad body odor, the man fitfully storms toward Junior.<br />
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Junior does not understand.<br />
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Junior was born in a cheap motel and was raised romping around the courtyard with the manager's bigger pit bull puppy. Life wasn't too bad. Food was provided, most of the time, and he knew how to cycle between motel rooms for handouts if he became hungry. Prostitutes, drug addicts, "mentals," alcoholics, transients...he loved everyone and they all enjoyed having the good natured dog around. Somehow, he knew the danger of the busy road and stayed away from the passing cars. Visitors, young and old, two legged or four-legged, were all greeted with a happy tail, perked ears and a big, wet tongue. He loved them all. <br />
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But, one day he went for a joyous ride and never returned. His new home was a postage stamp trailer lot surrounded by a sagging, waist high chain link fence. The trailer was equally tiny, hardly big enough for two people and a dog to share. But, visitors were frequent at all hours of the day and night, so he was forced outside. He missed playing with other dogs. He missed the company of people. He would try to solicit attention from visitors, but they ignored him. They were too focused to get inside the trailer and feed their addictions.<br />
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Days earlier, while trying to get some attention and becoming viewed as an irritating obstacle, the enraged man broke his rib. It happened so fast, Junior wasn't sure but thought a knee had crashed into his side to cause the injury. Hurting, he darted outside to hide.<br />
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A lady who noticed he wasn't himself actually took him to a couple clinics, but diagnosis required money. Any money in hand would not be for his care, oh no... chemical addictions took priority. So, alone in the trailer's yard, Junior tried his best to work through the pain.<br />
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When the mad man crashed out the door, Junior looked up. Concerned that the man was approaching him, Junior cowered down and became motionless. A hand placed at the back of his head and one under his chin, Junior wondered what was happening. He looked up and suddenly, a swift jerking motion had his head twisted around. Taken beyond its limits, Junior heard a snapping and crunching sound. Pain shot through his body as his head was released. Too injured to hold his head up, his chin bounced in the dirt as the mad man repeated twisting his head again. More snapping sounds returned along with more pain.<br />
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Junior collapsed. He whimpered some more, confused at what was happening to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the crazed human reach inside the trailer's open door, grabbing a wooden baseball bat. The monster swung the bat, crashing it into Junior's face. Junior's world went black as the monster blasted his face a second time.<br />
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Junior's body, nearly lifeless, was sprawled out on the dirt as blood trickled into his ear canals. Death was slow in coming--minutes went by as he lingered crossing that line. A final whimper escaped from his mouth where a different person mercifully struck a fatal blow to the back of his head. Death was immediate as the disgusted person left the trailer, pissed off that he was the one forced to end the dog's suffering.<br />
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Through lies, deception and some people actually telling the truth, the monster eventually plead guilty to his atrocious, demented acts against Junior. The judge recognized the evil menace and imposed a maximum sentence. <br />
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Eighteen months in prison.<br />
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It doesn't seem adequate to offset the sheer brutality and violence Junior endured at the end of his life.<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-22643653225153925132015-12-18T07:39:00.001-08:002015-12-18T09:28:38.368-08:00Dr. DirtGrumbling, I wiggle and stomp my feet into filthy, dirt encrusted sneakers while questioning my intent for a trail run. Mud chunks slab off the uppers like glaciers calving into the ocean. With each step, dust and dirt fall to the ground and I'm highly annoyed by the mess that usually is ignored. For whatever reason, today I am Mr. Cranky Pants.<br />
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The morning sun is too bright, my sunglasses too scratched, the windshield too pitted and the driver in front of me far too slow. Noticing my odometer, there are too many miles. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and see way too many wrinkles and, God forbid, too many white/gray hairs. <br />
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The highway is too bumpy and the radio plays too hard of some mega-death nonsense song. I smell too much diesel exhaust from a trucker and my middle finger is <strong><em>way</em></strong> too small as I "wave" to someone who "waved" at me first. <br />
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Exiting the highway, the ramp is too full of traffic and no one knows how to properly merge onto the next street. I finally make it to the trail head parking lot and someone is already in <strong><em>my</em></strong> parking space. I exhale hard, hoping to blow some of the bad out of my system and take a relaxing sip from my water bottle. Wouldn't you know it...the water is too wet!<br />
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Disgusted with myself for being in such a sour mood, I force myself to cinch up shoelaces and stuff ear buds deep to seal outside noises from penetrating and invading my precious therapy.<br />
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The new play list thunders loud and, finally, I crack a warm smile from clever lyrics that take me running beside a treasured virtual pacer. <br />
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The entire time preparing to hit the trail was spent bitchin' at myself and listing all kinds of reasons why I should have stayed home. I fully recognize the intrinsic value of getting my body in motion, being out with nature and simply letting my mind wander wherever it wants to go. So, I was thankful that I persevered. The cleansing had begun with each deep breath, each heart beat and each step along the trail.<br />
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Noticing magpies perched nearby, I immediately glance around. They could be simply resting and swapping lies with each other or, maybe, they are hazing a predator, eagerly anticipating their transformation into pain-in-the-ass, annoying scavengers. A small tuft of white fur draws my attention as it disappears into the brush..<br />
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I whip out my phone, silence the music, and flick on the camera as I stalk the silent hunter through the brush.<br />
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Ever so briefly, it appears and I hope my camera captures the moment.<br />
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At best, it's a very poor picture. But, hopefully it depicts how I'm at the west end of a eastbound bobcat who is looking to his left. He quickly vaporized into the environment.<br />
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Thank you Mr. Bobcat, you provided the attitude adjustment I needed. Everything I was griping about instantly became trivial and, once again, the dirty trail succeeds being top therapist!<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-79814048794984407702015-12-08T07:34:00.001-08:002015-12-08T07:34:02.247-08:00I Deserved ItFresh snowfall piled heavy on limbs and smothered the ground in a thick layer of fluff. Getting a late start, other trail users had already pounded a worn path through the powder, to include fat-tired mountain bikes.<br />
<a name='more'></a>The crisp winter air felt good stinging my exposed cheeks as a new play list with freshly purchased songs had my mind drifting and my lips smiling. Miles swept by as I continued to enjoy the landscape.<br />
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Rounding a corner, I noticed a rock free from any snowfall which stood out like a sore thumb. And then, the rock raised his head.<br />
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<br />
The old bull elk briefly stared at me, then returned to burrowing into the snow for breakfast. His big body was evidence of the wet spring providing abundance during the growing season.<br />
<br />
I kept plodding forward and noticed a odd-shaped snow angel beside the trail. Upon closer inspection, I had deep and serious hardy-hars when I figured out that a mountain biker had plunged beside the trail. Chuckling at his misfortune, and wishing I had been a witness, I hit a downhill portion and picked up speed.<br />
<br />
Two twenty-somethings were coming up the slope as I whizzed past them with a cordial, "Good Morning."<br />
<br />
And then, I wiped out. It was not a simple face plant, oh no, that would not be fair. This was a classic crash highlighted by momentum taking my body off the trail and log rolling downhill through brush with snow exploding around me. I managed to pop up on my feet, hoping that it looked rehearsed, and scrambled back up on the trail to continue. I had no doubt my stunt was noisy (maybe a death cry had been yelped???) and the gals had probably turned and were watching the powder-coated creature head down the trail. <br />
<br />
My right knee felt tore up, but I couldn't let them know I was hurt...that would take away from what I hoped looked like a planned stop, drop and roll routine. So, I ran onward, focusing on not to limp or stopping to inspect the damage. <br />
<br />
Gimping back to the trail head, I finally peeked at my knee. Bloody hamburger. <br />
<br />
Karma. <br />
<br />
That's what I get for giggling so heartily at the mountain biker's snow dive. And I won't do it again...until next time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-57564101380536100602015-11-30T08:30:00.000-08:002015-11-30T08:30:23.584-08:00Nature's WayA sunny afternoon suddenly had an explosion of magpies squawking around the house. Like a scene from some weird horror movie, they fluttered all around and I stepped outside. Black and white feathers darted in every direction and quick movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Hustling through the small pasture, a coyote had something big and bright pink in its mouth. He jumped through the fence and I glanced back to where he had been and a pile of white feathers told the story as he stopped to look at me. Hooping and hollering, I ran after him as he bounced through the tall grass with the dead hen in his mouth.<br />
<br />
Returning to the scene of the crime, an inspection of the feathers revealed Uncle Chubs had been killed. Oddly, the coyote was either so starved, or so comfortable, that he had taken the time to rip off wings and de-feather the bird prior to my interruption. Magpies fluttered around the kill site and I noticed a few more flying far down in neighbor's field, probably hazing the coyote for some scraps. Remarkably, he returned 10 minutes later with a friend, eyeballing the remaining hens that were safely behind a coyote proof fence.<br />
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Hating to keep them confined in a small area, I risked letting them out and assumed the earlier attack was a fluke since coyotes typically use the cover of darkness to skulk around. But, in less than a week, more hens were massacred in the middle of the day. In less than two weeks, the flock dropped from ten happy, egg laying hens to a mere three. <br />
<br />
I declared war.<br />
<br />
And there he was! Standing beside the gate peering for another free chicken meal. I rushed inside and quietly slipped back outside with a .22 rifle. He was poking around in some tall grass when my bullet whizzed past him and I kicked myself for missing such an easy shot. He jumped into a neighbor's field and I stalked him. He disappeared and I chucked a rock thinking he had bedded down. He did not stand, so I assumed he had slithered away.<br />
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Laying my rifle in the ditch, I walked out where I had last seen him and suddenly, he stood and stared at me. He looked rough! Nonchalantly, he waltzed away as I ambled back to my rifle. In the distance, I watched him hunt mice and then disappear again.<br />
<br />
Respecting my neighbor and his property, I told him where the coyote had likely bedded down and he walked down the fence line. Mr. Coyote stood and daringly stared at him, and then died from immediate lead poisoning.<br />
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I went down to inspect the chicken killer.<br />
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His ugly body boldly stated how miserable he was feeling. Mange had him scratching himself hairless to where even his bare skin was thick and crusty from his digging at himself. What should have been a big puffy tail was instead a hairless rat tail.<br />
<br />
Mange can be a sign of too many critters in an area, so Mother Nature steps in to adjust the population in a rather cruel way. The tiny parasites burrow into the skin where the infected beast constantly is scratching to the point it is digging at itself day and night for comfort. Sleepless, they become poor hunters and suffer from exposure since winter hair is rubbed off. Temporary relief is experienced basking in warm sunlight and this coyote resorted to daytime hunting for survival. Unfortunately, chickens were easy targets but his suffering had ended where he was far too nasty to bother skinning and scavenging magpies even turned up their noses and didn't even bother with him.<br />
<br />
I'm glad his suffering is over and that he's done dining on chicken, but, another one was noticed jumping the neighbor's fence last night. And, this morning at dawn, a pair gliding across the driveway challenged the dogs. <br />
<br />
The battle will continue...<br />
<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-38688225638470145502015-11-23T07:14:00.001-08:002015-11-23T07:14:36.254-08:00Best Buy<em>What was that? </em>Something had caught my eye out in the middle of nowhere from a poorly maintained, dusty county road. Was it a reflection from within the sagebrush choked landscape? An unnatural shape boldly standing out? Bright colors contrasting so vividly that it brought attention to itself even through my poor color vision? I eased over to a wide spot in the road to turn around.<br />
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With eyes straining down into the shoulder of the road, I eased along. Seeing nothing, and convinced that my eyes had played a trick on my mind, I prepared to turn around and proceed on my journey. But, just when I assumed I had retraced my steps too far, there it was.<br />
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"It" turned out to be a small collection. Some ass-wipe actually took the time, and effort, to drive out of town, away from dumpsters or the landfill, to toss two television sets and a computer monitor out into the environment. <br />
<br />
What kind of selfish shit-stain does that?<br />
<br />
The equipment was haphazardly laying amongst the sagebrush, obviously discarded with big heaves from the road. I dropped off the road and, one at a time, wrestled them into the back of my truck and hauled them out.<br />
<br />
If the litterbug's household trash service refused to take them, then, minimally, sneak into an alley and toss them in a dumpster. Then, at least they end up in a toxic landfill along with the rest of the garbage.<br />
<br />
Better yet, recycle! True, most recycling centers will not accept TV's and monitors, but guess what? Best Buy accepts them for recycling.<br />
<br />
I hauled the junk around and eventually went to Best Buy and loaded them onto a shopping cart.<br />
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With the trio nestled onto the cart, I wheeled them inside where the greeter looked quizzically at me and then inspected the junk. The plastic housings surrounding the glass screens and inner guts of the equipment were fractured and he initially refused to accept them. He explained the damaged condition was simply too dangerous for his employees. Surprsingly, although not plugged in, I learned the danger was from some stored up monstor charge within the equipment that could zap the handler. <br />
<br />
Whatever...<br />
<br />
I told him I had grabbed and wrestled them around and survived, and was prepared to touch my tongue on the exposed electronics to demonstrate they were safe to take from me. Prior to licking the electronic popsicles, I explained the circumstance of finding them and hauling the junk over 125 miles out of the mountains.<br />
<br />
He arched his eyebrows and took a new stance.<br />
<br />
"Park the cart over there...we'll take them."<br />
<br />
Thank you Best Buy!D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-31492728840756110232015-11-10T08:44:00.000-08:002015-11-10T08:44:52.973-08:00HumbledGasping for air, I fully recognize my endurance has suffered by resting a relentless IT band issue. A racing heart compliments my rapid breathing as I console myself while gazing at the trickling mountain stream and the few remaining leaves bravely clinging to the trees. But, I suddenly hear footsteps from behind and quickly spin.<br />
<a name='more'></a>Steadily approaching is another trail runner. I estimate him being at least 20 pounds lighter than me and around 10 years my senior and I give a courteous hello that triggers no response. Noticing no ear buds, I determine he's either deaf or a chump. <br />
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Right or wrong, I attach the chump label and tell myself that there's no way he's going to beat me up the mountain. <br />
<br />
We hit a steep section and I labor while keeping his red tank top in sight. Bit by bit, he's creating distance as I struggle to stay within eyesight of him. The trail dips into areas of trees and winds up to the summit where I only catch glimpses of him. As he passes a large rock, I hit my stopwatch. Upon my reaching the same rock, I glance down and notice he's 40 seconds ahead of me. He hits the top and turns to head back down.<br />
<br />
"Who are you?" I ask as he rushes past me. He stops and talks, but it's a very foreign language and I shake his hand as we both smile at one another. He takes off and I tell myself I can catch him on the downhill.<br />
<br />
Thundering down the mountain, I see no sign of him. Assuming he took a different fork in the trail, I still keep pushing myself. I catch a glimpse of red through the trees and push harder. He passes another landmark and I hit my stopwatch. Twenty seconds later, I pass the same landmark and quickly calculate I cut his lead in half. <br />
<br />
My left IT band reminds me it still isn't healed as I push harder and probably look, and sound like, a water buffalo in labor.<br />
<br />
The trail hits another ascent and I catch his red shirt zig-zagging up the trail. Hitting my stopwatch again, I soon see he's pulling away from me with a full minute lead. Unseen by me, I forecast his cresting the second summit and I eventually stagger to the second summit and remind myself it's time to cut his lead. I suggest to myself that I can pass him as we rumble down the mountain while returning to the trail head.<br />
<br />
The eastern slope is barren and I periodically see him zipping across the mountain's face. I tuck my chin and push harder. My next sighting is the red shirt sailing towards the parking lot and I hit my stopwatch.<br />
<br />
Two minutes and thirty seconds later, I run in the same spot.<br />
<br />
That may not sound like much, but I equate that 150 seconds as a good, old-fashioned ass whoopin'!<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's good to humble someone, but sometimes it is even better to be humbled!<br />
<br />
D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-52767303206752538792015-11-02T08:59:00.000-08:002015-11-02T08:59:57.647-08:00Is that a moco?"C'mon! This way!" yelled the driver to his friends as they fled from the stolen BMW he wrapped around a metal traffic light pole. <br />
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"Hurry Up!"<br />
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The late summer night was moonless, which made the sky black with darkness. They immediately slipped off the main roads and into the residential neighborhood where street lights were scattered. Most houses were dark expect for the few night owls still watching TV with the blue glow dancing through their windows. Huffing and puffing, the group of juveniles started to slow down.<br />
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"My head hurts," stated the front seat passenger as he fingered a goose egg on his forehead from bouncing off the windshield during the crash. <br />
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"Keep moving! The cops will be coming," barked the driver as they hustled down the sidewalks. <br />
<br />
Distance was their friend. Soon, sirens started to pierce the still night air as fire engines and ambulances raced to the intersection of the wrecked car.<br />
<br />
"Ha!" stated the driver. "When they get there, ain't no one in the car," he smirked as the group continued to flee the area.<br />
<br />
Lurking through the neighborhood was a lone set of headlights. Up and down the side streets a police cruiser methodically searched for movement. Feral cats dashing from trash cans flashed through the headlights until, in the distance, a small group crossed the end of the street.<br />
<br />
"Shit! Run! It's a cop car!" Together, the group sprinted and darted around a short fence to hide. The police car slowly drove by with its spotlight sweeping the area.<br />
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"When he leaves, I'm outta here!" stated the driver as he crouched in preparation to climb the tall wooden fence. As the cruiser disappeared from sight, he jumped and kicked his way over the fence while the rest of the group sat motionless.<br />
<br />
"I'm scared," admitted the front seat passenger to his friends who wrapped their arms around their legs as they had pulled their knees to their chests. "What'll we do?" he asked.<br />
<br />
No one answered.<br />
<br />
Distant, muffled voices were detected as the group stiffened while straining their ears. In addition to the far off voices, a hoarse breathing was barely heard. It sounded like someone being partially choked. And, it was getting louder. And louder. And louder.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, a black colored dog was passing them on the sidewalk. His head was down as if smelling a trail and behind him was a long, tight leash. Everyone held their breath as two cops also passed with one holding onto the leash.<br />
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The passenger held his finger up to his lips to signal to his friends to keep quiet. <em>Please let them keep walking down the street</em> he kept telling himself. They were hidden behind trashcans and a VW bug parked in the driveway blocked his view of what the dog was doing.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the black dog zipped around the front of the VW, ears perked and eyes fiery with focus as his nose probed the air. <br />
<br />
"Is that a fuckin' werewolf," he weakly murmured as suddenly, the dog exploded through the trashcans and bit his lower leg. He leaned back to offset the dog's strength, but it did nothing as the dog plucked him out from his hiding spot. Like a rag doll, the dog yanked him one way and then the other as the officers moved in, yelling orders for everyone to show their hands.<br />
<br />
The handler removed the K9 from his leg as he cried, both from fear and from pain. His shrieking friends were panic stricken from his screaming as it sounded like he was being eaten alive. <br />
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In the distance, the driver heard the blood curdling screams and goose bumps raised on his skin as a chill shuttered through his body<em>. Fuck, I hope that doesn't happen to me </em>he kept telling himself as he listened to police cars enter the area with their radios filling the night air with police talk.<br />
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Back beside the trashcans, an officer approached the injured passenger and pointed to his forehead and asked, "Is that a moco?"<br />
<br />
"What?" asked the passenger as paramedics began to treat his injury.<br />
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"Oh, never mind. I thought that was a big booger...it's actually a fat globule from your leg!" concluded the officer.<br />
<br />
The driver nearly felt relieved when a cop barked orders at him to come out of his hiding spot. He hesitated while scanning the area for the police dog and when no K9 was seen, he complied with the instructions and was arrested.. <br />
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He was thankful he did not experience what he had listened to his friend endure...<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-53958912400331334282015-10-23T21:44:00.002-07:002015-10-23T21:44:43.468-07:00HowardThis blog honors dogs and the following entry from a guest writer is self explanatory. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Howard Napping On The Sofa<br />
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Dear Howard,<br />
<br />
I am at a loss for words to describe the terrible void I feel in my heart with your death. At the point I am sure I have run out of tears, I manage to find more. It was after your death that a very dear friend suggested I write you a letter. I had no idea what to write. What could be written to show you how much you mean to me, and to our family? What do you say to a dog that gave unconditional love while never asking for anything in return, but maybe an opportunity to tenaciously lick an earlobe or some lap time? So, I figured I would just write about your eleven year life and how much each moment of it meant to me.<br />
<br />
We bought you at a pet store in Southglenn Mall and fell in love with you the moment we laid eyes on your black and white Shih Tzu fur. We immediately knew you were meant to be ours. Your birthday was 2/3/04 and we found you on April 2nd; which is my sister's birthday. I know there were no cosmos in the universe that intricately planned two in love twenty-somethings to buy you, but it made sense to us at the time; and it still does. We brought you home and you immediately interrogated with great skill your older Shih Tzu brother, Arthur. After some lengthy stare downs and a few nips, you two were friends.<br />
<br />
You were an adorable fur ball that pounced on everything, and had hair growing up over your eyes. It wasn't long after you came home that you broke your hind leg. We were not sure how it happened, but it didn't matter as we knew something was wrong because you were limping and hiding behind the toilet. We rushed you to the overnight emergency vet. We both agreed we would pay whatever it took to fix you all the while knowing we did not have "whatever" to pay. Still, you belonged to us and we belonged to you and we were going to make sure you were taken care of. Next thing we knew, you were home with a cast on your leg. As long as I live the sound of the three pitter-patters and one loud thump across the floor will never leave me. Like every other obstacle in your life, you overcame it and, in fact, you loved dancing on your hind legs and jumping up on everything. <br />
<br />
You were always your own dog. Arthur and your younger sister, Mabel, would go one way and you would go the other. As long as you had the back of the couch to look out the window, or your favorite toy, "jack", life was good. You were a protector of our home and all those that lived in it, even if those living in it annoyed you. When "mom" was pregnant with our first child you always cuddled with her belly. If she sat down, you made sure to be right on top. When we brought the baby home, you would sleep by him and watch over him. As he got older, he would drive you crazy and you would snip at him, but we knew you cared about him. When mom was pregnant with our second, you did the same thing. Always protecting mom and the unborn little girl inside of her. As long as there was no thunder, you were steadfast and brave, but man did you hate thunder!<br />
<br />
Howard, I could probably write a novel about your life's adventures; from fighting with Jo-Jo boy to loving on anybody that would look your way. I realize that to the outsider, you were not "remarkable" or "heroic." You weren't Lassie or a bomb sniffing dog, you were Howard Paul the Shih Tzu, but you saved our lives.<br />
<br />
We knew something was wrong with you. You weren't yourself and we could tell. You had lost so much weight, you didn't want to eat and you would shake each time you took a breath. I will take this opportunity to apologize to you Howard. I was selfish. I knew that if I took you to the vet, I was going to get the answer I expected and that was you were sick, very sick. I did not want to let go, I did not want to make "the" decision. I prayed. I secretly hoped you would quietly go in your sleep. I finally realized it was time to get you to the doctor. I admit my hands were shaking when I finally made the call to schedule an appointment. Even then I was selfish. I probably could have taken you in that very day, but I made the appointment two days out. I explained your symptoms and the girl on the other end sounded disgusted that I was not rushing you in immediately. Maybe she wasn't disgusted. Maybe I was projecting her feelings because I was feeling selfish. I am glad I made the appointment for that Friday because your mom was able to be there.<br />
<br />
On Friday, October 9th, 2015, we brought you into the vet. We both knew while walking through the parking lot that this could be it; however, for some reason, I could not allow my brain to believe it. Even at the very end, you were so sweet and it was almost as if you were making sure to comfort us. After some tests, the doctor advised us it was grim. You had a large tumor and your body was riddled with cancer. As we feared, you were in pain and there was not much to be done. There was an option for an extensive and expensive surgery, but with your age you would have had to undergo numerous tests even to find out if you were a viable candidate. Meanwhile, waiting in pain to undergo a painful surgery and a painful recovery. The other option was to relieve your pain. Allow you to take the next step. We both wanted to hold on to you, but we both knew it was not the right thing for you.<br />
<br />
We made the horrifying decision to bring you peace. I never knew the pain that one could feel when toiling over that decision. Unless you have had to make that decision, you will never understand. I realize how ridiculous it sounds, but it was strangely familiar to making the decision to remove my own father from life support.<br />
<br />
The procedure was explained to us. They would take you in the back and insert a shunt into your leg that would be used to deliver the medicine. We requested a tuft of your fur. You had the softest fur. They said an imprint of your paw would be made for us to keep. I asked if I could pay for this nightmarish experience before it occurred. I walked out to the front desk and was inconsolable. I cried the entire time. The staff could not have been more benevolent. Each made eye contact with me and expressed their condolences.<br />
<br />
I made my way back into the exam room. Your mom and I cried in each other's arms. We could not believe that this was happening. We always knew it may come to this, but it always felt so far away. You came back into the room in an orange blanket and Dr. Coleman set you down on the table where the blanket we had brought for you was laid out. Once again you somehow made sure to take care of us. You pawed at our hands for what we knew was one last pet. We held you. We hugged you. We cried on you. I then gave the nod to the doctor to begin the process of taking away your pain and making our much worse. The first shot made you lethargic and you laid down. We looked into your eyes and continued to tell you how much we love you and always will. The second shot was administered and what seemed like the blink of an eye, the doctor said "he's gone." Our precious Howard was gone. We watched in agony as your limp body was removed from the room. This sweet boy that had given more than we could have ever asked for was gone. I am sure the doctor knew exactly what to say as it was her job to do that, but through tears she said, "you made the right decision for Howard."<br />
<br />
Thank you Howard. Thank you for teaching us unconditional love. Thank you for loving your mom and me. Thank you for meeting my children. Thank you for being my good boy.<br />
<br />
To those of you who have had to endure pain like this, I am so sorry. You have experienced an agonizing but albeit loving experience. To the parents of Rocky, Portia, Jo-Jo, Moo, Zoey, Olly and countless others, you know like I do that the pain will never go away.<br />
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We love you more than anything Howard Paul. I know you have a couch with a view and you are vigilantly looking out for everyone.<br />
<br />
-Chester<br />
D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-58828822073677761042015-10-19T09:21:00.000-07:002015-10-19T15:55:54.650-07:00Moustache Unplugged #32hehehe...he left the computer on so I'll work on my letter...<br />
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Dear IT Bands,<br />
<br />
You brought me to a crippling halt exactly 2 months ago where my steep descent off Hope Pass was a whopping 2 miles per hour! Google says some caterpillars move faster...how embarrassing!<br />
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I've been asked what in the world are IT bands and hopefully the above picture brings clarity. It remains a mystery what happened to mine as they warmed up, became fiery mad and ultimately felt like axes being chopped into the side of my knees.<br />
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Since being forced out of the Leadville 100 trial run, my OCD has focused on the extremely boring topic with no tangible results. One article says "foam rollers are the solution" while the next one claims "there is no reason to hop on foam rollers to stretch IT bands since they have the consistency of truck tires."<br />
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The only common remedy of pissed off IT bands is, plain and simple, rest. <br />
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Whatever...<br />
<br />
I have visted my mistress a few times over the past 2 months and despite her looking so good, I was forced off the mountain, gimping, while prolifically cussing at my IT bands who slyly snickered back at me.<br />
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Workouts at the gym, short runs and wind sprints did not flare them up, but a few token miles into an enjoyable trail run had them transform into red hot lava.<br />
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But, I reached a milestone yesterday. I visited my mistress again and headed up the canyon and noticed someone else was taking care of her. Rocks stacked here and stumps dragged there revealed someone else's caring touch. Selfishly, I wanted to wrap my arms around her for protection from potential false pretenses. But, as I trudged forward waiting for my IT bands to morph into fiery daggers, I realized it was a good thing having someone else watching over her.<br />
<br />
A slight breeze blew colorful fall leaves into the air, frequently highlighted in the forest by shafts of sunlight penetrating the canopy. Fresh elk tracks told of a huge herd passing through and the hillside spring begged for moisture as it was down to a slight trickle.<br />
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In the exact same shoes when removed from the race, I continued on my venture while my breath pillowed in front of my face as she had turned down the thermostat. The sun felt good on my skin and, happily, I completed the loop with only a slight tick from the left IT band.<br />
<br />
Wahoo!<br />
<br />
So, IT bands, in my research of why you dropped me like a lead balloon, I am guessing you revolted from overuse. Prepare yourself for unbelievable abuse during the upcoming winter as I salute you with my middle finger.<br />
<br />
As for you Father Time, although you giggle at me when another wrinkle is discovered or when joints pop like gunfire, I still come out of the corner when the bell rings and will continue to punch you in the nose, knee you in the gut and, if need be, will boot you in the balls. <br />
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Life's too short to grow old.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
The Moustache<br />
<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-56476983460596039102015-09-28T08:42:00.001-07:002015-09-29T14:36:26.836-07:00Colorado's Tough Mudder 2015"This year's Arctic Enema obstacle has changed," announced Sean Corvelle during his Tough Mudder pre-race motivational speech. "It's more arctic," he stated with teeth flashing from his big smile. "And it's more enema," he added while all us racers nervously laughed along with him.<br />
<a name='more'></a>The previous day, a good friend and I thought a hike was in order and despite better judgement, Mt. Elbert was selected as a good idea. Our ascent was humbled by a young lady passing us with her geriatric hounds as if we were standing still. Well, the truth be known, many times we were actually standing still as we questioned our decision to summit Elbert "for fun." High above timberline, oxygen must have been thin as I was abruptly confronted how many times I stated, "Before you know it, we'll be at the top." Cresting the summit at 14,433' provided splendid views that was poisoned by a irritating group from France who beckoned the game of King of the Hill as I wanted to shove several down the mountain.<br />
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Anyhow, Saturday at sunset we went over Independence Pass and the descent into Aspen became dark. Really dark. There was no moon and the road had fresh asphalt which added to the blackness. Fortunately, we got behind a big RV from Washington who proudly displayed their family name, The Mitchell's, on a placard above the rear bumper. For the uninformed, Independence Pass has tight areas were the two lane road, without any warning, chokes down to a single lane for short distances. We followed Walt (a name given to Mr. Mitchell who we believed was driving) and allowed his rig to bulldoze through the tight spots. Walt hugged inside curves and his misfortune was our entertainment as he raked the passenger side of his motor home on a rock wall. He didn't blink, but kept barreling down the pass nearly clipping delineator posts and trying hard to sideswipe more rock walls. As the road tamed, we shot past Walt and glanced at him. Thin wispy hair, glasses slipping down his nose in total concentration as hunched shoulders hovered above the bus's steering wheel. We took bets on how many times he had barked at his wife that "it" was all her fault.<br />
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Friends had spare rooms in a fancy Snowmass hotel and the next morning we put on our disposable gear as we prepared for the 11.6 mile muddy obstacle race. We headed out to check in and scribble our bib numbers on our foreheads with permanent marker and walked to the start area. But, before standing at the start line, a warm up area was cordoned off where Coach took over. He wore a baseball cap, mirrored sunglasses, a porn moustache, tight t-shirt, equally tight gray Bike shorts from the 70's, Tough Mudder headbands high on his left thigh and Tough Mudder Shoes. The only thing missing was an over sized cucumber crammed inside his tight shorts to add to the laugh factor. One thing about Coach, he has no shame. With much gusto, he eagerly leads warm up exercises where hip rotations are punctuated by pumping arms. His air humping routine made me laugh from a combination of being embarrassed for him and the fact that he simply doesn't care. My abdominals were warmed up from laughter as we were released to the start line.<br />
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Sean Corvelle. The guy does a fantastic job being a motivational speaker and catches me off-guard every year when talking about Wounded Warriors and patriotism to the point I have to wipe tears away. His comment about the Arctic Enema made everyone chuckle and we finally were released to the 5th annual Tough Mudder course in Colorado.<br />
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Quads complained all night from Mt Elbert and were noisy from the get go. The course wiggled through the village and slightly onto the mountain where we passed extravagant homes. The first obstacle was the Berlin Walls that are tall wooden walls where reaching up and crawling over was not a big deal. A little ways down the trail was the Warrior Carry which required a piggyback ride on another Mudder for maybe 50 feet and then positions are switched for another 50ish feet. Trotting further down the course, high-pitched squeals could be heard (from men) as we closed in on the Arctic Enema.<br />
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Previous years one simply jumped into a container, similar to a roll off dumpster, that was filled with ice water. Midway through the water, a board forced submersion to get to the other side where Mudders scampered out with goosebumps. This year was different. We climbed up onto a platform and sat with legs dangling down on a ramp. Paralleling above the ramp was chain link fencing which forced contestants to lay down while zipping down the slide and into the icy waters. The midway barrier in the container was a "crawl over" instead of a "go under" and after I crawled out the other end, I watched my friend take his turn. It was the only time during the entire course where I had hands on my knees with such an outburst of laughter that I had shortness of breath from laughing so hard. So, what was so funny? His face upon breaching the water after the initial submersion.<br />
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Although this picture came from the internet from an old Mudder event, it serves the purpose for comparison. But, my buddy did not have the contorted palsy appearance of limbs like the dude in the back, but the facial expression is a close match--kind of like slow motion videos of facial expressions during tasings. I'm chuckling out loud as I type this.<br />
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We bantered up the slope and despite extreme stubbornness, we succumbed to Mt Elbert's victimization. My recovering IT bands lifted their middle finger at me and my left one caught fire and forced a peg-legged skip for the remaining 9 miles of the race as my buddy's legs were also tore up.<br />
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The rope net of the Devil's Beard was next. It's pinned to the ground but with a group of other Mudders, we got under it with arched backs and marched forward with no difficulty. Hobbling down the trail later had us encounter Skidmarked, an obstacle I simply don't remember...but, next was my favorite obstacle of the day.<br />
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King of the Swingers. It was a debut obstacle where Mudders climb up on a platform and must jump out over a water pit to grab onto a t-handle. This metal handle then swings over the water pit and upon reaching the top of the arc on the other side, there's suspended bells that need to ring. Some could reach out while others released to fly out to ring their bell-- then a free fall ensued into the chilly waters waiting below. I rang my bell and could have stayed at the obstacle all day doing it over and over and over. It was fun, but we continued on.<br />
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We approached the next obstacle, Shawshanked, and like every other obstacle, Mudders stood idly with hands on their hips staring at it. I zig-zagged through them and dropped onto my belly to crawl under the suspended barbed wire. Large black plastic culverts angled up as I began to slither through mine. A rope was attached to the top of the tube where I spun and was on my back as I used the rope to pull through the slick pipe. At the end of the pipe, I looked and realized the exit dumped us into more water, but the pipe was about 4-5 feet from the muddy pool. I popped out and fell backwards like a scuba diver rolling off a boat and hit the water with a splash. Climbing out, we proceeded onward with our crippled gait.<br />
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Next, we encountered the Birth Canal. It was another debut obstacle that forced another belly crawl. But, this time a suspended membrane filled with water pressed down on Mudders forcing us into the mud where we had to muscle through the water trapped above. It was kind of lame, but I guess they named it well.<br />
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Balls to the Wall was a rope climb up and over a wall....no biggy and then to the most ridiculous obstacle, Ladder to Hell. Imagine an over sized ladder built with tall poles and 2"X12" rungs. It does not go high and Big Mudder needs to retire this obstacle.<br />
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Cry Baby was another debut obstacle that forced Mudders to crawl into a closed in area filled with what I will label as "bad gassy shit". The instant it hit my lungs, I coughed deep, as in from my toenails, to get the crap out of my body. Once expelled, another big breath repeated the process, over and over and over. We crawled in water, over a big dirt hump, through more water and all the while, my wretched coughing tried hard to bust a rib. Finally, we exited out of the gas trap where, upon my first breath, I was fine. Whatever was in there repulsed my body. I listened to others huffing through the obstacle with nary a sniffle...guess I'm a puss.<br />
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Fucky Monkey. Oops, I mean Funky Monkey was next (spell check caught my original typo that cracked a smile across my face for some reason....) This was grade-school monkey bars that went up and down and then to a single pipe that, hand over hand, takes you to the other side. To the other side of what you may ask? Another water pit staged below for everyone to enjoy should they fall. At the World's years ago, they greased the bars with Crisco or whatever slick shit that made me swim, a lot.<br />
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While approaching the next obstacle, the Beached Whale, a small mud pit was being by-passed by other Mudders. Well, if it's there, it's meant to be done. So, we dropped into the knee deep mud and waded across. Our noses crinkled where my friend questioned, out loud, "Is this mud or high mountain ox shit?' I laughed and found the greasy, smelly mud very sewage-like. Anyhow, we crawled out of the ox ass and jumped up onto the Beached Whale. It was an over-inflated air bladder, like what stunt people fall onto in Hollywood, and we left greasy skid marks over the obstacle for others to wipe clean. Oh well...<br />
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Next was the Pitfall. Once again, it was a large mud/water pit. As you wade across in knee deep muddy water, you may suddenly drop into a deep hidden hole. I crouched and had my arms outstretched in preparation for the disappearing act. But, I got lucky and somehow avoided any foxholes.<br />
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The Liberator was next, but in case I haven't mentioned it for awhile, yes, we were a physical mess from hips to ankles. Our pace was, well, slow. It didn't matter. We were having fun, (I think) and were slowly working our way to the finish line. The Liberator was new and used wooded pegs as handles where holes in the angled wall were to be used by the pegs to climb the wall. It wasn't a big deal and after climbing down the other side, we continued gimping on down the trail.<br />
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Everest was next and is a signature obstacle that is basically running up a half-pipe wall that is used in the winter for skiers and snowboarders. My IT band made my first attempt rather pathetic. Wait, it wasn't "rather pathetic"....it was "pure pathetic"....much like my attempt to fold fitted sheets that have no corners! But my second attempt got me high enough where I could frantically grab fellow Mudders who hiked my sorry ass up and over. <br />
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Nearing the finish line, we encountered Hold Your Wood. A log was lifted and carried by my friend and I. A short Mudder jumped between us and I did not feel any change of weight from the log digging into my shoulder--"freeloader" came to mind. A wall with a hole in it forced us to shove the log through and then another wall had us shove the log over the top. We tossed it back onto the log pile and headed down towards the finish line with our embarrassingly crippled pace.<br />
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The course had a fork in the road where Legionaries (people who have completed a previous Mudder) had a special obstacle. Others followed the course to the dreaded ElectroShock Therapy obstacle. I went to the Legionnaire obstacle and it was Ninja Warrior like. I dropped down off a platform to hit a min-trampoline and shot out over water to grab a t-handle. Well, that was the plan anyways. My wussy left leg buckled as I hit the mini-tramp and as I stretched out for the handle, I missed and did a nice belly-smacker in the water. (Judges may have scored it a 9.8 or so.) The official said I could to do it again, so I did. I put more weight on my right leg as I hit the trampoline and grabbed the handle that acted like a zip-line to the other side of the water.<br />
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I ran down the hill and noticed the course allowed me to gain access to the ElectroShock Therapy obstacle. I peered at the wooden rack that suspended 1 or 2 a million electrified wires that dangled down into the faces and bodies of Mudders running under the structure. I could hear the electric snap and watched some Mudders face-plant while others hardly flinched. Having been struck by supercharged lightning (in my opinion) the first year, twice, I snuck around the obstacle--fully prepared to hand over my man card to anyone who asked for it... <br />
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Devan was already at the finish line waiting for me. Thanks my friend, it was a good time.<br />
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As for you, Big Mudder, this was again a disappointment in terms of the course. Year after year, your course slips in quality. Years one and two at Beaver Creek rocked! You utilized the ski mountain to its fullest and the courses were wonderfully a true bitch! Year three at Beaver Creek was alright, but paled in comparison to years one and two. Year four in Colorado, you switched to Snowmass which adds hours of travel time and more money for gas. Our reward for the additional travel? A very lame course. I questioned returning this year as prices continue to rise and travel time sucks, but in the back of my mind, I secretly wish that "next year" is the year where Tough Mudder returns to its roots and actually makes a Tough course. So, thanks to that little wishful voice in the back of my head, I returned...and was even more disappointed that last year! I was stunned this year at mile 5 as us Mudders were still in the frickin' Village on an asphalt bike path when you had the entire mountain at your disposal! Shame, shame. <br />
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Yes, I was injured but I still would have relished in your getting back to making the course a heavy-handed, naughty dominatrix that spanks everyone instead of dropping the course difficulty down for couch potatoes to enjoy. For the most part, I'm not focusing my complaints on the obstacles but am griping on the actual course.<br />
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I hope a lot of Mudders completed your post event survey with similar comments and that you listen and act on the comments. Once again, I already signed up for next year because that little voice in the back of my head told me that next year might be the year you return to a difficult course. If not, I have given you many years of allegiance by not missing one Colorado Mudder and completing a World's Mudder in New Jersey, but, this year I dipped my toe in the Spartan series by participating in the Spartan Beast in Breckenridge.<br />
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And, guess what? The Beast slapped me in the face, kicked me in the gut, pulled my hair and spanked me, really hard...and I liked it. <br />
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It's up to you.<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-56351440162080279412015-09-21T10:45:00.000-07:002015-09-21T10:45:23.756-07:00Massive ManiaMount Massive is properly named, he's a bruiser. Boasting a long ridge line with five summits over 14,000 feet, he is Colorado's second highest peak with a high point of 14,429 feet above sea level. Four additional high points transforms this huge chunk of real estate into a monster and touching all nine in a day is labelled "Massive Mania."<br />
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Sounded like a fun challenge.<br />
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Leaving a car at the south end, I was dropped off at the north end filling out a slip of paper to register my entry into the Massive Wilderness Area. I tucked the ticket into the slotted lock box and set out from the Windsor Lakes trail head. During the initial climb, the trail was well trampled and eventually introduced me to some crystal clear alpine lakes. Rising trout made the glassy surface ripple with concentric circles as I encountered many forks along the trail. At one point, a trail sign screwed to a tree spun like a board game dial (unfortunately, only Twister comes to mind!) and not long afterwards, the trail evaporated and I was forced to create my own Tour de Massive routes.<br />
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Creaking up my chin, the high targets were easy to identify. After scurrying onto the ridge line, I selected the closest high point and set off with the goal to stand on top of it. Time after time, I was forced to retreat and find different routes as sheer drops were encountered. One by one, high points were touched as I target locked on the next. <br />
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Being alone, the solitude was absolutely splendid as views spanned over layers and layers of mountain ranges. My only company were the bird-like chirps made by local pikas, which remind me of hamsters on steroids, as they were working hard harvesting mouthfuls of forage to store underground for the winter. Their much larger cousins, the marmots, also sounded their high pitch whistle/bark warnings. <br />
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I kept pursuing high points and frequently was forced to stop, backtrack and search for alternative routes as cavernous gaps, large drops or spooky footing on steep terrain were encountered. Partial trails were briefly located, but quickly disappeared.<br />
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Eventually, distant people on forthcoming high points looked like ants silhouetted against the sky. Gradually, voices could be heard and then the emergence of a worn trail where I later ate a sandwich with locals. They screwed their faces at me after asking where I had started and learning what was my plan. After lunch, I hopped on the well beaten cow path that squiggled down into a basin. I was still chasing high points and veered off the trail. A hiker yelled how I missed the turn and looked quizzically at me as I pointed to the next point I needed to touch.<br />
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One by one, they were slowly checked off the list as the day wore on. Dark clouds slowly gathered and made me nervous. My pace quickened as I very, very much enjoy my body temperature at a steady 98.6 degrees instead of being roasted at 53,540 degrees Fahrenheit when amped up by a bolt of lightning. Thankfully, the dark clouds did not flicker with dancing electricity and I headed down the final slope, knees wildly complaining of the prolonged pitch. I found a trail, but it did not zig-zag back and forth across the mountain. Instead, it shot straight down with no hint of switchbacks as I cursed the foolish hikers who made such a trail. My shoes occasionally transformed into short skis sliding down the gritty portions of the trail and several spots in the trail appeared rototilled. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't humans who created the trail as mountain goat hoof prints had churned up the ground who had also graciously sprinkled the trail with their turds. I marveled at their mountaineering abilities and was disappointed by not seeing a single goat. The final high point had a glass jar containing paper and a stubby pencil. Several names were scribbled on the paper with dates that went back a few years and, oddly, a golf ball was also inside the jar. I added my name and date and ventured on.<br />
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Quads screamed on the final never-ending descent and ultimately, I encountered the Colorado Trail that skirts the base of Massive and dumped me out to the waiting car parked at the trail head.<br />
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Massive Mania. <br />
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Nothing is overly technical since one can drop off the ridge line and scramble around the difficult spots. But, bring plenty of water and fuel and expect it to take most of the day while enjoying far reaching views in every direction. D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-68992624335896572482015-09-15T03:30:00.001-07:002015-09-15T03:30:31.430-07:00Poised & Ready"Stop, police!" <br />
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He spun in the dark shadows behind the grocery store and feverishly ran from the voice. Tripping over a curb, he regained his balance as he hit the wooden fence. Splinters stabbed into his hand as he scrambled over the top and dropped hard on the other side. Involuntarily, his legs sprinted as his brain, panic stricken from the officer's sudden appearance, wondered what he had done.<br />
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He ran. Fueled by fear of being captured on his warrants, he kept running until the flickering red and blue lights from the police car stopped dancing in the treetops. He no longer heard the officer or the police radio barking into the still night air and slowed until crouching beside a shrub. Panting hard, he focused on calming his breathing while evaluating the neighborhood.<br />
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His eyes scanned the street lights, porch lights and lights from windows that might make him visible. Most windows were dark except for the blue glow from people probably sleeping while in front of large television sets. <br />
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He continued to scan the area and wanted to cover more ground. Distance was his friend. He began to move, cat-like, across yards. He focused on finding the short chain link fencing that he could nearly straddle to get over instead of the six foot tall wooden fences that loaded his palms and inner thighs with splinters.<br />
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One by one, he steadily scampered across yards, hopped another fence and moved on.<br />
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<em>They'll never catch me...</em><br />
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The neighborhood was quiet. Being in the middle of the night, no cars were heard or seen moving along the residential streets as he stopped in the shadows to look in all directions before cutting across.<br />
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<em>I'm like a fucking ninja, </em>he chuckled to himself as he continued to cover more ground.<br />
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Through an open gate, he entered another yard and proceeded to cross more short chain link fences. While straddling yet another fence, suddenly he was blinded by bright light. He immediately looked up, but only felt like he was looking into the sun.<br />
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"Police! Stop! Show me your hands!" echoed between the houses from a voice concealed behind the white light.<br />
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<em>Shit!</em> <em>Where'd he come from?! </em>He took off again with renewed energy. Chain link or wooden fences did not matter as he blasted over them as fast as possible. <br />
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He wished for more endurance, but recognized he needed to hide. Exhausted, he clambered over yet another wooden fence and plopped down underneath a boat that was on a trailer. The cement was cool on is belly as he layed under the boat and rested his sweaty forehead on his forearms. <br />
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His ears strained for any noise. Five minutes went by, then ten, then twenty, then thirty. Summertime crickets and the distant hum from far away traffic were the only sounds. The more time that elapsed, the better he felt about his freedom.<br />
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<em>What's that? </em>he asked himself as he cocked his head with ears straining for the slightest sound.<br />
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Somewhere over the fence and out on the street, a faint sound of distant labored breathing could be heard. It was hoarse and sounded constricted, as if the creature making the noise was being slightly choked. The sound steadily grew louder. And louder. And louder until claws were raking up the fence and a beast landed with a thud on his side of the fence.<br />
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Voices were suddenly heard, but he did not lsten as the police K9 strained hard against a long leash that was zipping over the top of the fence. <br />
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He remained motionless as the dark shadow stayed along the garage's exterior brick wall. He wanted to scream! But, he was desperate not to be captured as he hoped, and prayed, they would all leave.<br />
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Toenails scratched hard on the cement seeking traction as the dog spun. He tucked his head hard onto his forearms, bracing himself for whatever was about to happen as the dog had target locked onto him.<br />
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Time stopped, and almost felt surreal. <br />
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He felt the impact, but it took a second to process what was happening. He felt his body being dragged across the rough surfaced cement while being extracted from under the boat. His arms and legs flailed and then he realized, much to his horror, exactly what was going on. <br />
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Top canine teeth were sunk back on the top of his head while the lower canine teeth were near his eyebrows. The powerful jaws held his head like a pecan in a nutcracker. There was no fighting the dog. It was simply too powerful and it was in complete control as he was yanked clear from being underneath the boat.<br />
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His only view was looking straight down at the cement. Rolling his eyes upward, he could see the dog's front feet bracing against the ground while tugging in reverse. Suddenly, and thankfully, a pair of badly scuffed, well worn black boots were noticed facing him as if the handler was straddling the dog.<br />
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"Get him off! Get him the fuck off!!" he screamed in terror as he raised himself to his knees.<br />
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He heard voices, but they were inaudible as he feared for his life. The dog remained clamped to his head as he tried to stand. He wasn't sure why he wanted to stand, but later guessed it was simply a survival instinct.<br />
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As he raised up, he noticed the dog's front paws also leave the ground. Then he heard the sound of Velcro separating and momentarily wondered what caused the peculiar noise. Time again slowed. He realized as he tried to stand, the dog's top canines were peeling his scalp from his skull.<br />
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"Get on the ground!" was a distant, muffled sound from the officers.<br />
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Suddenly, all the tension from the dog's bite immediately released as he dropped to the ground. Warm sticky fluid pooled around him as blood bathed the area of his injury. <br />
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He was scared.<br />
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"Am I going to die?" he asked the officers while he heard one radio for an ambulance.<br />
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"It doesn't look good," was the only answer he heard despite having a dream-like conversation with them.<br />
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Like an out of body experience, he watched himself apologize to them and comment about the K9 being so talented. Weirdly, he happily noticed, despite being an ugly injury, the torn scalp was a large flap still attached near his forehead that he assumed would be stitched back in place. He kept glancing at the street, eagerly checking for the ambulance and was so grateful when it arrived.<br />
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The contract paramedics looked at him, and then each other, dumbfounded with what they saw. Being literally minutes from the hospital, they opted to quickly mummy wrap his head with rolls and rolls of gauze. At least it covered things up and staunched the blood flow while they held his hands to guide him into the idling ambulance.<br />
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Meanwhile, poised and ready, the K9 watched his every move--he knew his job and stoically sat and observed.<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-8879273722121283242015-09-01T19:33:00.001-07:002015-09-01T19:33:30.416-07:00Old GoatsSummiting Colorado's tallest mountains is a curious thing. The state boasts over 50 mountains exceeding 14,000 feet (the number varies due to different opinions of what qualifies as a 14er) and I'm always amazed how many people are out steadily putting one foot in front of the other, in thin air, to reach the pinnacle to only turn around and head downhill to return to the trail head.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"></span>The Sawatch Range clusters 15 ranked 14ers with 4 of the 5 tallest peaks standing proud within the range. Mt. Elbert reigns supreme at 14,433 feet above sea level while his neighbor directly to the north, Mt. Massive, sits in second place being only 12 feet shorter. Both have well worn trails and maybe because of their prominence and/or relatively easy access, their summits host a huge population of visitors.<br />
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Having been on both Elbert and Massive on weekends and weekdays, I opted one morning to take a less popular peak hoping everyone else would be clambering around on the more majestic behemoths. <br />
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La Plata peak is nestled within the Sawatch range and soars to 14,336 feet, making it the 5th tallest in the state. I assumed it held less notoriety for the masses, and I was wrong. As I closed in on the trail head, parked cars spilled out of the lot and were strung out along the shoulder of the highway as I grumbled about people being everywhere. A touring motorcyclist departed and I felt fortunate while darting into his space on the fringe of the dusty parking lot.<br />
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As I clicked the straps on my hydration vest and set out with my play list setting rhythm to my feet, hikers were sprinkled everywhere, instantly snuffing my hopes of solitude like water on a candle flame. <br />
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A simple bridge crossed a deep slot carved into rock where the creek boiled below. The water angrily frothed in a swirling pattern, cutting a smooth curve into the stone as it then departed down a narrow channel where it instantly calmed in a broad, shallow creek bed. The sheer power of moving water was captivating.<br />
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The trail gently went up the lush valley floor. I enjoyed the ease of the slight grade and beauty of the high mountain flowers. Hikers were steadily passed and then, "the easy" was over. I hit a switchback and looked up. The trail zig-zagged back and forth up the steep mountain.<br />
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I cracked out my trekking poles, tucked my chin and set off. I wanted a steady pace that hovered just below having to stop and catch my breath and kept marching up the mountain. Hikers by the dozens were continually passed and then, the trail briefly leveled out. <br />
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Looking back, I noticed another fast paced climber closing in on me so I set out scrambling up the large boulder field. The other hiker appeared to be pacing with me and then, suddenly, something caught my eye. I glanced over to witness a sinewy guy in short shorts scrambling up the boulders like a dancing spider. Awestruck, I stopped to watch the elite athlete. He moved effortlessly with hands and feet lightly touching the rocks when another movement caught my eye. A lean and muscular lady was on his ass, searching for a passing lane, and I marveled at the floating duo. <br />
<br />
Quickly, they disappeared from sight and I shook my head feeling like a wheezing geriatric geezer. While nearing the summit, the same couple were descending in crazy leaps and great bounds down the rock tops that hurt my ankle bones while witnessing their near superhuman mountaintop dance.<br />
<br />
I reached the summit and turned for the descent.<br />
<br />
It paled in comparison. <br />
<br />
While they had a dashingly dangerous two person tango racing down the mountain, I had more of a polka dance, in slow motion. They made me feel like Lawrence Welk soft-footing down the trail and suddenly, a pristine puff of white appeared beside me..<br />
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<br />
Because of so many hikers on a regular basis, this old billy mountain goat was desensitized to humans. He stood his ground and I believe I could have reached out and touched him. He scrutinized me with years of wisdom and seemed to say, "Welcome to my home, it's all good up here. No need to be grumpy with all the people...remember, it is what you make it!"<br />
<br />
Two old goats, eye-to-eye, staring at one another.<br />
<br />
He provided a much needed attitude adjustment and I smiled the rest of the way down.<br />
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D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-73809485650573093062015-08-26T10:53:00.000-07:002015-08-28T07:56:09.079-07:002015's Leadville 100 Trail Run: Becoming a Statistic<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face,”
stated former heavyweight boxing champion Mike Tyson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While seated in a gymnasium full of runners,
the Leadville 100 trail run (LT100) founder, Ken Clouber, recited the quote but
added his own touch of flair to the statement.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“And the Leadville 100 will punch you in the face…lots of
times!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I felt ready for the fight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a name='more'></a></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The LT100 was a slow and steady infection over the past
several years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like many, Christopher
McDougall’s best-selling book, <em>Born To
Run, </em>planted the seed for the infection as I absorbed the words from his novel which contained wonderful coverage of the LT100. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having volunteered the
past 2 years at the Hope Pass aid station, the infection continued to
fester.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love trail running and although this
mighty event spooked me, it still hauntingly called out to me. So, I submitted an
application to enter the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
January, the email arrived announcing my name had been drawn in the lottery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The challenge was 7 months away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because of the elevation, the event is frequently advertised as "The Race Across The Sky." The course is an out and back, so the elevation profile has a mirror image at the 50 mile turn around point that showcases the challenging "bunny ears" of Hope Pass. This year was the 33rd anniversary of the event and historically, around 50% of the runners who start the race do not make it back to the finish line. I did not want to contribute to the population of non-finishers and the day prior to the race, it was announced that 650 runners picked up their race bib numbers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everybody, and I mean everybody, has opinions about
training, nutrition, hydration, gear, race day strategies, pacers, crews,
etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listened, read and processed
everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like most people, other life responsibilities took
precedence over excessive training, but I did what I could, when I could.
Crossfit blended with joyous trail runs, climbing 14ers and other mountain
adventures were all incorporated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
felt, and believed, come race day, I could accomplish my goal of finishing the 100 mile race in the required 30 hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not need the “big buckle” for finishing
under 25 hours (I don't even wear belts except when jeans fall off from excessive training) and I would be there to only compete against the course and its
race clock. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Real quick: The history of 100 mile trail runs goes back to
a 1974 California 100 mile horse race where H. Gordon Ainsleigh’s horse came up lame,
so he gave the laces on his sneakers a tug and toed the start line—and was the
first to cross the finish line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Awards
for horse events were typically belt buckles, so the traditional award transferred
into the 100 mile foot races as well. For the LT100, finish under 30 hours, you earn the small buckle. Finish under 25 hours, you get the next size up. Complete the event 10 times, the big 1,000 mile buckle awaits. How about 20 finishes? A huge 2,000 mile buckle will conceal any type of bulging belly. And, yes, although not pictured, there was a 30 time, 3,000 mile finisher last year where the buckle resembled a medieval shield from ancient warfare and, when worn, concealed any signs of chilled nipples poking through a shirt. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As race day drew closer, I fretted over equipment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the forecast being in the upper 30’s at the 4
a.m. start, I knew a beanie with a headlamp, a t-shirt with separate arm
sleeves, gloves, shorts and my sneakers would suffice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once in motion, heat generated from effort
would knock off the chill and a hydration vest would carry fluids and a rain
jacket. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Likewise, I fretted over what to pack in drop bags that
would be scattered along the course’s aid stations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> H</span>aving previously volunteered with drop bag handling, I knew to secure items in hard plastic containers as they literally get thrown around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first aid station, May Queen (misspelled on the above graph as Mary Queen), was at mile 13.5. I
rationalized arriving there after daybreak so I would need sunglasses
and more Tailwind (nutritional supplement to provide energy and electrolyte
replacement to mix in hydration bottles) . With such few items, I only used a Folger’s coffee
container as my drop bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because the course is an out
and back, I wanted to carry the beanie, arm sleeves and gloves deeper into the
course and tuck them into later drop bags for my return trip. Likewise, in case
my evening headlamp malfunctioned on the return trip, I also wanted to carry my
morning headlamp further into the course to store in a later drop bag as a spare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Outward Bound was at mile 24.5 and replaced the former Fish Hatchery aid station as the #2 spot for drop bags and aid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used another Folger’s coffee
container.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, more Tailwind was the
only item stored.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Aid station #3, Half Pipe was at mile 31 and moved from the previous years' Half Moon location. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recognized my return trip at this aid station would probably be as the
night became chilly, so I packed thermal base layers, a jacket and would leave
my arm sleeves, beanie and headlamp in my drop bag during my initial visit heading out on the course. So, a larger tote was
used to accommodate the gear, to include more Tailwind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Aid station #4, Twin Lakes was at mile 40. (Mt Elbert
aid station was in between Half Pipe and Twin Lakes, but only provided water
with no drop bag service).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This aid
station is crucial as it sits at the base of crossing a river to summit Hope
Pass and hit the 50 mile turn around aid station on the other side in
Winfield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I elected to pack my better
climbing sneakers, my Salomon Hornets, and would leave my Altras in the tote to
change back into on the return trip. Because of the river crossings, I packed
dry socks, a fresh t-shirt and a hand towel to dry off my tootsies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most importantly, I discovered my climbs are
far more efficient and faster using trekking poles, so they were also nestled
inside the tote. Of course, more Tailwind was also stored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">All container lids were secured with super-sexy pink zebra striped duct
tape and would be easy to spot even if I didn’t have to scribble my name and bib
number all over them in permanent makers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt comfortable with equipment and drop bag strategy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because Tailwind is a blend of everything that is needed in
terms of energy for fuel and electrolyte replacement, I opted to pack no
food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The race is incredibly generous with
food at their aid stations where stocked items include: GU gel
packs, Coca-Cola products, water, coffee, bananas, oranges, watermelon, turkey
and ham sandwiches, bagels, boiled potatoes, cocoa, Top Ramen type soup/hot
bullion, cookies, M&M’s, pretzels, soda crackers, graham crackers and
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With
a selection like that, why even bother stressing over food? Even though
Tailwind is marketed as all inclusive, I figured I would graze as needed at aid
stations--sometimes a tummy just needs real food. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I scouted most of the course either by foot or vehicle and as
race day approached, nights became sleepless while tossing and turning about
the event. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gear? I felt comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drop bags? They caused little worry after
leaving them with staff to scatter at the various aid stations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Training?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sure, I bet nearly everyone wishes they did more prior to any athletic
event, but I felt I adequately prepared. Health?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My surgically repaired Achilles tendon from
16 months ago still isn’t 100% and worries me some but everything else is pain
free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strategy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the number one concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One experienced ultrarunner told me, “Go out
fast since cut-off times are aggressive in Leadville.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another experienced ultrarunner, and friend,
told me the opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He strongly advised
not going out too fast and to be patient with a steady pace because going out
too fast pays harsh dividends later when the body revolts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While racing, he tells himself as multitudes
of runners pass him, “I’ll see you later.” I had faith in his strategy and
would go out slow and steady and follow his directions to virtually walk all
inclines, regardless of steepness or distance , until the course levels out or heads downhill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Another night of tossing and turning only yielded 2 hours of
sleep, but race morning finally arrived and I looked forward to getting to
work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the
rookie jitters while waiting on the street for the 4 a.m. start with runners representing 46 states and 26 countries. Finally, we were off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The race heads down paved streets to dirt roads and because
of the number of runners, I didn’t need to even turn on my headlamp. Dancing
shadows decorated roadway surfaces and I frequently looked skyward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting at 10,200 feet, I felt closer to the
stars and the sky was cloudless to showcase the diamonds in the sky. To ensure
I was holding back on the throttle to control a slower pace, I focused on
strictly breathing through my nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
appeared to be an effective governor for my pace and I felt good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My lungs were happy, my heart was happy and
my legs were happy. Even my ears were happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Normally Korn, Disturbed, Tool, etc blast away in my ear buds but Kenny
Chesney’s melodic voice told stories that calmed the running beast and made me
smile as my virtual pacers accompanied me on the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Summertime in the Rockies, it's all good.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eventually, runners funneled from the streets and onto a single
track trail skirting Turquoise Lake. I reached up and clicked on my headlamp to
better scrutinize rocks and roots as the trail paralleled the shoreline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being far enough along into the race, I was
with a group with a similar pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was
there temptation to really start running instead of the slower pace?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, but I remained steadfast with the
reduced speed as we ran the level, lakeside trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was fortunate to follow a runner who was
very fluid while running as if he was floating along the trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, it was short lived as an
impatient runner from behind darted in front of me and had the complete
opposite running style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stammered along,
stumbled, tripped, cleared his throat and farmer blew his nose a couple
buh-zillion times and, thankfully, headed out into the dark woods to take care
of business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught up to the floater and we hit May Queen aid station, mile 13.5, in 2 hrs 24 minutes with a 10:46
min/mile pace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Headlamps were already turned off due to the rising sun and spectators had the aid station alive. I went to
the drop bags and replenished my supply of Tailwind and grabbed my sunglasses
and immediately returned to the course. The course had a very friendly uphill
grade which, true to my strategy, I briskly walked and walked and walked. A
bystander stood with a leashed husky where a runner dropped her hand which the
husky licked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I followed suit and was
bit!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little shit, but I asked for it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dark clouds with light rain had me dig out my
rain jacket as I hiked to the top of Sugarloaf Pass that crests over 11,000 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew the forthcoming descent was named
Powerline and it can be a quad-thrasher so I again throttled back and did not
fly down the trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Downhill trail
running is my favorite and typically I have reckless abandonment while letting
gravity boost the speed, but I stayed true to my strategy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The prior week, the first fatality in all Leadville race
series events happened on Powerline during the 100 mile mountain bike race where
55 year old Scott Ellis was competing in the race for the 19<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> time and died
from a heart attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">During the pre-race
briefing in the high school’s gymnasium, there was not a dry eye when they
inflated an arch with a large version of his bib, #1249, hanging under it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kudos to Lifetime Fitness to retire his bib
number and honor him in such a manner!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Upon reaching the bottom of Powerline, my quads
told me they had been worked, but I had some uphill on a road to walk and then about a
mile of downhill to ease along in the steady pace where I hoped my quads would
recover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Outward Bound aid station, mile
24.5, was reached in the total time of 4:48:27. The leg from May Queen averaged 13:05 min/mil over Sugarloaf with my overall pace at 11:47 min/mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being that an overall 12 min/mile was my goal pace, I felt
good about the time and my body was not complaining. I heard my name and smiled
as Rich Airey extended his hand from the crowd that I met with a fist bump.
(Rich was highlighted on this blog under “Selfless” (very, very fitting) and
finished 7<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> in last year’s LT100 and unfortunately broke his foot
in June training on the course and was sidelined in a boot while healing.)</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">More Tailwind and some chocolate chip cookies and I was out of
the aid station chugging along the course that graciously ran across Outward
Bound property which alleviated running on county roads like during previous years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As spectators were left behind, I
was surprised by my wife and daughter with our dogs coming up beside
me. It was great to see them and I reported I was feeling good and kept moving
along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The pasture was exited and the course returned to pavement
where I did some math in my head and realized I had a good lead on cut-off
times and convinced myself to run some and walk some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not like road running, so walking stints
down the road were welcomed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We finally
left the road and eventually hit a wide swath cut into the pine forest where a huge pipeline is
buried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spectators were parked in rows down the
long clearing and I began to walk more as I realized my fast walk was almost the same
speed as some fellow runners were running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They would shift into a walk and I’d pass them and they would return to
running and pass me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assumed I was
being more efficient and opted to continue to briskly walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When single track returned, I began to again run
and walk in intervals, but my quads were not happy and IT bands began to tickle
the outside of my knees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’d been several
years since my first and only IT incident and I immediately became concerned as I remembered
how crippling they can become.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What is going on?!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I analyzed and scowled why my IT bands were catching fire and found no
answer and then it happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running
downhill was taken from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favorite
part of trail running was snatched from the race as IT bands turned into fiery
daggers plunging themselves into my knees with <strong>any</strong> downhill terrain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made it to Half Pipe aid station, mile 31,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> in the total time of 6:01:59 with the leg from Outward Bound averaging 11:13 min/mile. Total pace average was 11:40 min/mile.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tormented, I took my time removing arm
sleeves and beanie to store in the drop bag for my return trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tailwind began to taste shitty and I shopped
in the aid station’s groceries with nothing grabbing my attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>M&M’s any other time in my life are
gobbled by the handfuls, as are cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nothing was appealing as I left the aid station very concerned about the
race.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The course snaked along the base of Mt Elbert and had ups and downs where ups were fine and downs were
outright awful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One racer was flat on his back along the
trail and I helped him back to his feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Another racer was bent over, heaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Much to my dismay, I heard the torrent come up the pipe and splash on
the ground where I nearly joined him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His misfortune made me reflect on my condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My heart and lungs were happy as I never once went anaerobic
with my disciplined strategy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My stomach was not complaining and, </span>except
for my IT bands, my whole body and mind were good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But, s</span>teep descents nearly buckled my knees and I
grew more and more concerned about the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dropping into Twin Lakes aid station, mile 39.5, I was 8:30:03 into the race. The painful descents had my pace really drop...17:30 min/mile from Half Pipe. My hobbling along where I should have been enjoying efficient and fast downhill running was very frustrating. My overall pace became 12:56 min/miles. (Note: Since I do not wear Garmin types of devices or even a heart rate monitor, these splits were obtained from the chip timing results at the end of the race.)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I knew too well what was ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twin Lakes sits at 9,200 feet and is the low
point on the course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 5.1 miles, there
was a 3,400 foot climb to reach Hope Pass at 12,600 feet which is also the high
point on the course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To access the climb,
a river needed to be crossed and I gimped over to my drop bag.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I must take a moment to mention ALL the volunteers along the
course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are there for the runners
and extend such an overwhelming desire to help that it is very, very humbling
to be treated like royalty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat down
to switch out gear and was asked how I was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admitted how everything was great except
excruciatingly painful IT bands on descents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I asked about a foam roller to treat my pissed off IT bands and shortly
thereafter, a volunteer handed me one that she had retrieved from her
car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was pristine white and I could
not find a proper place to roll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
learned her name was Jenna and she did not care if it got dirty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So, </span>I plopped down in the corner beside 2 leashed
dogs, an ancient Boston terrier that grunted with every breath and a black lab
who was very comfy while nesting in a sleeping bag that was on top of a
cot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both reached out to me as I rolled
and they made my day--Half-Pint the grunting terrier and Rufus the king of the
cot were a pleasure to meet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With enough time on the roller, I realized I was way behind
on caloric intake. Chunks of salted boiled potatoes hit the spot as I
ate several cups of them (some may classify my intake as potato flavored salt as I dumped the wonderful white crystals from the shaker) and even managed to choke down a small piece of peanut
butter and jelly sandwich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now, I was
sick of Tailwind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I kept one bottle
in my vest with the mix and the other bottle held plain water.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After rolling out both legs and getting some food in my
nearly empty belly, I switched out shoes and grabbed my trekking poles. In all other aid stations I was in and out in the matter of minutes, but I took at least 30 minutes tending to myself at Twin Lakes and felt it was time well spent, even though the down time would eat away at my overall pace. I headed out and crossed the highway, followed a path through the meadow and did a self-check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt great!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt so good that I found myself smiling and was rejuvenated enough that I even caught myself
singing along with Toby Keith. (I make dogs howl if I sing and, therefore, never actually sing aloud, but I had risen from the ashes!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I trotted
some and hit the water crossings feeling revived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The icy waters felt wonderful and, I will mention, I had no
blisters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wright’s 2-ply socks are worth
their weight in gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I witnessed some
other runners in the medical areas with epic blisters and was grateful I wasn’t
burdened with those painful bastards on my feet. And, all my toe nails were intact and undamaged.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During my hobbled effort pre-Twin Lakes, I passed no one and was easily passed
by 75+ runners and upon hitting the incline, I began to pass others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My strategy was to start the climb at a pace
that could be sustained the entire trip up and I switched my play list to the
hard stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My poles hit a rhythm and I
did not stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Considerate racers allowed
me to pass and suddenly, someone was yelling very loudly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked up as the lead runner and his pacer
were running down the rocky trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Running is an understatement—they were sprinting!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The section of trail was very rocky and their
feet faintly touched rock as they flew down past me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched in awe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did we start at the same time and
they were roughly 8+ miles ahead, they were at a pace that was superhuman in
such treacherous terrain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If one would
crash, broken bones were guaranteed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">After witnessing the spectacle in speed, I continued my
uphill march as the 2<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">nd</span></sup> place runner and his pacer came blitzing
down the trail in an equally impressive performance of feet whispering across the tops of all the rocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued onward and upward and finally saw
llamas and the familiar Hope Pass aid station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mom and my older sister were graciously volunteering and I asked about a
foam roller to again tend to my IT bands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Last year a volunteer had actually packed one up the mountain!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No roller was present, but a medic used
high mountain ingenuity and wrapped an ace bandage around a small propane tank—perfect!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rolled out both legs and choked down watermelon,
instant potatoes, a few M&M’s and water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The thought of more Tailwind nearly triggered the gag reflex and I did
not want to start puking after doing so well in that department.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I set out for the final push to the summit and reached the
prayer flags being battered by the winds at 11:32:05 into the race. Due to my extended stay in Twin Lakes and the big ascent, my overall pace slowed to 15:22 min/mile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> But, that was alright as I envisioned running down the backside of Hope Pass where I could really make up some time and create a buffer with the advancing cut-off times.
</span>The view from Hope Pass is spectacular and I really wanted to put my legs in neutral and let gravity quickly pull me down the mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the first 40 feet, I learned otherwise.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My IT bands again revolted, in a magnificent manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fiery daggers had turned into machetes
dipped in acid hacking at my knee joints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Despite the hampered progress, I was still over a hour ahead of the cut-off time at the Hope Pass aid station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But, I knew that cushion was collapsing in dramatic fashion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used the trekking poles to brace each step
down and the steeper the step, the greater the pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little by little, I crutched down the trail
.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Total frustration set in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here was the perfect place to make good time and I looked like
Frankenstein with a severe medical condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One slow-motioned painful step at a time I pathetically eased down the
mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I literally hiked in reverse for awhile which softened the ice picks plunging into my knees, but stumbling many times nearly had me tumbling down the mountain...a vision that was becoming rather appealing. But, I'd probably survive the fall and force a rescue from others, so I returned to my agonizing forward motion. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You look great!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Good job!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Keep it up!” “You
can do it!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard it all from fellow
racers and pacers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were gracious in
their comments as I struggled down the mountain at a speed comparable to the
growth of lichen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I periodically glanced
at my watch and knew the cut-off time at mile 50 in Winfield was 6 p.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept moving as best as I could while hoping
that if I beat the cut-off, I could somehow get back to Twin Lakes where I hoped for another resurrection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the clock ticking, I kept hobbling
forward trying to hit the aid station in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I watched as 6 p.m. rolled on my watch with the aid station in view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shortly thereafter, my timing chip was
peeled from my bib and my wristband was snipped off. I got the standard hug from the "Cut-Off Queen" and felt like a loser. My Hope Pass descent was a whopping 32:13 min/mile. How pathetic! Peanut butter rivers...in the Klondike...in wintertime, flow faster! I was cut from the race right in between the "bunny ears" and became a non-finisher statistic! Grrrr!!!</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">DNF!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DID NOT
FINISH!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a monstrous
disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything felt good
except my IT bands and I am still processing what happened and how my body let
me down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s embarrassing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s irritating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s maddening and with my personality, it's failure in the purest form. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I do not like it, at all.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mix in how my pacer and his family, not to mention my own
family, sacrificed a weekend for my race and I feel like I also let them
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My pacer was excited and had been looking forward to the experience. But, because of my candy-ass, he only got to experience a long wait on a dusty road to witness my arrival, and immediate removal, from the race. So sorry my friend!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Afterwards, friends and family offered well intended condolences of, "Look at what you accomplished! You did 50 miles on a brutal course!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Um, hello? I signed up for a 100 mile race, not a 50. Therefore, plain and simple, I failed. It's frustrating having felt so good except for my IT bands and I will obsess over my failure for quite a while and hope next year's work schedule will allow enough training time to return for redemption.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">LT100.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s no joke
and it will punch you in the face…or rip up your IT bands. (Side note: Aside from my IT bands, the only other soreness after the race were my triceps that worked overtime while crutching my crumpled body down Hope Pass on trekking poles.) True to it's history, 319 of the 650 finished, making the race another year of a 51% drop out rate.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, I did witness a lot of common looking folks accomplishing
an uncommon goal and admire their success. Congrats to each and every one of them!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-35638987320391474362015-08-10T17:45:00.000-07:002015-08-17T10:50:40.562-07:00Moustache Unplugged #31<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
hehehe...he left the computer on so I'll work on my letter....</div>
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Dearest Nyx,<br />
<br />
Remember me? I embraced your tragic story of slowly cooking to death in the back of a police car while ranting in Moustache Unplugged #19 and have kept quiet for awhile. But, here of late, additional tragedies are sucker-punching me and my whiskers are buzzing in anger. So, it's time to let 'em rip.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vY6BBe0u6kY/VcgOqvTnaeI/AAAAAAAAA-4/L9x4xc9nkTg/s1600/nyx.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vY6BBe0u6kY/VcgOqvTnaeI/AAAAAAAAA-4/L9x4xc9nkTg/s400/nyx.jpg" width="332" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">K9 Nyx</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong>July 9, 2014</strong> Wyoming. Nyx, loyal partner and man's best friend, you were at work at the Mills PD and was left in your patrol car by your handler while he went into the station. Rules dictate that you could have accompanied him, but for whatever reason, you were left behind. Roughly 6 hours later, behold, he remembered you and came out to discover your lifeless body had suffered a horrible death. Unreal! Then, he was charged with animal cruelty and had the nerve to plead not guilty. What? Like it was someone else's fault? Pathetic! Just prior to going to trial, he plead guilty to a <strong><em>SWEET</em></strong> plea agreement. The punishment? The judge sentenced him to 6 months in jail, but suspended the time in trade for 6 months of unsupervised probation. During probation, your handler was ordered to pay $3,000 to the town for restitution and complete 100 hours of community service. Once community service is completed, his restitution will be reduced to $2,200. Wait a minute! Doesn't that equate to getting paid while doing community service? Let's see. In exchange for 100 hours, his restitution bill will be reduced by $800. According to my simple math, that means he is <em><strong>EARNING</strong></em> $8/hr to do community service? Pretty good since minimum wage in Wyoming is $7.25/hr. Am I the only one confused here? I thought community service was part of the punishment and this clown got paid to do it like it was a side job? C'mon Judge! But, dear Nyx, at least your handler had to face his actions that led to your death and you will be memorialized out in front of the PD via a bronze statue. As you continue to read, that may soothe some of the pain... And, if you care, he kept his job at the PD....<br />
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<strong>May 5, 2015</strong> Florida. Hector and Jimmy. First and foremost, I apologize for not including pictures of you, but every photograph has your supposed caretaker at your side. How ironic<strong>!</strong> (Is that possibly a clue that the assignment was all about him and you guys were token sidekicks?) Refusing to give him any face time, I will comment that Hector, you're a stately Belgian Malinois and Jimmy, you got great bloodhound looks. Your story is a double dose of heart break as your Hialeah PD handler drives you home after a midnight shift of work and somehow forgets you in the car. Around 7 pm, yes, that's 7 in the evening, he finally decided to check on you guys, the very creatures on this planet who worship the ground he walks on. You both suffered to death roasting in Florida's sunshine while trapped inside the patrol car parked in his driveway. Unbelievable! I sit flabbergasted on how someone could forget both of you in a car. Your last hours on earth were unimaginably miserable, but in that final suffering, you at least had each other. Sorry, no word yet on whether or not he will be charged for your deaths. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ma8sQZDg8s/VckJh5UbXGI/AAAAAAAAA_k/PjexsXbzdFs/s1600/k9%2Bmason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ma8sQZDg8s/VckJh5UbXGI/AAAAAAAAA_k/PjexsXbzdFs/s320/k9%2Bmason.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">K9 Mason</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong>June 18, 2015</strong> Alabama. K9 Mason, I simply look at your birthday picture and it automatically elicits a smile. Your title at the Gulf Shore Police Department was a "Community Engagement Officer." No doubt your goofy and happy personality infected all around you and I am confident that you excelled at your job. Apparently, you didn't matter near enough to your handler when he went into a building for a hurricane preparation conference and forgot all about you until he rushed out to see you clinging to life while cooking alive in the car. You later died and, remarkably, the local prosecutor's office will <strong>not</strong> seek charges on your handler . Since you weren't an "enforcement K9", they say your car did not have specialized equipment such as a door that automatically pops open when it gets too hot inside. BFD! This is not about the damned car, it's about the dipshit who provided negligent care! Shame, shame. (Reports state the handler faces "sanctions" from the PD and the city...I can only imagine the severity of such "sanctions.")<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qAUxKiXByhg/VckJxOEtW2I/AAAAAAAAA_s/NDmli0kWNyM/s1600/k9%2Bnitro.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qAUxKiXByhg/VckJxOEtW2I/AAAAAAAAA_s/NDmli0kWNyM/s320/k9%2Bnitro.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">K9 Nitro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<strong>June 30, 2015</strong> California. K9 Nitro, while on-duty, your Stockton PD handler left you inside the patrol car in 100+ degree heat while he assisted as another K9 searched for a wanted man. Upon his return, you were in grave condition from the heat, rushed to a vet clinic and later died. Articles point to a faulty air conditioner. I wonder how much time was wasted by your handler on the call? No doubt a lot of uniforms were running around the area where the other K9 successfully found the wanted male. Afterwards, I'm guessing there was a lull in the action with high-fives and celebratory conversations where those precious minutes may have made the difference. Your incident somewhat stands alone from the others as you were in the line of duty with a whole different set of circumstances. Without having a lot more information, I will not point the finger at your handler, yet, and am saddened with your passing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OS05ystcqtA/VckLMP4xpQI/AAAAAAAABAM/_rw2qtYtAFY/s1600/k9%2Bbaston.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OS05ystcqtA/VckLMP4xpQI/AAAAAAAABAM/_rw2qtYtAFY/s320/k9%2Bbaston.png" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">K9 Baston</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<strong>July 10, 2015</strong> Georgia. (For delicate eyes and personalities, hereby be warned that the 'stache is partially cracking open his potty mouth on this one!) While on his way home, you were riding with your Savannah State University handler as he stopped to grab some food for his family. Upon arriving home, he took the food into the house where he ate and fell asleep. Three to four hours later, he awoke and looked for you, Baston, and realized you had been left behind in the car in 95-97 degree heat with the SUV's engine off and windows rolled up. During the investigation, your handler and his wife made statements about how he brought food in for them and their 2 children, a 2 year old and a 3 week old. He fell asleep afterwards because, well, the poor little fella was tired.... Apparently, the kids are keeping them up day and night and he was exhausted. BOO FUCKING HOO! Be careful when making such a statement as it sounds like having 2 kids is morphing this officer into a complete dumb ass. I wonder if you, Baston, had been a bucket of ice cream or a gallon of milk, would your handler have rushed back out to the car after carrying in the groceries to prevent the food from spoiling? Criminal charges on his negligence are unknown as are any spankings from the University or the PD.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DZPQ4L_i__U/VckK_e7Zp0I/AAAAAAAABAE/XpqqUj0wSwk/s1600/k9%2Bbig%2Bzane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DZPQ4L_i__U/VckK_e7Zp0I/AAAAAAAABAE/XpqqUj0wSwk/s400/k9%2Bbig%2Bzane.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">K9 Zane</td></tr>
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<strong>July 16, 2015</strong> Georgia. K9 Zane, you are yet another statistic where I need to watch my potty mouth while recapping your story. As your Conyers PD handler went home ill at the end of his overnight shift, he somehow forgot to take you out of the car. He went into his home and 7 hours later, it is stated that he "was distraught" after returning to the car to report back to work and found your lifeless body. Are you kidding me? Did he not notice you weren't in the house or wherever he typically kept you during the day? What about feeding you? Was that another oversight? Was he so sick that he was delirious when arriving home and due to the illness, he completely forgot about you? Well, he's now a living miracle since he magically healed up in 7 hours to return to work. Just exactly how, after working with you for 3 years, does a person forget to bring you out of the car? Criminal charges are unknown, but he is facing internal disciplinary charges. Whatever that means...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D2Wn0FZ4HVM/VckKfaAdQfI/AAAAAAAAA_8/z_TtImyIvVk/s1600/k9%2Bzeke.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D2Wn0FZ4HVM/VckKfaAdQfI/AAAAAAAAA_8/z_TtImyIvVk/s320/k9%2Bzeke.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>K9 Zeke</strong></td></tr>
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</strong></tbody></table>
<strong>July 23, 2015</strong> Oklahoma. Then there's K9 Zeke, an officer at Muldrow PD for over four years. While at work, your handler went inside a building for over an hour with the air conditioner reportedly running in the vehicle. Apparently, he was on the telephone for 1 hour and 15 minutes regarding a domestic battery report. What? Typically only long-lost friends talk that long over a telephone! I'd love to see the associated police report and evaluate if the investigation reflects such an in-depth telephone interview. Anyhow, he reportedly returned to the 2014 Tahoe that malfunctioned and was only blowing hot air and you had perished. Here's the kicker. The Sheriff''s Chief Deputy is quoted about how it was known that the Tahoes in the fleet were having air conditioner problems and that "it could have happened to any K9 Officer." Bullshit! Once again, let's blame a machine rather than the handler. And to think the mechanical failure that killed you (if indeed that is a fact rather than a scapegoat) was not a secret!<br />
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In slightly over a calender year, I struggle to accept these eight deaths and I stew about them. Fingers point this way and that way to deflect blame and I point them right back to the handlers. If you are a true and passionate handler, <strong><em><u>it's ALL about your K9</u></em></strong>. That very animal <strong><em><u>is YOUR fucking job</u></em></strong>. I can hardly stomach thinking about how you, the handler, strut around friends, family, co-workers and other handlers preening yourself like a peacock. I bet you freely offer, without questions, how great you are and that you're on SWAT...the firearms staff... a training officer... won some bullshit award... are sought out as an expert decoy... testified as an expert witness...been in pictures in K9 magazines... blah blah blah. You may even question how someone as great as you isn't asked for autographs? I seethe at the arrogance and absurdity of you using the K9 assignment as an ego boost. Aside from Nitro, who's death I am still on the fence about, all the above K9s were a secondary arrogant extension of the handlers, otherwise no K9 would have been forgotten in the back of a patrol car! Do accidents happen? Absolutely. But, a scrambled list priorities led to these senseless deaths! Do I know everything about these incidents? Nope, I only read what is reported and there is no question the media screws things up, but there is an obvious common theme here: K9s suffering tortuous deaths by cooking in cars. Pretty hard to screw up that fact. Even if the cars had all the bells and whistles to prevent roasting the K9s, a dutiful handler would not rely his dog's life on a piece of machinery that can fail!<br />
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So, Nyx, Hector, Jimmy, Mason, Nitro, Baston, Zane and Zeke, <strong>I HONOR AND SALUTE YOU. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE. RIP! </strong><br />
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I really wonder how many others have gone unreported and I also wonder how much influence the badge has on whether or not criminal charges are pursued against the handler? For the sake of argument and to provide the handlers an excuse, let's go ahead and classify these deaths as "accidents". Well, I believe most car crashes are also classified as accidents, too. But, the person who is determined to be the proximate cause of the accident is cited and typcially has to answer for their actions in a courtroom. Why wouldn't each of these "accidents" likewise be presented in front of a judge as well? Under similar circumstances, a civilian would have a darn tough time not getting charged and there should be no double standard!<br />
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I'm done, for now, thanks for listening.<br />
<strong></strong><br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-85578386792408379282015-08-10T11:36:00.000-07:002015-08-10T11:36:21.386-07:00Honey BunsYou waddled as you walked and constantly had something to say when noticing someone nearby. A loner by circumstance, not by choice, you would approach as if desperately seeking friendship and it was always good to see you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XiCwWLb18VU/VcjpOXS842I/AAAAAAAAA_Q/tGPcQAHopH4/s1600/dark%2Bbrahma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XiCwWLb18VU/VcjpOXS842I/AAAAAAAAA_Q/tGPcQAHopH4/s400/dark%2Bbrahma.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dark brahma hen and a Honey Buns look alike.</td></tr>
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You were unfortunately at the bottom of the pecking order where others would take a shot at you for no other reason other than they could. I'd watch you keep your distance, but there were plenty of times you simply thought it would be alright to walk past a hen who violently turned and attacked knowing you would not fight back. Despite being the biggest, you never fought back and wore plenty of battle scars. Well, those really can't be called battle scars because you never battled, you would simply turn and waddle away, penguin-like, to avoid further conflict.<br />
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At night, you learned it was easier to sleep outside rather than dealing with all the hen house drama. I don't blame you. Alone, you roosted in peace on the tractor fender during darkness where I felt sorry for you at sunrise when, once again, you had to deal with the others.<br />
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Despite being nearly featherless on the left side of your neck and most other feathers having broken quills from bossy beaks, you remained a constant layer. Even if it required being further tormented by the others, you would persevere and get into a nest box to lay your daily egg. <br />
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You were bullied and I feel bad that nature can be so cruel, but you found a way to manage. I admire and was drawn to you in how you handled life, even though from my point of view it had to have sucked. I remember you at my feet when the mean white hen callously walked up and nailed you. Despite wanting to launch her into orbit for being such a bully, I consciously held back while punting her away. You had remained at my feet, seemingly appreciative for sticking up for you.<br />
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But, coyotes are ever looking for an opportunity and an explosion of your broken feathers in a puffy pile out in the pasture told the story: ambushed while too far away from the security of the coop.<br />
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Honey Buns, thank you. You'll be missed. I'll be thinking of you this winter when coyote pelts are thick and worth the time to skin.D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-65733070817549003402015-08-03T11:38:00.001-07:002015-08-03T19:24:42.091-07:00Coin Flip<em>Which way do I go? </em><br />
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Emerging from a high mountain trail choked with aspen trees, I stared at a wooden post, weathered gray from years of punishment being staked out in the inhospitable environment. Rusty nails had one little wooden sign with an arrow whittled in it pointing right while another similar sign had an arrow pointing left. The faded acronyms on each were absolutely meaningless, so I went left.<br />
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Why left? No reason whatsoever. Rather than pointlessly debating with myself, I made a decision and acted on it. It was like guessing on a true or false question, I had a 50% chance of being correct. The odds would not have changed no matter how much time I wasted lamenting over the decision. Just like a flip of a coin, I had to accept whatever followed.<br />
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I proceeded left and enjoyed the solitude of the high mountain trail. The air was cool and lightly scented with earthy odors while the sun, through a thin atmosphere, sizzled a burn on the back of my neck. Sunblock? Foolishly, it was left at the door in the house...a move of pure genius.<br />
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Shoes began to make suction cup sounds as the trail softened into damp soil that soon turned into sticky goop which steadily became soupy and marshlike. <br />
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Obviously, I lost the coin flip in my selection of which trail to follow.<br />
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Willow type branches reached across the trail lashing at my skin as I tried to part them for passage. A jungle machete to hack a path through the foliage? Yup, giggling with the sunscreen while hanging out at the house...<br />
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Suddenly, while breaking through the vegetative wall, I stood in a little clearing where my eyes opened wide to absorb what was before me.<br />
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Thank you Mother Nature, I didn't lose the coin flip after all.<br />
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<br />D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-10818114923491276492015-07-27T12:47:00.001-07:002015-07-27T12:57:25.975-07:00Homegrown Nursery RhymeTrotting up the dusty mountain trail, I noticed the distant snake stretched across the path sunning itself. Getting closer, I didn't mind its presence. It was either a harmless garter or bull snake that I would simply jump over, or, it was a rattlesnake that I would respect by going wide around it.<br />
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With tunnel vision on its tail, I saw no rattles as I prepared to jump over the 18"-20" snake. In slow motion, my brain finally processed the entire vision sent to it from my eyes and panic instantly struck. The color pattern screamed <strong><em>DEADLY</em></strong> as I launched as if at Cape Canaveral fully strapped with rocket boosters thrusting me skyward.<br />
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During lift off, I looked below at how quickly tree tops became distant and watched as the mountains slowly got smaller and smaller. At cruising altitude, I waved at passengers through their small jetliner windows and eventually I touched down a few miles up the trail. Looking back, I watched the dangerously evil serpent silently glide off the trail and into its lair of thick vegetation. <br />
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I like snakes. Wait, I better qualify that statement. I like snakes <em><strong>of the harmless variety</strong></em>. I will catch them only to feel how their bodies move and admire, despite being legless, how they propel themselves across the ground. Having been an outdoor enthusiast my whole life, I thought I knew local plants and animals and <strong><em>that </em></strong>snake was not local! I blamed some nearby knucklehead allowing their poisonous coral snake to escape its terrarium. Now, it was loose and roaming around on a popular mountain trail.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RanAIqi8oDU/Va1VnfmV5KI/AAAAAAAAA9w/al3JABqg1S8/s1600/coral%2Bsnake.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RanAIqi8oDU/Va1VnfmV5KI/AAAAAAAAA9w/al3JABqg1S8/s400/coral%2Bsnake.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coral Snake</td></tr>
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After my heart rate calmed, I continued up and around the mountain top, very concerned about the escapee. Live and let live, but this invader could cause harm to trail users and if it reproduces, it could potentially upset the entire ecosystem (just ask Florida what rejected pet reticulated pythons are doing to the everglades!).<br />
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Upon returning home, I fired up Google and was pleasantly surprised as this ol' dog learned something new. Colorado has milk snakes that resemble the banded color configuration of the coral snake. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7sayqfkVXE0/Va1WBu8xupI/AAAAAAAAA94/8fk7KtfU6-E/s1600/milk%2Bsnake.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7sayqfkVXE0/Va1WBu8xupI/AAAAAAAAA94/8fk7KtfU6-E/s400/milk%2Bsnake.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milk Snake</td></tr>
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Locally, milk snakes are not plentiful, but are native and not venomous. I feel fortunate having encountered it and learning something new, but I could have done without the adrenaline laced sky jump.<br />
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Apparently a nursery rhyme helps to remember how to differentiate between the snakes: <br />
"Red touch yellow, kill a fellow. Red touch black, friend of Jack." <br />
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I don't want to rely on remembering that jingle correctly. (I have already confused myself applying the rhyme to the pictures.) What if I accidentally switch the colors around? Or, scramble some words? ie. "Red touch black kills Jack. Red touch yellow a friendly fellow."<br />
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So, I made up my own that's very safe, simple and easy to remember:<br />
"See unknown snake in the grass, best turn around and haul some ass."D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72650412180388823.post-44333271672755062912015-07-20T08:34:00.003-07:002015-07-20T08:34:50.610-07:00Hanging out at Hardrock 100"And, who are you?" asked the attractive former record holder at ultra-marathon distances.<br />
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"Me?" I responded to her in a startled voice, "I'm nobody."<br />
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We were in a quaint coffee shop amongst world ranked athletes, record holders and endurance specialists all gathered in Silverton, Colorado in the days leading up to the Hardrock 100.<br />
<a name='more'></a>What is the Hardrock 100? Quite simply, it's an unbelievable race. Very briefly, it's a one hundred mile endurance race, mostly on trails up and down in Colorado's San Juan mountains. The course exceeds 12,000 feet in elevation thirteen times with the high point being Handies peak at 14,048 feet and the lowest elevation being in Ouray at 7,796 feet. Total elevation gain in the race is 33,992 feet with the same amount of descent. So, for comparison sake, the race exceeds starting at sea level and summiting Mount Everest (elevation 29,029') and returning back to sea level. So, what's the reward? It's not money since there is no purse. Runners finish the race by kissing a huge stone at the finish and I assume the true prize is the satisfaction of completing such a challenge. Oh, and by the way, runners have 48 hours to complete the course. Many label the race the toughest 100 miler in America and I was fortunate enough to have been invited down to "hang out" the week of the race. <br />
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A wet spring had the high mountains still harboring piles of snow while slopes were carpeted in lush green growth. On arrival in Silverton, a stalled storm system created gray skies and rain. Tents were pitched just across the river from town and the first night I listened to moisture pattering on my tent's rain fly. Early Tuesday morning, I made a pitiful cup of coffee over a scant backpacking stove and prior to launching on an adventure, a real cup was purchased at the only coffee shop in town where I was introduced to trail runners of all varieties. Scientists, doctors, engineers, a vagrant living out of his Toyota truck for 3 years, teachers, small business owners, professionally sponsored athletes, former record holders, current record holders...the list went on and on. But, the crazy common denominator was all were super pleasant, down to earth and easy to be around.<br />
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We set off for the day's adventure that included scouting a section of the Hardrock 100 course. During the ascent, I was told of the mystical blue color of Ice Lake and the artistry of Island Lake. <br />
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This picture from the internet was what I expected of Ice Lake.....and a similar expectation was envisioned of Island Lake<br />
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Instead, this was our discovery. Ice Lake was first visited and found to be completely frozen and we navigated over to Island Lake and found it also frozen. Although it was almost mid-July, the high country was still dealing with the previous harsh winter and cool spring. We continued on our trek with the final push to reach Grant Swamp Pass. Soon, we were easily passed by a world ranked athlete who was closely followed by his girlfriend that we used as a pacer. <br />
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Wind was raging while rain and sleet pelted us and upon reaching the pass, course markers could not be found. I went up the trail seeking markers and looked back to our small party. They were miniature in the raw vastness of the scenery where a gusty updraft from our side of the pass was battling and peeling back thick clouds trying to crest over us from the other basin. <br />
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The couple had a destination and assumed the trail continued directly below them and I marveled while they dropped off into the steep abyss and were promptly swallowed by clouds. We turned and had a slippery trip back to the trail head to return to camp.<br />
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Soggy tents and gear were a poor reception party, so we set off to town for beer in dry and warm establishments. Later, tents were unzipped for another hypnotic night of rain dancing on the fabric. <br />
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Wednesday's adventure? Bear Creek trail that had a 7.1 mile ascent with a vertical gain of 5,000 feet that included sections of the trail being carved into rock from old timers seeking their fortunes in mine shafts. After standing on top of Engineer's Pass with my thighs begging for mercy and lungs wondering where all the oxygen went, we turned and ran back...it was nice to feel legs freewheeling instead of the constant grind of hiking.<br />
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Rehydrating at a brewery in Ouray, I met the popular server Mr. Grumpy Pants. He spoke few words and used a stick to tap on "Cash Only" that was scribbled with chalk on a blackboard that hung behind him. Further, because of supply issues and a problem with a tap, the choices were limited to 3 types of beers. When quizzed by customers which was good, he flatly stated as if insulted, "All of 'em."<br />
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Back in Silverton, entertainment included a free movie, "Run Free." It was an interesting documentary on Caballo Blanco, a character in the NY Times best seller <em>Born To Run</em>, and his love for running, his nurturing of a community of Tarahumara Indians in Mexico and his free spirit life.<br />
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To no surprise, another night was spent in a damp tent with Thursday's adventure to summit Engineer Mountain. (Not related to Engineer Pass.)<br />
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The trail approaching the mountain was friendly and the climb was steep with my fingers providing death grips on rocks while toes cramped inside running shoes were trying to do the same. A run back to the car and returning to Silverton resulted in another evening movie about Nolan's 14, a non sanctioned event challenging participants to summit fourteen 14'ers in 60 hours, all on foot. It's ridiculous and hard to even imagine being possible.<br />
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A steady downpour had us barhopping the evening away, only to return to, you guessed it, soggy, tents. <br />
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Alarms went of Friday morning as we emerged from our damp sleeping quarters and headed into town for the official start of the Hardrock 100. The school buzzed with activity and quickly, runners lined up for the 6 o'clock start and they set out for their adventure of 100 miles in the rugged mountains with visions of kissing the rock at the finish line. I watched the group leave town, unable to imagine how their legs, lungs, hearts and minds were about to suffer.<br />
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I also left town to return home, driving in fresh snow on top of Red Mountain Pass. I periodically checked on the race. First place finished in a new course record time of 23:28:10 while the final official finisher literally had only one second to spare with his finishing time of 47:59:59. (Three others completed the course, but surpassed the 48 hour cut-off time. I still congratulate their accomplishment.) <br />
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Thanks Chris for the invite. Despite the weather, it was still an incredibly memorable week!D. Maurerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03623410108577523230noreply@blogger.com0