​Sometimes, running alone on a forest trail, you see things. 

Hearing things is pretty common: grey and brown song sparrows flitting through the scrub oak, tiny chipmunks startling in the dry foliage and making enough racket you’d think a bear was in there. I love the solitude and the silent background to the birdsong and chipmunk drama. Though I’m mostly focused on the trail so I don’t trip over a root knob and eat dirt, I scan my surroundings so I don’t run into a bear, or more likely a moose, eating breakfast and oblivious to my presence.

But sometimes, you see strange things. One day while descending, I came around a bend on Orton Trail and caught a glimpse of a dark figure ahead of me. Except - there was nothing there but the short, dark and dead trunk of a tree, rough and bulging wide at the center - with a face! His one blue-grey eye stared at me inquisitively, nose and mustachioed mouth questioning “who are you?”  This tree sprite put a grin on my face. 

After that, I made sure my route included my friend. Each time I ran up Emerald I would say “Hi” as he gave me a look of encouragement, and each time I ran down his nod of “nice job” would always make me smile. I’d even tap the trunk in hello. What a stalwart supporter for each and every training run all last fall. 

In early summer this year I finally made my way back to run on Emerald. As I’ve written in There’s No Place Like Emerald Mountain, these trails are my favorite place to be. It truly is the wonderland of trail running - at least for me. The way Eye-to-Eye twists back onto itself repeatedly so that I’m almost seeing myself run by in the opposite direction. The thickening of the trees on Hudson near where the old Hudson car is, the trail dark and eerie, despite the sunshine elsewhere. The way the gnome has a way of hiding in the foliage at the Blackmere entrance to Larry’s. I’m not a fan of magical thinking - but the stories and experiences and community contribution to Emerald Mountain have created a place in nature that is both magic and whimsy.

So as I ran up Emerald in June after six months away, I was excitedly anticipating greeting my friend the tree sprite. As I approached my smile and hello tap were ready…but the face was gone. All that was left was one little screw.

For the rest of the run I shifted between sadness and anger. Did someone steal the face? Did they have so little understanding and regard for the Emerald vibe, were they that clueless? I cursed them through my disappointment. And really, it was beyond disappointment. I felt bereft, desolate - something precious had been taken.

I didn’t run up there again. 
Until this past Saturday. I decided it was time to head up Emerald. The first climb usually gets my heart rate into the red in about ten yards, and it felt good to be back. I even passed a cyclist climbing Blackmere - which was something, considering my pace was slo-mo. Approaching the tree of my old friend, the sprite, I was prepared for the sadness of his expressionless trunk…but lo and behold, he was back!!! New face, comical expression…and somehow Emerald felt complete again.

That face in the forest is a friend, and more. The sprite is a wink to the quirkiness and fun, a testament to the friendliness and camaraderie, a nod to the spirit of the unknown…the enchantment of a face in the forest.

​​May: the time of year in Steamboat when things are a little quieter, AKA mud season. Thankfully there’ve been enough days of rain and snow to earn that name, every drop potentially staving off the imminent fire season following the less than lackluster winter snowfall. 

The quiet around town is oh so welcome, but the quiet in my massage practice is disconcerting. Busy weeks and lulls are a part of the normal rhythm, but the busy weeks this past winter paralleled the snowfall - less than the kind of busy I’ve come to expect.

And so, as has happened in prior slow periods that extend for longer than I think they should (I start panicking after a day or two), my go-to coping mechanism is to have an existential crisis. What am I even thinking, having my own business? What am I doing? Who am I? Why am I here? 

An attractive solution in the midst of this mind chaos is: “I know, I’ll go get a job with a reliable paycheck and benefits, and sit on my can behind a desk all day.” After breathing into the proverbial paper bag, I calm down and remember why I do massage therapy.

*****
I earned my BA in Cultural Anthropology, thinking I’d head somewhere exotic to study some fascinating people. As anthropologists do. The Amazon Basin, Africa, Central America…all intrigued me. Instead, I got a position in a legal office, saved up some dough, and headed off to travel Europe, where I planned to end up in Barcelona and establish myself prior to the ‘92 Summer Olympics. 

Instead (seeing a pattern here?), after about six weeks of solo travel I decided I really wanted to do Ironman, a triathlon consisting of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run. So I returned to the U.S., got a job at a sporting goods store to support my athletic habit, and did my first Ironman.

Fast forward to the summer of 1996. My Great Aunt Dorie in Maryland passed that summer just before I moved from Steamboat to Boulder. Aunt Dorie was a delightful whimsical sweetheart of a person. When I was a kid I would beg to wash dishes in her kitchen because she made it such fun…something about oodles of soap bubbles and a literal spoonful of sugar when I had the hiccups, which was very often. The last time I saw her was a year before she passed, and she was in a nursing home. She had suffered a stroke, and was completely dependent on nurses and aides for her care. She could not communicate. Her once bright, twinkly blue eyes were dim, and the only bit of color in her tiny room was a small flower bouquet and a little mobile hanging above her bed. I left there heartbroken and bereft - how could magical Great Aunt Dorie, whom I loved so much, be in this situation? Somehow, in my sadness, I had the conviction that if she could be given compassionate touch, it would change the quality of her remaining life. Since we lived so far apart this was only a wish, so when she died I thought about how I could make a difference in other people’s lives, even if I could not have done that for her.

I didn’t pursue that right away. It took a second person passing to seal the deal. Surprisingly, that person was Princess Diana. I despised the whole royal wedding coverage, and detested the in-your-face tabloids at the grocery checkout blaring the latest sordid scandal of the monarchy. But when she died in August, 1997, it struck me as so wasteful that a woman - a mother - who’d been doing such meaningful work in the world (with HIV/AIDS, landmines, and the homeless) was now gone. Princess Diana’s death was the impetus for me to make some kind of a difference myself. I enrolled in the Boulder College of Massage Therapy and graduated from the 1000-hour two-year-long night program with my certification in December, 1999.

Eventually I landed a position doing massage therapy at a continuum-of-care facility in Boulder. The thirteen years there gave me the opportunity to work with many different people, young and old, and many different conditions. People with Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s patients, folks recovering from surgery, from illness, people in wheelchairs, with chronic and acute pain, and staff who were athletes. Several clients were residents who transitioned all the way through that continuum during the time I worked with them: from independent living, to assisted living, to skilled nursing, and sometimes to end of life. 

One of these clients was a woman named Florence, who transitioned through those phases with humor and happiness. Florence wore bright colors and had a zest for life. She loved to swim, to dance, and to paint. And as she progressed, those things that she loved to do became the things she used to do. Her response to this was unfailing graciousness. When I went to her apartment in assisted living, we’d walk to the peaceful greenhouse room so she could sit among the growing plants and gurgling little fountain for her massage. When I went to her room in skilled nursing, she would tell me at least once per visit how blessed she was to live there. When she had a stroke and could no longer get out of her bed without assistance and could no longer communicate, I would put on her music and massage her neck, shoulders, arms and hands, legs and feet as she lay in her bed. One day while I massaged her hand, she made a little movement with the music. On her lips was a little smile, and I thought I heard the slightest whisper of a hum. Florence was dancing.

*****
Do I believe I’ve made a difference in people’s lives through massage work? I do. When someone’s pain is relieved, when they perform their sport better, when their anxiety is calmed, when their grief has a little more space, when they sleep through the night on their massage days, when they move better so they can do what they want to do - I believe that these people’s lives are made somewhat better through this work. I can’t change the really hard stuff, like dear Aunt Dorie having a stroke, or Florence not being able to swim. But I can bring moments of good. And maybe, at least on some days, that is enough. Certainly enough to keep me in the game.

Today, May 1, my daughter graduates with her BS in Environmental and Sustainability Studies from the University of Utah. I feel all the ways you might expect: proud, excited, happy, curious, thrilled and definitely awed. Some of that awe stems from the fact that she earned her degree in two years. Some of it stems from the person my daughter is: caring, generous, fun, driven, athletic, self-aware, and adventurous. Some of it stems from the way she approaches life, a confidence to take on new things without holding back. This isn’t just because she’s young. It is how she engages with living, and it is inspiring.

Along with the expected ways I feel about Charlotte completing her undergraduate education, I notice something else. A tightness in the center of my stomach, a tinge of heaviness at the back of my heart. She’s travelled the educational conveyor belt from preschool to university, and is now jumping off into the world at large. With this discernible step into real independence - working full-time, creating a structure for her life that is dictated fully by her choices and not by her parents, teachers, or an educational institution - as her parent I feel a bit…irrelevant.

When Charlotte first came onto the scene, there was a moment of tremendous resistance and heel dragging on my part. I had an identity - endurance athlete, runner, cyclist, and though married, an independent woman. To shift into being a mother was, to me, a departure almost unfathomable. At 38, I didn’t want to have someone dependent on me, and I certainly didn’t want to give up my athletic and independent identity to be a mom. I didn’t know how to be a mom.

But, something had been happening. From the early days of my pregnancy, what I felt for this being inside me was growing along with her. The visceral love and literal connection I experienced was profound - the “not knowing how to be a mom” was no match for that. My resistance, and my old identity, subsided as I found myself completely immersed in mama-hood.

Parenting is hard. From sleepless nights to figuring out needs without words to saying “NO!” and the response is to look you in the eye and do it anyway. From being right where you laid them down to crawling across the house in three seconds flat to scampering out of reach with a delighted giggle. From looooong, even boring, days at the park to being awakened at 2am to continue an argument over the pajamas to full-on meltdowns. And as your child moves from little one to teen and beyond, you exchange one set of difficulties for another, again and again. 

But here’s the thing - you have a clear purpose. You know your place as a parent, however imperfectly. 

As a parent I had (and still have) two unequivocal goals. To see my daughter, truly and deeply, for the person she is. To learn about her, and myself - the dynamic between us, and how I could become a better person and thus a better mother. These aims were challenges that I was not always equal to, and at times I failed badly. But the goals were my guiding principles, and no matter how low or exhausted I felt, I always knew my purpose. 

Today, those goals are still guiding me, but feel less immediate. My tasks as a parent - chauffeuring, planning, baking, medical/dental appointments, etc., etc. were often the structure by which I could focus on my parenting goals, and thus feel my purpose in real time. But those tasks, which have been waning for years, are done now, and this graduation feels like the true take-off. She stands fully in her own life, which is amazing and exactly right - and yet I feel disoriented.

It isn’t like I can go back and pick up where I left off twenty years ago. I certainly am not the same body and mind I was at 38. I am grappling with being the parent of an adult, and how to dip my toe into what’s next, and I feel somewhat lost because for 20 years - I was “Charlotte’s mom.” 

I have written about the idea of looking forward with my current running abilities rather than comparing them to my past. But this shifting of identity is different. This is about bringing forward the mom parts of me and the me parts of me, so that I’m a melding of pre-mom and mom, and maybe something altogether new.

There’s a story that Clarissa Pinkola Estés shares about her Uncle Zovár, a Hungarian WWII refugee that her father helped bring to their tiny farming village in northern Michigan. When Estés was very young the U.S. government seized land from their town to put in a highway. The construction work destroyed the nearby wood that was precious to the townspeople, and Uncle Zovár was devastated, as this triggered memories of all that was taken from him during the war as a peasant farmer in “the old country.” When the construction was finished, the highway was at some distance from the town and so the destruction of the wood was unnecessary after all. Uncle Zovár headed out one morning with a hoe, and began to dig a deep trench on one side of the now flattened wood - more a field at this point. Neighbors, many of whom also had roots in the old country, joined him in the trench digging, until the field was a giant rectangle framed by the deep trench. Uncle Zovár then set fire to the field and the once living things that had been laid to waste, the trench containing the flames. He sat watch over the fire all night long, Estés at his side. 

The next day, the field was flat, blackened, and lay open to the sky. Estés asked if they should plant seed. But Uncle Zovár explained to her that their work had been to prepare the soil. The field was now fertile ground, and they would leave it be - to let grow what would grow. The breeze would blow in what it would. Birds flying overhead would drop what they would. Critters large and small would track into the field what they would. New life would come. 

Time passed, and the field did become a wood. Full of new plants, trees, and wildlife.
​Full of new life. 

Imagine that you are preparing for bed. You’re in your softest PJs, you’ve brushed your teeth and washed your face, and your water glass is on the bedside table. There is only one lamp giving out a warm light. You spritz your pillow with a light mist of lavender, chamomile, rose or jasmine to promote sleep. Using a massage tool, a tennis ball, or a small foam roller, you knead the tension in your shoulders and neck, breathing in easily as the tight muscles let go. Your head hits the pillow and you sleep like a baby until morning. 

A bedtime routine, aromatherapy, and massage can all contribute significantly to quality shuteye. As a massage therapist, clients have shared that they sleep better after having a massage - even with an afternoon appointment, the effects carry through to good sleep that night. Massage can release those helpful feel-good hormones like serotonin, oxytocin and dopamine, while decreasing cortisol. And massage eases pain, decreases stress and reduces anxiety, all of which can lead to improved sleep. 

I’ve also encouraged clients to pay attention to the sensations they feel during a massage - the feel of the sheets, the smell of the aromatherapy, the sound of the music - so that they can remember those sensations at bedtime to again feel the relaxation of their body and mind. This is a great way to extend the benefits of massage.

The research I’ve seen is mostly subjective when measuring for relaxation and sleep quality, although some objective data can be gathered, such as salivary cortisol to determine stress before and after intervention. But a massage’s easefulness is subjective.

And in my experience, not all massage sessions are created equal. I used to get bodywork from a therapist whose touch and vibe were so calming and safe that I fell into a zone - not quite sleep but not exactly in the here and now. These sessions left me deeply relaxed - so good for my head and body. 

Recently I had a somewhat different experience. As soon as I walked in the door it seemed as if we had a schedule to adhere to and we were falling behind. The session was a cookie cutter routine, and the therapist’s forearm on my upper back felt like a Ford F-350 ripping across the speedbumps in a parking lot at full speed. It wasn’t until after the session, when I walked out of the building and sat in my car, soaking in the sunshiney warmth, that I actually relaxed. I had just paid a lot of money to be tense, stressed, and feel like an asphalt parking lot. What would that massage have been like if the therapist had really felt the tissue under her hands, and worked with the tight areas in my body to bring some movement, ease, and blood flow? 

This makes me think of the how-to-give-a-massage-during-Covid video. The various methods for delivery like “tribute hands,” “swiffer aromatherapy” and “light saber reflexology” are spot-on and hilarious. Why did my less than relaxing recent massage experience make me think of this video? Because there was no real connection between therapist and client - everything was scripted and generalized. 

To be fair, this is the level at which some people prefer to receive massage - kind of like small talk at a party. You end up not learning much and with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. But there are ways to have even light conversation where you still learn what the person’s work is, what interested them in that work, and how they like it. You might learn something new about that field of work, you might feel you understand this new person a little bit, the conversation might even shed some light on your own work. Connection below the superficial surface.

With massage, you can have that same kind of connection. Mostly it is the awareness (of both therapist and client) of what’s moving, what’s not moving as well, and soreness or even pain. But it isn’t only muscle and connective tissue and fascia on the massage table. There is the understanding of parts of the client’s life - are they out for hours running or cycling, have they been in front of the computer for a stressful season of work, or looking after an ailing family member? There is so much more than the surface muscle tension to be addressed and acknowledged. 

Clients sometimes rib me for being a little generous with the massage time. And I think a part of this is allowing for connection. A listening to the body and its rhythm. Some tightnesses can’t be rushed along. They require patience and kindness - and perhaps persistence. 

If there were more of this space for considered connection, in conversation, in massage - in day to day interactions, perhaps we would all be learning a bit more, be more attuned to one another, and certainly much more relaxed. And maybe we’d all be sleeping better too. 


Source
AMTA: Massage Therapy’s Effect On Sleep

​(Read Salida Trail Marathon Part I: One Step At A Time
and Salida Trail Marathon Part II: The Best Day )


I look at the rush of water that is Fish Creek, in such a hurry to get to the Yampa River and then the Colorado. I just want to say to it, slow down and stay awhile. You won’t make it to the Sea of Cortez anyway, you’ll just peter out in the Sonoran Desert. I wish I could hold the flow here longer.

Despite the un-winter with little snow and plenty of unseasonably warm temps, the spring melt still manages to make a low roar, filling my head, and I smile. It is a treat to trot alongside this waterway as it splashes up against and pours over the many rocks along the way.

Happy to be running on a trail, I climb the half-mile of switchbacks and head back down, then turn around and do it again. It is quiet, there’s no one around this morning, for which I am grateful. I can enjoy the peace and don’t have the worry that I’ll encounter someone who will silently agree with me that I’m moving very slowly. Not that, in reality, they’d even notice.

But I notice. I think back to my Run Through Time finish just a few weeks ago, on March 14th, the completion of my first trail marathon, and it isn’t exactly pride that I feel. When I think of my daughter running it - and running it well - I feel a swelling in my chest that is pride and love and even joy. But my own run? That feels…complicated. There’s the finish time difference - Charlotte’s 4:35 to my 7:06. And there’s the age difference - her 19 to my 58. But the numbers don’t tell the whole story. 

It took everything I had to get through that day. Mentally and physically I started with what felt like nothing, and yet somehow ran up and down hills for 26 miles. While on the four-mile trudge up bleak road, I was so sure I wouldn’t make the time cut-off at the top it seemed pointless to continue. Yet somehow I kept pushing myself to keep going, striving for what speed I could muster, the stress of not being fast enough driving me forward. When I made the time cut-off, relief or elation weren’t on the table, because I still felt the pressure to make the second cut-off. In the last few miles the warmth and fatigue were really taking hold, and yet somehow my brain and body maintained - and summoned a sprint (for me) to the finish. It did feel terrific to be done and to be with my daughter and friend. Re-reading this paragraph, I feel gratitude and a bit of awe for how my body and mind performed on that day. But that’s still not the whole story.

I also have questions. Why was I so low energy, why was there so little in my muscles that I was doing the death-shuffle right off the start line? Why did my legs feel like concrete the entire day? Why, with all the hill climbing and heavy lifting I did in my training, did that not play out in increased power - even slightly? Why did I used to be capable of decent running speed but now my 30-second sprint pace is the pace I used to run an entire road marathon in? 

Last summer when I was toiling up the Colorado Trail for the fourth day in a row alongside Charlotte, who was not toiling, I said “I can do anything if it is just for one day.” This was the phrase that resulted in us signing up for the Salida trail marathon. I believed that with dedicated training - running and lifting - I’d improve my speed and power. But speed and power have not shown up. I’m not talking about huge improvements in my paces so much as the sensation of speed and power. A sensation I took for granted until it disappeared a year or two ago. 

It is so easy (and disheartening) to look back over the decades of rowing, running,
​triathlon-ing, backpacking and cycling and remember how fit and capable I felt doing those things. When I trained, I got stronger. A logical equation with mental and physical results. But right now, that equation is broken. I train, but sometimes the results are diminishing returns - low energy, weakness, mental exhaustion. This is not easy to accept. 

The official name of the race is the Run Through Time Trail Marathon. The name refers to the course which travels through old mining territory. I love the name of the race - in fact it is one of the reasons we signed up for the Salida trail half-marathon last year. Now that name resonates in a more profound way: a run through times past.

Times past - 58 years of experiences crammed into the nooks and crannies of my mind. Because these times are past - long gone. There is a sense of loss, and of longing. For older family members, my daughter’s childhood, for the days when you didn’t have to wait in a lift line on a powder day. The loss of how I thought my life would look from the perspective of my twenties and thirties. The loss of a myriad of moments: sitting on the floor between shelves reading a mystery book in the single-room library (the Graham Annex) I rode my bike to; backyard crab feasts thick with Baltimore accents in the humid air, game contests, beers in hand, piles of steamed crabs and wooden mallets and so much laughter; my young and tough Charlotte, running up the hill after me in her pink Boggs snow boots, determined to go where I went. 

But isn’t that simply life? We all have the losses, the longings, for the experiences that fill up our senses and brains until there’s hardly room to squeeze in one more. This really is the stuff of life, and it’s so good, but it can also be so heavy when the loss outweighs the freshness of new experience. Running through time, just as running through historic mining areas, is about perspective. We see the times past from here because we are no longer there - but dang isn’t it awesome that we had those times at all? 

The thing is, and maybe this is the key thing: I’m still running. It might not look like I think it should look. And some days it definitely does not feel like I’d like it to feel. But I am running. It is a powerful connection I share with my daughter. Sometimes I even get to run with Charlotte and we talk. Well, she talks, I pant.  There are days on the trail where I feel incredibly, gloriously alive, surrounded by all that sumptuous nature. I am very very lucky.

So, complicated feelings about my Run Through Time experience and all, what is next? 

I think next is about looking forward. About my new starting line being from age 58. About where I can go from here. The possibilities ahead rather than pining for the past that is behind. About running with the wind in my hair, and not worrying about time at all.
​

​There’s a photograph near my dining table. My dad snapped this pic on a summer day, in a lush green city park. There are four behatted subjects: my grandmother, my mom, my one-year-old daughter, and me. My two favorite things about this picture are the suspicious glare with which my daughter is regarding her grandfather, and that we are four generations and the span of time that represents.

The photo is like a time-traveling window. I look through it and am in that day. I feel the hot July air on my skin, playground sand rough on my ankles, the slide scorching fingers and bum. I hear the high-pitched squeak of the swing chains being pushed to the max, the squeals of children playing tag. I see squirrels racing around and up the trunks of huge shade trees, bees buzzing amongst the red and pink blooms of roses a short distance away. 
* * * * *
The above photo of Dali’s bronze sculpture La Noblesse du temps (Nobility of time) was placed in its current location in Andorra in 2010. The soft clock face is draped over a sturdy tree. Dali used the crown on the top edge of the clock to signify time’s dominion over humans. I am resistant to this idea of time lording it over us. 

We can’t stop time, can’t stop the aging of our bodies and faculties. But stepping deeply into our recollections allows us to play with time. In that action of engaging with memories, we are time travelers. 

Most of us can choose a snapshot from our childhood - a physical picture or a picture held in our mind’s eye. We can focus on the details of that memory and allow the sensations of that day to burst into our mind like popcorn popping. The smell of the wet earth after a hard rain. The feel of a cold dog nose pushing into the palm of your hand. The sound of a train horn moving down the track slicing through the still night. The taste of your favorite cookie, hot out of the oven, melting across your tongue. Each sensation gives way to others, a long hallway of memory doors opening one after another, until you are right back in that space and time. You have traveled there. 
* * * * *
On the day of that four-generation picture of my family, I am a mom still new to her job. Slathering sunblock on little pudgy arms, tying the sunhat back on for the 81st time. In the picture, my hand is holding my daughter’s chest - holding her heart. A couple years later, we’d use our hands over our hearts at morning preschool drop-off. She’d be at the goodbye window (the crying window), and as she watched me walk to my car, we both knew I was in her heart and she was in mine all day long. 

My daughter is now 17. Today we are adventuring - exploring colleges on a 3000-mile road trip.  We are many many days down the line from that July park outing almost 16 years ago. I would not agree that the “time has flown,” or that “it goes so fast.” More than a few days of those growing up years were mighty long ones. I am blessed to have clarity of detail and feeling in myriad moments with my daughter. The more I recall, the more memories come in. The way you look at the night sky, and the longer you gaze, the more bright stars show themselves - until there are so many stars the sky is filled with light.

Originally published June, 2023

Charlotte and I move through the Salida streets at a quick walk, making our way to Riverside Park. Today is the Salida Run Through Time Trail Marathon (26.2 miles, 3800 feet of elevation gain), which we set our sights on last July. We are both nervous. Charlotte is experiencing a couple of nagging spots since running RUFA two weeks prior, and she’s worried about her body holding up for this race. Understandable. At RUFA, she ran 48 miles and climbed 18,000 feet. On our drive to Salida I asked her if she remembered how difficult of a day it was when we climbed Mt. Yale a couple years ago. We climbed/descended 4500 feet  - so her RUFA run was like climbing Mt. Yale four times in one day!!!

I’m dividing my stress between worry for her, and worry for me that I won’t make the time cutoffs today. There are two of them - at miles 12.5 and 19.5, and I am not feeling confident. If I don’t make either cutoff, I’ll be pulled and driven back to the finish area at Riverside Park.  

The actual start is across the river from the park. The runners gather and we make small talk in dim light before the 8:00 start time. The sun isn’t up over the mountain yet, so we shiver with our dear friend Lynn who has driven here from the Colorado Springs area to cheer us on. Though it is chilly now, the day is supposed to get into the 60’s with significant wind, especially at the top of the course. 

Lynn moves off to the side and everyone joins in the countdown: “Five, four, three, two, one, GO!” All 250 runners competing in the trail marathon move forward as one, our index fingers poised above our watches/GPS devices, punching the start button as we cross the timing mat. And we’re off!

Charlotte, sweet girl, wants to run the first bit with me, but a few yards down the flat road and my heartrate is in the red. The anxiety is taking its toll. We wish each other good luck and “I love you!” and she is out of sight in roughly six seconds. A high-end sports car for sure.

I slog on, my legs full of concrete, and realize that my get up and go has gotten up and went. The first couple miles are a loop on a fairly flat road with a relatively small climb and I’m trying to get my heartrate back into this stratosphere. When I shuffle back by the start before heading up onto the mountain trail, Lynn cheers me on - but she looks concerned. 

The next few miles are for me a stress soup of pushing myself to run fast enough to make the first cutoff, finding the neon pink flags and ribbons to be sure I don’t go the wrong way, trying not to fall on the rocky terrain, and worrying about Charlotte. I keep sending messages to her body to hold up for this race. I’m just about in last place, but the bonus of that is peace and quiet on the trail. That way I can be alone with the screaming thoughts looping through my brain: “Hurry up! Watch it, you almost went down there! Oh, I sure hope Charlotte is okay.”

I come into the aid station at mile 8 to the blaring of the Rocky theme song and much cheering. The happiness quickly evaporates as I start the next leg: a four plus mile climb up a dirt road baking in the sun. I’m about a mile up and check my pace - at this rate, better to walk and save some energy. I also begin to come to terms that I’m probably not going to make the cut off, but decide to do two things: 1) try as hard as I can to make it; and 2) no crying if I don’t. Having squared that with myself, I put my head down and walk-shuffle my way up the climb. 

The sandy dirt road keeps climbing, and there are just a few spots where it is less steep so I get in a few running paces. The air is dry and warm, and there is no distraction of a gorgeous view, just scrubby, scraggly high desert flora. These four miles will never end. 

Then I remember the great Pam Reed, who twice was the overall winner of Badwater, a 135 ultra marathon from the inferno of Death Valley to the chilly elevation of the Mt. Whitney Portal. She wrote that she never sets out to run 135 miles, or 75 miles, or even 10 miles. It is only ever one mile at a time. So, one step at a time, I make my way to the top.

​(See Running Up For Air Part I: Stars Shining Over Malan’s Peak here)

According to the race tracker, Charlotte and Charlie are in 1st and 2nd place at the summit for their first lap! Charlotte is planning to run five laps - at this rate we might be getting some sleep before the night is done!

We whoop as they sprint into the trailhead area. Shannon and Amelia have a lineup of clever signs, different ones for each lap, and they make Charlie and Charlotte giggle. Our intrepid runners are feeling good. They pull up to a table and rifle through the food bags as volunteers refill their bottles and we catch up on the details. The microspikes are key for the icy part, and Charlotte was having heart pains when they started up the steep incline, but she is fine now. (?!) They had a blast chatting away through their six miles and meeting other runners. The two of them have decided to do eight laps. I worry about sleep (for her and for me), and I worry about her body handling that mileage. But I remind myself that this is her race. I am here to support her in whatever way I can. So I pull my worries to the back of my mind.

The two C’s take off for their second lap, and we supporters find our own rhythm for the night. Take video and cheer loudly when they come in from their lap. Snap a pic of them holding up fingers for which lap they’ve just done. Tend to what needs tending (nourishment, refill bottles, clothing changes, blisters, tape) while they warm up near the heat lamps. Take video and cheer loudly as they leave for their next lap. 

I get in plenty of my own laps walking back and forth to where I’m staying. There’s no sleep because I’m checking the tracker. I try to get work done, make hot tea, and when I see that they’ve summited, it is back to the trailhead to await their arrival. I am learning that if Charlotte needs something between laps, she’s more likely to accept help from someone that is not me. As much as she appreciates me being there, I’m still her mom. I’m so eager to help that it isn’t easy to back off, but I do my best to background myself a bit in the support duties. 

At 11pm, awaiting the end of their third lap, I stand at the trailhead, no one else near for the moment, and stare up. The inky indigo sky is dotted with cloud puffs moving across the gibbous moon. The quiet and lovely night is made more so by the feeling of everyone else at home, asleep, while we - this small band of runners and supporters - are vibrantly alive under the bright moonlight and velvety sky. I am happy to be here, awake.

It is now close to 5am and we’re waiting for Charlotte and Charlie to come in from their 5th lap. The breaks have gotten longer, the laps a bit slower, though they are still maintaining an impressive and consistent pace. Headlamps wink in and out through the darkness along the trail up the mountain; we’ve learned to look for the two headlamps together, as have the folks at the timing tent. They know these two and their numbers: “Here come 2403 and 2404!”

C and C arrive, and they are tired. Time for a little sleep. Planning to reconvene about 7am, we head to our accommodations and get about an hour of sleep. After a snack and some hot tea we are back at the trailhead. I’m amazed that Charlotte is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the morning sunshine brings a new perspective: “We’ll actually be able to see the trail now!” The two warriors head off for their sixth lap, we three on the support crew clamoring excitedly. We definitely know how to do this support thing!

For lap seven, both runners have taped knees in the hopes of easing some soreness that has cropped up - understandable, since with six laps under their belt they’ve completed 36 miles and over 13,000 feet of climbing and descending. Ouch!  

Shannon yells “run faster this time!” Apparently this advice backfires, as it is their slowest lap. When they arrive, they are at a walk and Shannon’s sign reads “You okay?” It seems Charlie’s body has decided that he is done. After some discussion, Charlotte asks him how he’d feel about her doing the eighth lap on her own. She doesn’t want to make his not doing the eighth more difficult. But Charlie is the real deal. He is behind Charlotte 100%: “you’re the sickest person I know.” (“Sick” = “amazing” in Gen-Z speak.) He gives her a hug to send her on her way, a hug that speaks volumes about the people they are and the friendship they share. And Charlotte is off. Her summit time is the fastest since their first lap. When she comes down the final section into the start/finish area she is flying. And she’s done! The race director, Tara, walks over and hands her a donut. Charlotte sinks her teeth into that sweetness, a big grin on her face. 48 miles, 18,000 feet of climbing. The donut definitely made it all worthwhile.

*****
Being a part of this event was humbling. I watched runners accomplish incredible feats of mileage and climbing with no drama and much fortitude.I watched their camaraderie, through the night and all the next day, and I saw respect, and humor, and empathy. 

I watched volunteers stay up all night supporting the runners; some of those volunteers worked through the night and then raced in the morning - the 12 hour, 6 hour or 3 hour events. I watched kids and dogs frolicking, and everyone cheering on folks they didn’t know - rooting for them to run that next lap, welcoming them back on the return. 

I watched my daughter run her first ultra marathon adventure with her dear friend, overcoming the times of physical fatigue and mental challenge, and keep on going. I watched her smile, her determination, her confidence in what she can do.

This Running Up For Air event (RUFA: Malan’s Peak) raised $15K for air quality solutions. It brought people together in the best ways of athletic challenge, support and fun. I can’t wait for next year.

My toes curl in, trying their best to avoid the wet. Squelch, squatch, splosh. What’s falling from the sky is an indeterminate mix of rain, sleet and snow - but it is very definitely some giant’s spilled slushie that I’m plodding through. Every time a vehicle drives by I jump to the side to avoid the worst of the splashback. I’m thankful to reach the quiet road leading to the trail but here the slush is so thick and fluid it feels like I’m trying to skitter across a lake. The trail itself is slightly better, but when I start up the climb I slip-slop-slide with every step.

Why the heck am I out here? Several reasons: fresh air and outdoor running being preferable to the gym treadmill, getting in the last few days of mileage before the mid-March Salida trail marathon, where I will run 26.2 miles and climb 3800 feet. 

This sounds formidable - at least it did before my daughter signed up for the 24 hour RUFA (Running Up For Air) race in Ogden, Utah on February 27-28. Participants will do laps up Malan’s Peak: 3 miles up and 3 miles down, 2200 feet of elevation to ascend - and descend - with each lap. My daughter plans to run 5 laps (30 miles), and neither of us know what to expect. What will the mountain conditions be like? How long will it take? Will we stay up all night or grab a few hours of sleep? 

I also don’t know what to expect as I support her, but I do know that I’m stressed which is another reason I’m out here on this sloppy morning. I’ve watched videos to learn “how to crew for an ultra race.” I’ve checked in with Charlotte about the different foods she might want. I settle on some basics to bring: cinnamon rice cakes, a tub of peanut butter, gluten-free peanut butter and honey sandwiches, the entire bottle of honey, gluten-free pretzels, salty mini rice cakes, organic ginger ale - 2 boxes. Energy chews and bars, extra electrolyte mix. First aid: athletic tape, bandaids, pain reliever, Aquaphor. Sleeping bag, long coat (for keeping warm between laps). My shoes with spikes (for icy/snowpacked trail). Extra gloves, hats, rain shell, socks. A camp chair. And two headlamps, fully charged. This is just the stuff I’m bringing. She also has her own gear and food bag. I am hoping they’ll have a wagon or a donkey I can use to get all this stuff to the start area.

RUFA got its start when ultrarunner Jared Campbell was training for the Barkley Marathons, an extremely demanding 100-miler held in Tennessee, where the start time is signaled by the race director lighting a cigarette, and participants end up climbing the equivalent elevation of Mt. Everest (29K feet), trail-find to navigate the course, and even rip pages from books planted randomly along the way. In the winter months, as Campbell ran up and down Grandeur Peak in Salt Lake City to prepare for the grueling Barkley, he was climbing up through the inversion layer of pollution to the warmer, clear air at the summit. Eventually these training runs led to the Run Up For Air series, to bring awareness and raise money for air quality. 

Charlotte’s start is 6pm on Friday. She’s running with her good friend Charlie, whose longest distance to date is a half marathon. Joining me in support crew duties is Charlie’s twin sister Shannon and her friend Amelia. Being night shift nurses in Reno they are perfect for this role.
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The winter here, just as in Colorado, has been unseasonably warm with very little snow. No worries about how to stay warm tonight, and the trail is mostly packed dirt/mud with a short icy section  - not the usual snow-packed conditions. The trailhead area sitting right at the base of Malan’s Peak is bordered with tents housing tables and chairs, coolers with water and Gnarly electrolyte replacement, and a warming tent with chairs set up under heat lamps, and a full spread of food: chicken nuggets, fruit, hot broth and coffee, and various forms of sweet and salty carbs. The timing tent is situated right at the trail start, and runners are directed to check in and out with that tent for each lap. 


​Golden sunset light settles around everyone. Kids, dogs, partners and friends surround the runners in the minutes before they take off. There are lots of smiles, upbeat banter, and the easy friendliness of everyone from runners to supporters to volunteers. The race director yells “GO!” and they are off! 

We watch the runners head up the trail, falling into a single-file line in the last light of the day. The first mile is rolling; it is miles two and three where they gain most of the 2200 feet in elevation. We plan to keep an eye on Charlotte and Charlie’s summit time to determine when to be back to greet them. Shannon and Amelia head off to grab a few supplies, and I head out for a brisk walk to warm up. 

As I move through the peaceful and dark neighborhood streets, I think about Charlotte, and wonder how it is going. How is that icy section where she’ll need her microspikes? Will the more technical parts of the trail be really difficult with just the headlamp? I’ll get my questions answered when they come in from their first lap. In the meantime, we are both moving forward under the starry sky.

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We cannot tire or give up. We owe it to the present and future generations of all species to rise up and walk!
-Wangari Maathai

Wangari Maathai planted a lot of trees. Over 50,000 of them to be exact. 

Professor Wangari Maathai was the founder of the Green Belt Movement in Kenya in 1977. She saw planting trees as a means to address issues women in many communities were facing: food scarcity, lengthier walks to gather wood for fuel, and streams drying up. The women could plant seedlings and earn a small amount of money, and the resulting trees would provide food, firewood and shade, and retain soil.

Eventually, the Green Belt Movement trained over 30,000 women in forestry and other skills, giving them agency and a way to manage the land in their communities. Tree nurseries were created to expand the availability of seedlings. Through small grants, Green Belt was able to pay the women when their seedlings survived for six months. 

Teaching women skills and giving them meaningful work went against cultural mores, and Professor Maathai was publicly ridiculed by members of parliament, verbally abused by the president, physically beaten by government police and hired thugs, and jailed several times. Yet, she persevered.

Early on in Green Belt’s formation, a huge order of seedlings arrived but Professor Maathai had nowhere to put them. She ended up filling her yard and house to the bursting point with the trees, much to her then-husband’s dismay. Later, when the Green Belt Movement was more established and had a large number of employees, the ruling government party Kenya African National Union or KANU, sent the police to kick Green Belt out of their office. Professor Maathai set up shop in her small home, cramming dozens of people into the tiny space. 

Professor Maathai fought for decades on behalf of women and planting trees. She served on political committees within Kenya, and was recognized globally for her work, serving as the United Nations Messenger of Peace and awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2004. 

She believed that empowering people to take action within their communities, working for the common good, and to stand strong together, was the path to true democracy. Planting trees was an integral part of this work, and also was a way to promote peace and goodwill. 

Professor Maathai rallied people to plant trees to call attention to the planned destruction of Uhuru Park, a major city park in Nairobi. She also rallied a large group of women to protest political prisoners - this peaceful protest lasted for over a year. When KANU was secretly instigating violence between rural villages, Professor Maathai disguised herself and at great risk traveled to those communities to understand what was happening. She encouraged the people of battling villages to plant seedlings together as a means to mend the rifts between them. 

Wangari Maathai never gave up. By showing up to plant trees even in the face of violent opposition, by voicing the truth and encouraging people to speak up in the face of government injustice, and by teaching women the skills to benefit themselves and their communities, she planted seeds of dignity and of hope.

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Sources/Learn More

• The Greenbelt Movement
• Unbowed, A Memoir, by Wangari Maathai

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Originally published January 2025