Where Water Buffalo Roam

It’s the rhythm of breathing fresh air deep into my lungs as I work up a hill and the sound of my feet as I float down its back. The open space and restorative solitude, no telephone poles or cement—just two valley walls cradling a river and a trail. It’s getting up before the sun and starting the day with endorphins and inspiration; I run in the mountains because it is free. I’ve never considered myself a runner. I’m not built like runners in the magazines and jogging was always a means of punishment in organized sports growing up. Late to practice? Four laps. Lost the game? Plan on extra running tomorrow. I also went through a long period of adaptation where I had to convince my large frame that it too could learn to be efficient. It all stems from a desire to gain insight from challenge. My career began on a Friday night after my best friend and his dad, both marathoners, invited me out for one of their ‘tempo’ days the next morning. Mid way through the ten miler my...

The Joy of Camping It’s 5:30am and I’m working down my third cup of coffee while other campers are milling around the food like chipmunks stowing away for a long winter. The arid climate has my throat feeling like wet sandpaper and each nostril like an air duct at Costco, another sip of coffee. Brendan, a Cycling House staff member, saunters from his room heading straight for the banana and peanut butter. Spread, bite, spread, and then announces the van heading to the pool will leave in fifteen minutes. I glance at the whiteboard with the days eating and training schedule, which is methodically thought out and provides a glimpse of what my week will be like. The Cycling House is a sanctuary for endurance people; a place to escape from soggy weather, train hard and have fun. Living any place with seasons eventually spawns a depressing winter morning, usually a rainy Sunday, when spring never sounded better. I remember flying out of Seattle the same day this feeling hit ris...

I was five minutes off the front, sixty miles into a one-hundred mile running race, and breathing thin air at over 12,500ft when the lama took off. In the middle of the Rocky Mountains tree-line fades into a sub-alpine zone. Comprised of sharp rocks, roots, and not nearly enough oxygen for someone from sea level--this section of trail is a dopey stumble through broken glass. Hope Pass is the crux of the run. Racers start 50 miles north in the retired mining town of Leadville, run South down the spine and turn in the ghost town of Winfield. I'd made the turn and had just reached the summit of Hope Pass for the second time when I heard her cry. "Damn you, Ted. Get your ass back here" The woman's face told the story of a good life. Deep wrinkles from the sun, the worried brow of a farmers daughter, and a relaxed smile. Tiny running shorts, shirtless, and dehydrated, I must have looked the least threatening of the bunch, never mind this silly running race...

The following is a race report from a run on dirt in the Chelan Sawtooths: We started on single track somewhere outside Carlton, WA in the Chelan Sawtooths. There were about 120 people milling around the crowded parking lot waiting to use the plastic restroom, register, and slam down the last sip of coffee. Because the venue is remote and trail exposed, the gun must go off early; 25k, 50k, 50M all starting on single track at 6:00 AM. With all the emails and updates on the Rainshadow website regarding the challenge of the terrain and distance from the nearest hospital it seemed that James wanted people to have a good race but at the same time acknowledge the location makes it Class IV. If you get hurt out there--human power or helicopter is the only evac. option--and even then it's a long way to urgent care. Hard to tell who was there to race and who was there to finish but I recognized several fast people from the old Seattle Running Company crew. Ultra runners are t...