“What lot?”
“D”
“Row?”
“Sixteen…” Said with such confidence. “I think it’s sixteen…” Ok. Maybe not so confident.

And with that brief exchange, the shuttle’s doors slid shut. I was outbound to Long Term Parking at Austin Bergstrom International Airport. Leah T. (LT to those in the fold) had boarded a bus to “C” lot – John, one to Fast Park on the other side of Highway 71. Our traveling band out of Colorado Springs had separated. The chapter was ending. Rogue Training System’s Pike’s Peak ’06 was now history – its class all graduated - and I was home. No. I wasn’t. I was about thirty miles away from my street address. Home isn’t so easy for me to define and seems to involve a state of mind as much as a physical location. Given that, I reasoned, hadn’t I just left home? Or at least something close to it? The company of nearly forty people – all training together for four, nearly five months… and all understanding the impossible, and all understanding the why… the how come - all without saying it, but living it… isn’t that company – that camaraderie – that brotherhood - home? No matter – it is to me. Not to mention, sharing in the privilege of watching the ordinary do the extraordinary.

“It’s so flat…” I gazed out at Austin as the van chauffeured me in air conditioned comfort.

The yellow Mazda, in need of a good buffing, was waiting for me – right where it was supposed to be – D16 – its left mirror still hanging to the side by a couple of wires. The body repair fairies had elected not to fix it. Lazy bastards. I opened the hatch and slid my bags inside – a white piece of paper caught my eye. It was a printout from the Pike’s Peak Training Forum – a listing of all the athletes – their cell phone numbers. I had printed it the night before my trip, only to leave it in the car in my rush to catch a flight. So much for organization. I smiled as I scanned it. Every name had a friendly face attached. And every face, a story to tell.

We've got to hold on to what we've got
'Cause it doesn't make a difference
If we make it or not
We've got each other and that's a lot
For love - we'll give it a shot
We're half way there
Livin' on a prayer
Take my hand and we'll make it - I swear
Livin' on a prayer

It’s funny how Bon Jovi seems to be the soundtrack of anything significant in my life – military, running, relationships. This really must be a movie. Sorry for the boring parts! But remember, the trailer is always better then the real thing.

Rewind. I had some concerns with the class of 2006. Steve Sisson, Director and Big Shot Owner of Rogue Training Systems, had mentioned that he was going to up the price, open up the enrollment a bit, change the format, etc. Now change is something to resist. I did. Hadn’t last year been a great success? I did not understand. But it was his program, his business. I kept the mouth shut. I had been spoiled with the class of 2005. This new way, how was it going to work? Twice the people… a choice of evenings for the night runs… My ego kicked in and sounded really stupid. Who were these FNGs (fucking new guys)? FNGs - daring to join us on Olympus? That’s bold! Had they paid their dues? (Like I had – NOT!) Did they even know about trails? (Like I did – NOT!) Did they respect them? (I’m trying) Did they even have a clue? (I don’t, so I’m hoping for help here) All of this verbosity from one who had only a year of trail experience and a few long runs… I was selfish. I wanted what had been. I wanted a rerun. I wanted a repeat.

There were other concerns. My own running was a huge question mark – and given the circumstances – I wondered if I would really ever get to Pike’s Peak again. Or if I even wanted to. I came close to not entering. Afterall, I was tired. My trilogy of 50Ks left me exhausted as the calendar rolled into February 2006. The final running of a marathon bearing the name of my employer, Freescale, was horrendous. I had trained on nothing but trails – losing myself in the Greenbelt and St Edward’s all to the glow of green handlamp. Austin’s roads tore me up by mile 15. I didn’t get it any more – the road. It seemed stupid – people slaved to the clock and speeding through aide stations. I stopped at the stations to socialize. A little rest for the weary. Two beers with the hashers. It just didn’t matter anymore – time. It controlled me in so many other circumstances… why allow it to in this one? Emotionally, the race was difficult. The company I had worked for for 13 years was abandoning sponsorship of one of my few loves – running. I took it quite personally. And there was my health. For some reason – my lifelong struggle with blood pressure had chosen this moment to make yet another stand. A series of medication changes left me uncertain of my body’s baseline – something I still struggle with and proving to strengthen the “variable of the unknown” for Pike’s Peak.

And there was Government Canyon - the new 47K trail race in San Antonio. I found the mix quite entertaining – Abe, Marty, Steve, Carrie, Cathy, Leah N. and me – a strong representation of the class of 2005 – together again for a reunion tour before starting down the experimental path of PP’06. Of course, at mile five I celebrated by smashing and slicing up my left index finger. Carrie tied off the wound and Cathy escorted me to the quack shack – with phone calls to Bob updating him on my puke probability. We all had been in the barrel that day – I believe Steve’s quote was, “I coach a bunch of losers!” Despite all that, more Rogue training loomed on the horizon. It was time to put up or shut up. Such was the prelude, the trail head of the path leading me back to Manitou.

Fast forward – a hundred and forty days. How many miles? How much ecstasy and how much agony? Thursday night – August 17th. The monkey brain was screaming. It was over-taxed and screaming ego-centric gibberist. In twelve hours, I would be wheels in the well and flying the friendly skies. I found myself in a familiar place – atop my “magic carpet” – a hearty rug with Kazak tribal roots

Yep. I have this magic carpet. Yeah… yeah… I know… I hear your deafening roars of “Bull Shit!” It is though – magic that is. I bought it from a gentleman in a tiny shop blocks from the regal boulevards frequented by stylish westerners trying to cash in on the new money of Doha, Qatar. We’ll call him Khan, my proprietor of oriental rugs. Khan is from the Kashmir region of south central Asia – just another part of the world under much debated ownership. He had left there under questionable circumstances. I never asked for the details and he never volunteered them. He had an energy about him – and a sadness. His sins must have been for noble causes, but still, they were sins… so we got along splendidly. I saw him. Later, on the mountain. Fast forward – Pike’s Peak. More later. Rewind back.

Your conscious awakes and you see your mistakes,
And you wish someone would buy your confessions,
The days miss their mark and the nights get so dark,
But some kind of message comes through to you,
Some kind of message shoots through…

Ok. Maybe Fogelberg has had some influence. It’s of Kazak origin, my magic carpet. Kazaks were nomadic warriors, wandering the dirt stretching from northern Afghanistan back westward to the Caspian Sea and northward on into mother Russia. Its red comes from henna, its yellows and blues from sapphire and indigo. The browns, from grain. Hand woven, hand dyed. Its age… unknown. Timeless, one might say. Very much its origins – of the earth. Kazaks play into this story as well… well… their homeland certainly does anyway.

I climbed aboard the carpet that Thursday night as I had done so many other nights before. Such practice is habit for me. Habit when I am questioning, or restless, or wandering. I was hoping for a bit of relief from the insanity – some calm from the boorish storm emanating from the monkey brain. With candle lit and my iPod’s volume on low, I tried to let its magic happen.

One hundred and forty days? Ok – so that’s in simple math – maybe more, maybe less. One hundred and forty-ish days of this trail… this process… this adventure. How many more? Three at the time of this flashback – Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Had it really been a year since the 2005 marathon? That had been a difficult time – but I still had the finisher’s fleece. I drifted further backwards. Bandera. Barr Camp. The Belt, The Loop, The Maze. Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. The Forum. It came in anecdotes – not linear, not categorized – it – what came, the past. Its words, its feelings. Its situations, faces, and circumstances. But mostly, it came as faces. Each one contemplating a similar but so different challenge. Each one having traveled such a vastly different trail – such a vastly different weave of experience. Yet each of those faces heard the call and followed a trail that had been destined to intersect in a specified time, at a specified place – in Manitou. There are no coincidences.

But how much ecstasy? How much agony? Our 40-plus souls, multiplied by 20? By 40? To get the final number of Ascenters and Marathoners? Now how many miles? How many months? How many breaths? How much laughter? How many tears? How much of life had been traded by us all to stand on the mountain that day?

The magic had worked again. As the insignificance of the self floated away that evening, my nerves settled. This wasn’t about the race, it was about the process – the journey. It was about energy and spirit. It was about heart. It was about a couple of thousand uniting without knowing it. And that was just the runners. Atop of that it was the race organizers, the volunteers, the rescue workers, the spectators. And it struck me – it struck me as my candle burned and the iPod faded – the duality of the situation. Yes, there is the insignificance of self ? And yet it comes full circle – each of us was there, in Colorado, to change history. The impact of one would reverberate through the rest. One’s failure would be a failure for all of us – one’s success would save us all. The insignificance of self – and yet the criticality of each soul.

We rarely get to see the end of the story – or understand the characters we play in one another’s lives. It seems that they are cameos – guest appearances. We parallel a trail with each other – and then – inevitably – the trail splits. One soul chooses left, another right. And thus another ending, another beginning… so we never know the impact… we almost never see the difference.

This ain't a song for the broken-hearted
No silent prayer for the faith-departed
I ain't gonna be just a face in the crowd
You're gonna hear my voice
When I shout it out loud

This was more then an event… more then a race… it was a process, it was a period, it was an adventure. One whose lessons still struggle to be heard. One whose impact is measured in small doses across a lifetime… not by the metric of a start gun and a finish line. That, the race, is what provided the frame from which to build the rest. But, for me, it was just that – the frame. Important, certainly. But it cannot be used as summary – not for this path, this trail. Atop the skeleton comes all the rest – the guts, the muscle, the fat, etc. - and this is (was?) so much more then what happened in Manitou 19-20 August.

I tried. I tried to write a “normal” race report. But it just wasn’t there – or it just isn’t here, yet. Or maybe it never will be. The previous attempts were good – but they were writing for others – not for me. Writing for an audience. Hmmm. A good way to get paid. A good way to get accolades. But it will never quench the thirst or tame the dragon. The words sounded pretty and flowed well. Fuck it, fuck them. It’s not me. Ok, well yes – of course it is - it’s part of me. The safe part. But there is another. The weird thing is that I can play the game – gotten pretty good at it – the safe game. Show what others want to see – make’em comfortable – make’em feel safe. Get a pat on the head, wag the tail. Safe. Whatever that means. Whatever that feels like.

Fast forward. Race Day. My run at Pike’s Peak was like my approach to writing. Lukewarm. Safe – for me, good drama for the audience. Just enough dare exerted to keep the mortals guessing – but not enough risk to impress the gods. Yes, I made it – I made it down the mountain - but I think I knew I would. I played it safe and I know it. Not sure why I am confessing it. Oh sure, there were moments of making it look good – the sweat – the tears – hard breathing , cramps, rolled ankles - whatever. No, it wasn’t a conscious thing. But at some deeper level it was like my head was doing the math – hmmm – at Barr Camp… so much to go until cutoff – set this pace. And the body just followed. But how much of that was for audience – and how much for myself… Good question. Looking back I wonder if my sub-conscious wasn’t so busy at working to figure everything out and make it look good. Leave it to me to find the drama. Or maybe it’s just being plain ass lazy. They only went halfway – the words in my writing – my legs in my running. Correction. I only went halfway. Why blame it on the words or sore appendages?

Many of you have found the art. I see that – I feel that. I feel the art of running as I watch, as I listen, as I learn. It’s like the art of anything though – at least from the outside looking in. I don’t know how you do it. Or maybe we are the same – and some just hide it better. Hide the doubt, hide the fear. Or, perhaps I fight it more. I fight success. I fear it. Study my trail – the long trail – the twists, the turns. You’ll find that conclusion takes no rocket scientist. Fast forward.

“I’m seeing colors I didn’t even know existed.”
And with that comment – I knew I would have to let Cathy go down the mountain. There I was – all 195 pounds – a tub of lard – writhering in the middle of the fucking trail. My right calf had seized up and it put me down – somewhere around the 1 1⁄2 mile point down from the summit. And I wasn’t going anywhere – in a hurry. I scooted over, trying to get out of the way of those behind me.
“Are you okay?” Cathy shoved a couple of electrolyte tabs my way.
“They tried to keep me up there. And this?” Pause. “It’s just a fucking cramp. Go on!” And in an afterthought, “Thanks. Weird colors. Now go on. Finish this thing.” And she did with all the best wishes I could muster.

I managed to stand… but wasn’t moving very quickly. The view was spectacular – but I didn’t know if I could believe it. My eyes seemed to be making shit up. Emily wished me well as she scooted by. I watched her – with Cathy – zoom down the switchback. That looks like fun.

So… that’s it… I am the final Rogue. I let that sink in as I double checked the head count. At that point, I knew we’d get everybody down – and managed a smile while looking back toward the summit. All I had to do was clear the trail. Why I enjoy that job, I will never understand. I looked around the bowl. It was gorgeous – but I knew the time was getting short. I did what math I could and tried to get the legs turning. Inventory of the fanny pack was pretty slim. I had spilled my electrolyte tabs on the trail up. Fuck. And then things got weird.

How can you see into my eyes like open doors
leading you down into my core
where I’ve become so numb without a soul my spirit sleeping somewhere cold
until you find it there and lead it back home

Another fall. And it all changed. It was like the body remembered – remembered where we had lost Gary last year – and I had not paid my respects. Then on hands and knees I knew I was near the spot. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. Briefly I felt the cold of the ice rivers we battled on the trail only a year ago. I saw them again - the super-heros - leaping straight down the mountain – fearing nothing. I saw and heard the helo. But there was really nothing there – just the warmth of reflected sun. I got up. I looked back at the summit. The insignificance of self – the criticality of every soul.

Here is where I disagree with our friend, Paul Ivory. I think the mountain does give a shit – and it gets very emotional about it. That’s why it sends out the invitations. And we each opened ours – and confirmed our reservations. We are it. We are the mountain. Our kinetic energy is left behind. We pound that energy, that strength, that emotion into the earth with every stride. But that is not the end of the equation. Kinetic becomes potential. And a part of us is left behind. Full circle. The potential becomes kinetic. You just have to be receptive. A thousand others have been before you. A thousand more will follow. And with every step the cycle is renewed – it is refreshed. We draw from our ancestors and provide for our children. So much for philosophy. I still needed to get down. Was that the lesson? No… it still got weird.

I turned from the summit and saw Afghanistan. Its mountains, its passes. The bowl might as well have been in South Asia. I was. The red dirt still dusted my scraped up palms. I heard Khan.

“Are you finished? How can you be?” And the old guilt returned. Why wasn’t I over there? My eyes welled. Colleagues overseas. More faces. More stories. More memories. The struggle – so basic, so instinctive. From Kazaks to the 1st Cavalry… what is right? What is wrong? The criticality of every soul. My answer. It became a mantra, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” I don’t remember from there to well past A-frame. It was too core. Too basic. Too instinctive. Maybe one day. Maybe one day I will unlayer the mask – and go beyond the fear – and learn the lessons – and finally be done with that – only to face whatever is next in line.

Barr Camp brought me back. I thanked Theresa. “Austin will be back. I am the last one down.” She smiled and waved. Barr Camp brought me back.

I found the energy that Rogue had left behind. I found the energy that you had left behind. Potential became kinetic. The equation works. I could feel my legs begin to turn. And the rest was just a run – the way that runs are supposed to be. I saw faces. Rogue faces. …and the legs began to turn.

Once again the W’s returned me to this world. To the present. I touched the pavement – and there was “T” – okay – at the time, “LT”. We promoted her to a single letter. You should have gotten the memo. And then, Julia. And “M”. They were brining me home. I will never forget that. The insignificance of self – and the true wonder of every soul. I could not believe it – it was flying with a fighter escort – but a lot better looking. And then there was the mass gaggle of you. The signs. The smiles. The outstretched arms. The laughter. I think that was / is home. Done.