Pikes Peak and I were destined to meet. It was inevitable. Inevitable since that cold January day of the RunTex 30K. I had once again selected the standard "greater then 12 miles" race plan and executed it flawlessly. That plan consists of parking myself behind the most shapely of females available in my pace group. Think of it as something akin to drafting in auto racing. Yes, its crude - but whatever gets you through the next mile. Well, of course, the mark caught on in 30 seconds and we soon enjoyed playing tag team for the remainder of 1626, through the turn onto 2770, and on into Shelton Stadium at Hays High. We were met at the finish by my then Hays HS senior daughter - who wrapped a medal around me, gave me a Gatorade, and then sweetly announced at a 150 decibels how "your other four children must certainly be so proud, daddy! I am..." And with that, blondie faded fast from sight. Thank God for military training, however. I had collected enough information during the run to track down her attractive ass - and soon we picked up where we had left off - a competitive tug of war that meandered through Freescale and wound up with me signed up for a marathon in the mountains... and with the relationship vastly under satisfied. Men are such idiots. We never learn.

But even an idiot needs training. I firmly believe that there are no coincidences... and by the luck of a Google search - or perhaps the hand of God - I landed at Rogue. The universe had once again found a delightful, unexpected way to provide me with what I needed - just when I needed it. For background purposes, I had gotten back to Texas from overseas just three weeks before that Buda run. I was living with my brother, trying to figure out the whole "shared custody" thing, and was failing to settle back into life in a semiconductor factory. Running had traditionally been my recreation. It had quickly become my escape. The Freescale Marathon, however, left a bitter taste in my mouth. The old magic wasn't there. My marathon PR is 3:51, but that seemed so distant. I was broken by mile 18 and had the worse race ever. Psyching and gearing up for something new, something so foreign and so distant on the calendar had the makings of an ugly struggle.

I was clueless about Pikes Peak. I don't even remember registering - but I do remember people doubting. "You're gonna run Pikes Peak? Yeah... right..." I got nervous - not about doing it - I would finish - if for no more of a reason then to just shove it back in the face of the doubters. Ever since I was a kid if somebody told me, "you can't" - I took it as a personal challenge to show that "I could." I was nervous, however, about what would be the cost (physically, mentally, emotionally) after such an undertaking. So after some emails, I found myself at Steve Sisson's introductory meeting. He was a cocky kid, but had a presence of truth. He was young in years, but old in experience. He laid things out straight. He wasn't there to mother or cheerlead, he was there to guide. His athletes would have to do the work - that was clear. His athletes would get out what they put in. He said it would be painful, yet extremely rewarding. The kid seemed unconventional. The kid seemed brash. The kid definitely had heart. I signed up. To train a smartass, it takes a smartass. 'nuf said.

All of this was going through my mind as the gentleman with the window seat (12A) on American flight 1058 out of D/FW pointed out the Rockies below. We were minutes from touchdown in Colorado Springs and I was humored by all that had brought me to that point in time and place. He was from Florida - another flatlander on his virgin marathon. As the pilot hit his marks on glide slope, we grew quiet and Pikes Peak grew in brawn and stature. She claimed her majesty as our wheels touched down and the knot in my stomach made a once pleasant flight end in discomfort. I was on a new trail - a difficult trail - an ancient trail. I wondered what she had in mind for us - this mountain. What lessons did she have in store? She had called each of us and it was time for another class session to begin - another chapter of real life.

Training had been a bitch. Sisson wasn't kidding. He ragged our collective asses - and ragged them thoroughly. At first, I felt like I had made the big leagues, but somehow had skipped all of the minor ones - the building years - the formation time. I seemed to lack the tricks - the jargon - the skillset of my colleagues. Everything was new. I hadn't done trails. Wasn't that for hippies? Losers? Trail running certainly isn't the road - but then, I wasn't that good on the road anyway. How would I survive on the trail? How would I survive Rogue? How would I survive on the mountain? A step at a time. One step at a time. A roll here, a roll there. A banged up knee. Bruised heel tissue. Another knee, another scrape. Another missed turn. The Hill of Life. The Hill of Death. Creek bottom. Ken's Trail, Powerline, Dan's Trail. Are we done yet? Bandera. Bastrop. The Inferno. The Loop. The Maze. The Belt. The treadmill. Barton Hills. St. Edwards. Whew. It took months, but I became a believer. Maybe an idiot could get trained. A step at a time. One step after another - it was the way. It was the only way. I would bitch and moan - but only to Prusaitis and Sisson - in emails that resembled the scribblings of a philosophy dropout. Joe played the role of Yoda - talking in jibberish at times, but always making sense as glimmers of light would shine though. Steve played Obie Wan - patiently waiting for Luke to experience the failures, so that the fog could begin to slowly lift.

I was quiet on the ride to the Red Wing. We (David and Nancy - and family - let me bum a ride) headed down Hwy 24 and on into Manitou. She did not seem to welcome us - this entity, this mountain. She wasn't rude, I don't mean that. She was just detached - there - above us. I thought it odd - but, then, I was the newbie. She had called me, but did not know me. Or perhaps she knew me - and was merely waiting for me to get to know myself. Afterall, this was her turf - her land. Would I be an intruder? Would I be a friend? She was waiting for me to decide. We all had to make that decision - my band of brothers and I. You see, my Rogue training teammates were just that - whether men or women it did not matter - they were... they are (and always will be) my band of brothers.

Gazing up at the mountain from the simplicity of Memorial Park, it struck me. We had been through something. Even before the mountain - we had already passed through. The brothers and I - the warriors. I reflected. Twelve years in the Austin area and I was seeing it fresh. 360 at Mopac was no longer an intersection, but rather, bridges - structures meant to be seen from below. Entities - entities housing the reminders of civilization - a civilization I was in, but not of. At least, not while on the trail. They served. They served us as reminders - reminders of where we were - not up there, but down below. Reminders of who we were - of who we had become. They were checkpoints, notches. Four miles, five miles. A creek crossing. The chain bridge ahead. Its different from below. Its better, below. More basic, more tribal. Back to Memorial Park. At packet pick-up I wore a Hawaiian shirt. Lauren, Leslie and Monica said I looked like a tourist. Oh... wait... I was a tourist! Might as well play the role. Might as well buy the T-shirt. I bought three... and a cap.

I didn't sleep that first night - that Friday night. I never do in a new place. Everything is just that - too new. New noises. New sheets - well - at least newly washed. New roommates. We were all trying to be so damned polite. Vic and Jon and I. We moved in - set up shop. Hit Safeway. Duane was in the room next door. Marty above. Steve and Ruth across the parking lot. Rogue HQ was firmly established.

Saturday was a beautiful morning. The band met at the Pikes Peak Inn. It was a reunion. It had only been a week. But I was in withdrawal. Smile for the pictures - no - not for the pictures. For each other. I love the band. America the Beautiful. The gun. Our Ascenters were underway. So what to do? Eat. Hydrate! Pancakes, eggs and bacon. Hydrate! The hike to Uncle Sam's was brisk. It's décor - a treat. The runners and the bikers. Food was our common ground. The coffee was good. The company, better. The urine stayed clear. We bantered about. Laughter. Our teammates were underway. Their class had started. The mountain had called them to the first event. It looked even bigger - that mountain. It had called us to the second event. Our class was still 22 hours away. I should have gotten a carved bear.

"$30 to drive up a stupid road? And we don't even get to park at the top?" The mountain's earthly stewards were into profit. But we had to see the top. And we had to hydrate. Kent drove. Ryley and I played. Carrie tried to act casual. "Why are you hugging the edge?" In jets we called that directive comm. Our excuse for the journey was to cheer and congratulate our colleagues. The truth was, we had to see it - the top - the truth was that we all wanted to check out the real estate - and to do it before it really mattered. Little did we know - it always mattered. At least, it matters to the mountain. It would matter to us.

We started to second guess. It snowed. It sleeted. We parked. We hydrated. We pottied. This was the Devil's Playground - a hunk of dirt designated to be the parking garage. From there, vans made shuttle runs to the top. We waited. We rode. We rode in their van - a pretty white van. We rode the last van. They closed the roads. We rode the last van to the top. Yep. They closed the road. "Maybe this wasn't such a great idea."

We got to check out the real estate - but on the mountain's terms. The mountain. It was restless. She wanted us to stay awhile. I smiled. This was Greek mythology and Zeus on Olympus. Watching lighting from above. This was where those stories came from - the mountain top. Our colleagues faced the sleet and the snow - once again, the lightening. I frowned. We had it easy. We could run in the hut when it got hairy. They, the band, just had to keep running. We hydrated. We pottied. We waited. We had wanted to check out the real estate - but not be stuck in the thin air. And it was thin - and we were stuck. I felt on the edge. Breathing was more conscious. The Super Moms came out - Cathy and Carrie - doing what Super Moms do. The weather cleared - kinda. But the vans weren't moving. The Yard Gnome made the call. "Who's with me?" We started hiking down. Paul and Lauren had just finished the run. They had to be wiped. It felt good to be doing something. Friendly drivers picked us up - once the roads opened. I sat in ice/snow. Back in the car. Carrie drove. "Hot brakes fail - use the engine to slow the car down." Potty break. Sisson and I wizzing outside. Kent on the inside. It was clear - the urine - not the weather. Sisson had beer in his truck. It was now in the car.

Back at the Red Wing. The marathon pre-race meeting. We were late, but we had been with the coach - on the mountain. My shoes were wet and my ass had to thaw. The band had gathered. I was starving. Ruth zapped some popcorn. Sisson ran the numbers. Hydro was the key. Check your time. If you were fast, slow it down. If you were slow, slow it down. Don't redline. Fifteen minutes - you're toast. Walk. Familiar names for unknown places danced inside my head - the Ws, the archway, Barr Camp, A-frame, the last three miles, and the Golden Stairs. One class was done. Another one was on the way. Were we really doing this? Was I really going to do this? Each of us did our thing - handled the nerves differently. Some showed it, others didn't. We all felt it. And it was all over. All over except for the doing. I dreaded the excitement - or was I excited about the dread?

Packing. Jon and I spend the evening packing - for the race. Vic hung out. He was so laid back. I wasn't. Jon knew what was coming. He was so laid back. I was clueless. Everything seemed disjointed. Where were my Texas shorts? My USCENTCOM hat? Everything had been planned. Everything meant something. Sleeveless tomorrow? It had been cold on the top. "Safety pins - safety pins, I gotta pin up." I stuck to my plan - Camelback, Hardrock pair #2, the golden Rogue lion, glove liners, a wrapped jacket, seven GUs, a baggie filled with Electrolyte Stamina and ibupropyn. Rosary beads for the wanna be Catholic. My tiger and phoenix for the wanna be Buddhist. The UT flag - folded and hung from my pack. A garbage bag. I filled the Camelback - one half water / one half Gatorade. I tied off my USA bandanna. That was that. One last look at the mountain. She looked content. She had certainly gotten our attention. Good night, mountain. Good night, moon. Bac inside. I packed my sweat check. The yellow sandals. Endurox. My RunTex 30K shirt (how fitting). My UT cap. Now that was really that. When had I last hydrated? Where was the PowerGlide?

We didn't need the alarm. I woke up at 3:30 and never went back. We stopped being polite. It was race day. Jon and I both flicked on the lights. Sorry, Vic. It was race day. Breakfast. A powerbar, a banana, 16 oz of water. A cup of Jon's cereal. Applesauce. We dressed.

Sunday was a repeat of Saturday. The air was clear. The morning fresh. Vic drove us down and dropped us at packet pickup. The mountain looked ready. We went straight to sweat check and left the bags. The start area was already alive with energy. We headed for the Pikes Peak Inn. The band had started to gather. Good morning, Bob... good morning, Cathy. Hi kids. Nice room. Can I urinate? It was clear. We gathered. More smiles. More pictures. It was like the White House Press Corps. Click. Snap. Flash. The sun came up. Adrenalin. Who noticed the morning chill? It was magic. Jill was in pajamas and carried around a bear. There was magic. I saw it in their faces. I saw it in your faces. Fifteen minutes left. I had dumped twice before at the Red Wing. Can I Cathy? Thanks. "No, Marty, Dan's in there - he's doing number two!" But it was really number three. I hate to be hurried, but Marty was waiting. Twelve minutes to start.

I found the mid to tail of the pack. It was crowded, but I saw just about everyone. I muttered a prayer. A prayer for all of us. The prayer of Naval Aviators - "God, don't let me (us) fuck this up." Duane, Kent, Marty, Abe, Steve. All of 'em - up by the fast guys. Ivi. Leslie, Monica, Maria, Jeri. Whitney. Reenie. I saw most of my brothers, but not all. America the Beautiful. This thing was going to happen. Everything collided into a single moment - this moment. The gun. The go. I wanted to run, but didn't. I walked. My brothers walked. Cathy, Leah, and Carrie. Lorrie. We walked. Let the lemmings be lemmings. Downtown Manitou Springs. The mountain. This was our day. It was time to seize it.

We hit Hydro on time - on the mark. I heard a "4:30 ascent" - and all that followed sounded filtered. I had turned inward. The numbers I had pretended to memorize, I hadn't. This was going to be a long day. This was going to be a good day. I wanted to panic. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to do the math. I avoided all of them. The rhythm. I wanted to find the rhythm most of all. I found it. What had dawned at Bandera started to kick in.

The Ws. The relentless rise of the mountain had begun on Ruxton. It got serious at the Ws. Our band was still somewhat together - interspersed amongst the Razorbacks. Su-u-u-ey. Now I was a lemming. I looked for the rhythm. I watched the clock - not for pace - but to keep to my maintenance schedule. Thirty minutes in I always tab electrolytes. And then continue it every hour. On the opposite halfhour, I carb it - alternating between GU and Carboom. With the Camelback, I didn't worry about hydration - I just made sure that I did it. "Rogue, hydrate!" I heard responses. Was it Cathy or Lorrie? Two cups of water at the aid stations. At every switchback ("what number are we on, Dano?"), I'd try to glance up. We were rising fast. It was beautiful. "I dunno, Lorrie... I dunno." I learned how to pass. How to judge the distance. Not that I did it a lot - but most would yield the trail. The archway. It flattened out. "I feel that!" It felt good to run a bit. ...and I mean a bit.

I must have found that rhythm and settled into it. I remember little before Barr Camp. Or even to A-frame. The place was beautiful. Of that I was certain. The tiny meadow. The little creek. The forest. So much demanding my attention. But there was another task at hand. The mountain. The relentless, never ending ramp. But it was beautiful - and the mountain was working with me - not against me. My intake seemed to be working. My energy felt good. I nature stopped a couple of times before leaving treeline. It was clear. Lorrie would catch up. "I thought you were way ahead." I came back with a clever, "I had to stop." And that was that. Back to the rhythm. Back in-sync. I ran when I could - but never for long. Just enough to stretch. Just enough to feel the altitude kick in. This was a good day. God's glory was everywhere. In the trees, in the shade, in the sun, in the dirt - but mostly in his childrens' faces. I saw it. Sometimes it showed as smiles; sometimes it showed as tears. But it was always there. His/Her children pushing themselves in His/Her backyard.

Hmmm. The altitude. And it did kick in. A-frame seemed too far away. How much longer would we be in the damn trees? And then it started - or maybe it had been sneaking up on me. I would take a sip - or nibble a pretzel - and my head would swim. What the heck? Am I getting sick? My balance was jeopardized. The woosy feeling lasted for thirty seconds - more like forever - ok, thirty seconds. And then it would settle. This was not good. I had to eat. I had to drink. I sure didn't want to. The primitive impulses were taking over. They demanded of me to conserve energy - even sucking in water was deemed non-essential. But I knew better. Water, carbs... they were even more essential. The head games had begun. It was so draining. My intake schedule was impacted. I couldn't remember what was on the hour... and what was on the half-hour. A-frame had to be close. I put my gloves on for the rock and exposed summit. The trees were thinning. Was this the mountain helping or harming? Was she friend of foe? It wasn't her... it was me. My reaction. Thin air is just one of the rules. Rules are neutral. They are not good or bad. They just are. I wanted to freak. I wanted a jacket.

The leaders had started back. They looked magnificent. And Sisson was there. His orange lion visible through the trees. His inward concentration from the start had dissipated. He was heading home and doing well. I knew he was excited. I knew he was feeling good. We shouted at each other. His knee was bright red. That one hurt. I was sympathetic and kindly reminded him, "to get his ass down the mountain." It was encouraging to see the boss. My band of brothers were scattered on the mountain. Most were ahead. A few behind. My spirit lightened. "Welcome to A-Frame!"

I never looked up at her - not once I got out on that rock. She was too majestic. She was too tough. Too in control. I didn't want to see the line. I knew it was there. I knew I had a long, hard time ahead. I didn't want, I didn't need, the visual reminder. The goofiness continued. I knew it was altitude, but my screwed up schedule was taking its toll. Time got all jumbled up. I hydrated when I remembered - and was rewarded with greater bouts of dizziness. I had to go exterior. I had run up to this point very introverted. That had to change. Concentrating on the erosion of my condition was not making it any better. I knew my body was ready. It can do anything when directed. It was the mind that had to be conquered.

The rhythm did change. More downhill runners by this time. And the weather was getting soupy. The occasional thunder clap caught my attention. I was now in the open. I was now exposed. Yes, more downhill runners. The dance was different. Queuing was an art, not a science. Some people were polite - but some people used it as an excuse. They would rest - stop - all in the name of the down hill runner. I did not want to stop. I couldn't stop. I needed, we needed, oxygen. The only way to get it was to drive up, then drive down. It was a different dance. Or was it? It had to be. I started bitching. If folks let one space slip by - I ragged them. Those moments became to precious. If we could get one lemming up - we had to. It was the only way. It was the only way to get us all up and down again. Couldn't they see that? The downhill guys sympathized. I knew I was right. I had been booming "Runner up" several times, but it took my lethargic head a few times to catch its significance. It wasn't just a courtesy - it was a physiological miracle. I knew how to get more air. By shouting, it forced all the air out of my lungs - so - they would suck a larger amount back in. And in the larger volume - there was bound to be additional oxygen. I began to feel a bit better. Not good, but not bad. "Runner, up!" I would shout - the lemmings would pull over. I would feel better. Familiar faces bounded down. Kent, Duane ("Dano!" echoing across the peak), Marty, Abe, Jon. They seemed so strong. Were they really that far ahead? I stopped my brain from doing the calculations. It didn't matter. They looked good. ... and I was feeling good.

The weather continued. Switchbacks seem to form natural little creek beds. The trail was a river of ice, slush, and cold water. "Be careful up there." That was the mantra of the downhill guys. The wind picked up. Light sleet dusted us. Just when I thought I had figured out the thin air, the exhaustion, the mountain gave us cold. Nothing like on Saturday, but it didn't matter. Cold is cold. My water resistant jacket was fine. My core was fine. The extremities were challenged. My feet felt like lead. They had swollen. The glove liners kept fingers warm - but they were wet and useless. I must have looked like the Hunchback - my camelback beneath my jacket. Quasimodo on the mountain. Push. "Runner, up!"

"Runner, down! Runner down! Help. They are down!" The adrenalin kicked. I broke my own rule. I looked up. There was commotion. It took thirty seconds to cover the ground. He looked in his fifties. He looked in bad shape. Pale. Eyes rolled up. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. Not here. Not in this place. Two women were already trying to attend to the runner. A space blanket appeared out of nowhere. A runner had a cell. 9-1-1. "We're a mile and a half from summit. Runner down. Help. Looks like a heart attack." I helped move him off the trail. There was no place but rock. We carved out a niche. Runners kept coming up. This was happening. "God, you're letting it fuck up!" Not here. But it did. "We gotta start CPR!" I tried to feel for a pulse, but my fingers weren't working. I couldn't get my gloves off. A man was dying and I couldn't get my gloves off. Even using teeth. I listened to his chest as another tried forcing a breath into depleted lungs. I heard nothing. A few seconds later, Gary (we would find out the name later) coughed a little. Were we helping, or hurting? One gave him breath, the other a heart beat. I was slapping the shit out of his legs and arms - trying to get some reaction. There was none. None to none. "Hang on, mister... hang on..."

I knew the SAR was on the way. In my heart I felt them. In my head I saw them. Brave children bounding down a mountain side. Not by switchback - but straight down. Risking all for what would be a futile try. And yet - they had to try. These guardians of life fill a special role, a special place. Human beings are amazing. Too bad it takes a mountain for us to remember that. A doctor, a downhiller, stopped. There are no coincidences. Soon after, a cardiologist. They kicked it into high gear. Our feeble attempts looked pathetic as these heros did their thing. We had been gentle. They tore into it. Our job was done. I pushed the first team onto the trail. They both had tears. Our job was done. "You've done everything you could. Get your ass up that mountain... it's the only way that you get to come down." I stayed a few more minutes - trying to keep runners from stopping. They had to keep going. The heros were doing their thing. There was nothing left for the rest of us to do - except to complete what we had started - back to the mountain. Gary would have wanted that. I felt his spirit. It was there. Physically, he wasn't. But we are all still connected. I saw Monica. Her eyes said what I was feeling. I tried to shield her and gently push her past. She pushed on. I wanted to take a time out. This hadn't happened. My own words came around. Another pushed me onto the trail. It was my time.

I desperately wanted to go interior, but fought it. I stayed in touch with the environment. The cold was cold, but refreshing. The wonder of life rose from somewhere. I looked around. I was on Pikes Peak. The universe gives you what you need, when you need it. I saw Paul and Cindy. Soon Carrie and Whitney. My spirits soared. A mile to go and I could turn around. You all inspired me. The rhythm came back. "Runner, up!" It got to be fun. Dodging the people, the rocks, the deeper parts of tiny ice rivers. It was a dance. Even with all of the commotion. The helo. All of it. Maria - the other half of the Hays County Rogue runners. Jeri. Monica. Alan. Reenie. "Where are the finger sandwiches?" This was just another day on the trail. Just another day.

"Welcome to the Golden Stairs!" A sense of dread filled me. I didn't need that. But it wasn't bad. The books had made it sound so heavy, so burdensome. Sure, I was exhausted, cold, wet, confused... but I was so close. The summit. The turn around. And there was James. I shouted to him, "I gotta story for you." Click, click. His camera whirred. His smile, so warm. A friendly face. I was in the chute. They tore my tag! The marker slashed. I heard a voice. It was sleeting. "What do you want to do?" Go down the mountain. I don't know if I thought it, or said it. Hands turned me. I was heading down.

I didn't believe all of the stories. "Once you make that turn. You feel better." How could a matter of direction make that big of a difference? It did. I had fresh legs. I took on water and pretzels and grapes. I immediately felt the impact. "Every step down is one closer to oxygen." Instinct took over. I wanted to be warm, I wanted to breathe. I started running. Thank you, Steve for creekbed. Thank you, Reenie for sticking with me when we got lost on the creekbed. It was perfect. I was tired of sticking my feet in icy rivers. Where it was clear - I began to do a little boldering. I did a couple of butt slides on the more extreme rocks. But I was running. The rhythm from the HOL kicked in. Playing dodgeball with rocks... risking the rolls, the falls. It was a strategic error, but a tactical victory. I ran from turnaround to A-Frame. It was my best effort since beginning Rogue. I was eladed. I got warm. I stripped off the jacket. I stripped off the gloves. I could breathe.

But everything has a cost. I burned out the reserve energy. It was conscious decision - going against Steve and Abe. Their voices, "don't run before treeline" echoed in my head. Fuck'em. I was cold, I was tired of thin air. But everything has a cost. The mountain doesn't demand it. It's just a rule. It's part of the race. I was sick of Gatorade, I was sick of tabs. I needed a GU, but had used my extra after stopping on the rock. It didn't matter - I could not have swallowed that crap anyway. Mind games again. I kicked a rock (got the toes caught on an embedded one). "That's gonna cost a toenail." My feet were still swollen. My shoes, now too small. My toes, bleeding and getting crushed. Every step downward was a reminder. They hurt like hell. I dry swallowed some ibupropyn.

A-Frame to Barr camp was ok. But I was sick of everything. At aid stations I would go with just water. I had them refill my camelback (for the second time) but only about 3/4 full. I managed a grape and some pretzels. My legs were losing it. I felt like I was swaying as I slowed for the snacks. Was I running? Was I walking? Was I standing still? I couldn't tell the difference. I needed more air. Get below 10,000. They pressurize jets at 10,000. Altitude was still playing its games. Or, rather, I was still playing my games. Altitude was rule. Just something to live with. It was my reaction that dictated the day.

Leslie passed me at Barr Camp. She must have used the indoor facilities. I should have. The GI became a problem. I debated. I had papers - so I could stop in the woods. I feared I would never be able to start back up if I stopped. I held it. I'm sure that cost me. I was hydrating, but not as much. I wanted to pee... but didn't have the fluid ounces. I had stopped a couple of times on the way up, now I wanted to just let it flow as I ran on the way down. "I could be a real trail runner then." It's weird where your mind goes. I wanted to piss in my shorts. How wacked was I? I didn't - golden flow that is.

It got lonely. 800 on the mountain and I could see no one ahead, no one behind. Lorrie came out of no where. She looked strong. She was having fun on the descent. I wasn't having fun. I had burned out the energy. It got lonelier. I was slowing down. I should have been speeding up. And then it hit me. Why I was there. Running had been my escape. And now it wasn't. I got mad. Death had touched me. Death had touched us all. That wasn't supposed to happen. Not there. Not on such a day. Not in such a beautiful place. And I saw their faces. I was alone on the trail. I saw their faces. During the two years I was with Central Command, I had been part of the planning team. The folks that have to think the impossible. The folks that have to assume the worse so that others can be ready for it. It takes its toll. It did me. But I saw their faces - the faces of young kids that middle aged ones have to send to far away places - all to keep the worse things from happening. All because when those same middle aged faces wore younger ones - they failed to get the job done. They failed to stop the hideous side from sneaking back out. Yes, I saw their faces - their lovely faces there on the trail. I had held them too tight. I had not let them go. The faces - the ones that never got to come home. The ones that should have been playing basketball... the ones that should have been experimenting with life and love in the back seats of their automobiles... the ones that should have been doing anything but what we had asked them to do. But they did it - for whatever - for God, for country, for Mom and Dad. I do not know where we get such young people. But thank God we have them. Fuck the politics. That's wasn't there bag. They did what we asked. We were the sinners. They were the warriors. Surely they get to go to heaven...

But it wasn't supposed to happen - not on the mountain, not in my escape. But it did. I had to let Gary go. I had to let those youngsters go. It was why the mountain had called me. It was why I was in Rogue. It was why I was breaking down on a beautiful day in Colorado on the side of a mountain. I had to let them all go. Death is life. Life is death. They are in a beautiful dance together. I laughed, I cried. No, I wept. I was learning to say good-bye. I had to get off the mountain.

Back to the W's. I was close to home. One after another. People were passing me. I was inside of cut-off. I would get a jacket. How far is 2.9, 1.9 miles? That was cruel. The rest of the world tells you "Four miles to go." Not here. Not there. And your brain is too far gone to know the distance - to do the math. I was going down hill. My feet were killing me. The rest was in decent shape. I wanted off the mountain. The switchbacks slowly became history and not obstacles. As overused as it is, "Chariots of Fire" got to me. I heard those notes and lost it once again. I must have looked pathetic. I thanked the gentlemen for such a gift. I am such a lemming. The houses got bigger. Someone had added water - Manitou Springs was growing. It got bigger. I heard voices. I heard the sounds of civilization. The mountain was transitioning me. She was prepping me back to enter the other world.

The road felt hard. But good. No more rocks to dodge. Some hikers, some bikers. I couldn't believe it. There were even some locals still hanging out. After nine hours. They were still hanging out. I was going to make it. "Just don't fall" kept going through my mind. My legs found energy. They started to pick up speed.

And then I saw my brothers. Someday maybe I will be fast so I can repay the kindness. But there you were. I was the last central Texas man off the mountain. And there you all were. My family. I couldn't believe it when you flooded onto the street. So many hands. So many smiles. Thank you. Thank you. So much encouragement. That was the real finish line. I rounded the corner and there was the chute. I heard my name. My hands went up. I crossed over. They took my tag. They gave me a medal - and on into medical. I got a jacket. My yellow sandals never felt so good. Endurox never tasted so bad.

The mountain called us. The mountain taught us all. I could not have done this without my Rogue teammates. Gary's death taught me about life. His spirit will always be on that mountain. His spirit will always be with me. Each of you have touched me in ways that I cannot describe. Each of you will probably never know how much you mean to me. You have each taught me about the trail, by having the courage to share your personal journeys with me, you have taught me about life. It has been an honor sharing such moments with you.

I plan on making the pilgrimage again next year.