Mount Antero

I am too hard on my body. I don’t mean in the sense of pushing myself too hard physically, though one might argue that I am guilty of that as well. In this instance, I mean the relentless judgement I apply to the flesh doing the work of carrying me around every day.

I had this realization as it dragged me up the side of Mount Antero at a pace I deemed too slow.

When I run ten miles, my pace should have been a minute faster or I should not have taken a breather. When I complete a barre class, I didn’t hold a plank long enough or squat low enough. When I summit a mountain, I did it too sluggishly. When I lose 10 pounds, it should have been 10 more or 20 more. When I grow, birth, and feed two beautiful children, I didn’t rebound and snap back well enough. I could go on in the pathological and cyclical pattern of the thoughts.

As ludicrous as I know the thoughts are, they persist. I had them even as I had the realization that I judge myself far too harshly as my body hoisted me up a 14,000 foot mountain. I cannot roll my eyes hard enough at myself, in that my moment or now reflecting back on it.

But to the hike…

We have not hiked a 14er since the ill-fated (for me) Decalibron Loop in 2018. We managed Cheyenne Mountain last summer, but that is only a 13er so does not exactly count. So this was my first 14er since hip surgery and altitude sickness. We had stayed out of the mountains for most of the pandemic summer but wanted to sneak one in before the season ended (or the world imploded with the way 2020 is going).

We left home when it was still night by my definition to arrive at the trailhead before daybreak. We knew from trail research that we could opt to drive nearly to the summit; however, we did not want to make quite that easy on ourselves. Nor, did we want to start from the base eight miles down. We bounced my vehicle up the rocky trail until it met the stream, leaving us a couple miles before treeline.

Since the trail was “driveable,” it was wide and relatively groomed with sections of small, ankle-testing rocks. Initially, the path just eased straight up the side of the mountain, peppered on the side with campsites.

Once we crested treeline, other peaks emerged in the distance. We had driven through my typically favorite part of the 14er journey in the dark, the meadow in the middle. However, as the Antero trail began to climb the bare hillside, it did offer gorgeous views of peaks bleeding orange with rust. Clouds played in the sky, keeping the temperature low.

The trail, like a mountain road, wound up in long and lazy switchbacks, which are much more boring to hike. The grade was gentle enough. With the cloud cover, I kept thinking to myself how easy the hike felt, which I knew is usually a trap. Like thinking a run could be easy.

When the trail crested the ridge, it opened up the view to all the peaks on the other side of Mount Antero. The trail cut back against the mountain, bringing us along the opposite face. The sun finally decided to make an unwelcome appearance as the clouds below frothed and steamed as if coming off a cauldron.

At this point, we could see what could be mistaken as the top and would ultimately be revealed as the upper parking lot. The switchbacks shortened across the white stones.

Our pace finally slowed. The hike finally did not seem so easy. Altitude and grade began to wear on us. I fell farther and farther behind my companions. Initially, I felt drained, “out of gas.” I kept stopping to eat to perk myself up. It would work at first then burn off quickly. I assumed it was just being out of hiking shape since I had not put boots on a mountain trail since Cheyenne Mountain a year ago.

We pressed, slowly, through the upper parking lot. Past the point of vehicles, the trail went from practically being a mountain road to barely being a trail. Multiple path options spidered through unstable rocks and patches of scree. The first section balanced on a ridge, leaving us largely exposed on both sides. This tightrope walk bridged the parking lot to the final ascent to the summit.

I had felt drained if not weak when we approached and passed the parking lot. As we moved into the actual climbing past the gate, I started to feel decidedly shaky. Whenever my heart rate rose, whenever I had to truly engage my quads to hoist myself up, my head seemed to swim. It felt very reminiscent of when the hike over Mount Cameron went so terrible, and paranoia swelled over me. I fell farther and farther behind, cursing myself.

The trail wrapped around the final peak then turned up to the summit. As I was hiking up, I questioned my sanity; I questioned my ability. I did not think I could make it, and I did not think I could do it ever again. I thought something was truly wrong. Yet when I finally caught up with my companions at the summit, I could not believe that was it. It was a strange contradiction.

At the top, I felt fine. We sat down as clouds enveloped the mountain. All edges around us dropped off into nothing but swirling gray. We quickly enjoyed our brunch and our summit beers before turning back down the trail to beat the impending storms in the forecast.

I had been fantasizing about the descent during the entire ascent, and descending is always my favorite part of hiking; however, I was still not right. I felt wonky, unstable. Whereas I usually prance ahead of my party like a mountain goat across the boulders, I continue to struggle slowly through each step.

I told my husband that my legs were not doing what I told them to do, that they felt shaky. He said he thought I was not trusting myself. That seemed like a reasonable explanation, especially after my swell of altitude sickness paranoia, so I attempted to fall into my usual downhill cadence. I promptly fell.

By some stroke of sheer luck, I landed perfectly in a pocket between many jagged rocks. My hips, my shoulders, and my head all touched down between sharp, hard, and unforgiving edges. After I fell, my hands were numb for probably another thousand feet of descent. I felt better and better as we descended but still just off. When I spoke, it felt like the words came out slow and lethargic, half a sentence behind where my mind was. My hands did not execute tasks well; when my husband needed his hat, I struggled with the zipper of his backpack. I remained wobbly and unsteady.

I believe the altitude affected me again, and I think it happened around 13,500 feet. I believe if we had been attempting multiple summits, as we had on the Decalibron Loop, it would have unfolded the same way. After I got home, I felt normal-ish as long as I did not move. If I walked again, I again had that swimming head and unstable feeling. I did not recover fully until sleeping overnight.

Unfortunately, this may mean that I can no longer summit 14ers. I did fine with the 13,000 feet of Cheyenne Mountain and for the first 13,000 feet of Antero, but I could definitely feel the difference. It was like hitting a wall on the trail. And it is definitely not worth pushing through to risk another experience like Decalibron or to feel so shitty for the second half of the experience and rest of the day. It disappoints me to consider giving up the ambition or cutting off the consummation of the goal and watching the rest of the crew attain it as I wait, but it really feels like my body is saying no.

This hike was a test. My first 14er after hip surgery and altitude sickness. The hip passed. My blood oxygenation did not seem to.

That has to be acceptable. What my body can do, all it does for me has to be acceptable. Maybe I can find a way to summit another 14er; maybe I can’t. That has to be OK. The thousands of feet up to 13,000 are still beautiful, even if I don’t get to see 14,000. Just because the final ascent makes me sick doesn’t mean I shouldn’t hike at all.

Never being satisfied with myself physically has nothing to do with the performance or appearance of my body, but it does prevent me from appreciating and experiencing these things fully. I have gotten to a place of forgiving and accepting myself mentally yet have not been able to translate that to the physical, so I waste chunks of my life on imaginary shit that does not matter, especially in times like these when everything matters more.

So the hike was good, even if it is the last time I look down from the summit above 14,000.

 

Christina Bergling

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Cheyenne Mountain

My last substantial hike was Barr Trail last October. Before that, it was when I got altitude sickness between Mt Cameron and Mt Lincoln on the Decalibron loop. So realistically, it has been almost a year and a hip surgery since I last really hiked. Over the weekend, I finally returned to a challenging trail.

When my husband decided he wanted to start traversing the Colorado 14ers, we began with Pikes Peak, the mountain that greeted us at the end of our street every day. When we returned to hiking after my surgery, we chose another in our backyard, another in which we are always in the shadow. Cheyenne Mountain.

Cheyenne Mountain is not a 14er. At what we assume was the summit of the hike, we were only a little above 9600 feet. However, the trail is rated difficult to extreme on several sites and by the trail signs on the route.

Knowing the length of the hike ahead (and how slow we go on the upper portion of a 14er), we began at 5am when Cheyenne Mountain State Park opens.

The trail to Cheyenne Mountain begins counterintuitively. Not that we could see much of it with our headlamps. We started on the Talon trail, which wanders in serpentine lazily through the meadow in Cheyenne Mountain Park. Instead of moving directly toward the base of the dark mountain with the twinkling towers of NORAD on top, the path lead us out in the grass, looping us to approach the mountain from the south.

As we moved through the valley, the air alternated between frigid and warm pockets. We listened to the helicopters wandering the sky from nearby Fort Carson. The trail is flat for the majority of Talon. When we turned onto Talon North, we finally saw some incline. Though it remained gentle. We slowly climbed to look down on the city and the sunrise.

By the time we were in full daylight, we reached the Dixon trail that would take us up the side of Cheyenne Mountain. In the light, we discovered that the trails are very well marked, with colored signs and distances. In the valley, there are even trail map signs at all intersections.

Once we began to climb, it felt like real hiking. However, it took over 3 miles to just reach the Dixon trail. From hiking Mt Harvard, we knew that a long, steady return hike can be even more daunting than a steep one.

The Dixon trail was touted as the challenging portion of the ascent. The trail wound us up the rolling hills that steadily climb towards Cheyenne Mountain from the south. We could still hear the helicopters and Reveille call from Fort Carson, but those were the only sounds besides our footfalls and chatter. The trail was peacefully vacant.

The views became more picturesque with each switchback. Colorado Springs sprawled out below us as we climbed higher on the side of the mountain.

We began to successively summit each small hill and see the western face of the range. Then the trail would alternate back to the eastern face and city views again.

Dixon trail is relatively mild for the first few miles. I would liken it to Barr Trail south of Barr Camp. It definitely reminded me of Barr Trail south of the Incline multiple times, which makes sense considering it overlooks the same city. After 2.5 miles, the trail changes, and bikes and horses are no longer permitted. It becomes “extreme.”

Past this sign, the mild ascent of the groomed dirt trail transitions into steeper grade peppered with rock staircases. The articles I had read on the trail before made it sound extremely challenging if not perilous. I would not agree. While the grade was intense and I had to take a few breathers, I would not liken it to anything I have seen past treeline. Perhaps the extra oxygen helped. It also did not last terribly long. When we broke into the aspen meadow, I turned to my hiking mates and said, “was that it?”

The top of Dixon opens into an unexpected field. The grass (and spiny thistles) tickled at my shoulders. Here, the trail is not exceptionally worn. If not for the constant stakes and flags (often tied to clumps of grass), it would be easy to think it was not even a trail at all. Barely into the meadow is the famed plane crash from 1957.

We did not know what to expect from the plane crash. After being on the mountain for so long, we did not know how much would remain. On the one hand, some 60 years later, it is surprising any of the wreckage remained. On the other, it is a fresh trail for dedicated hikers, so perhaps there should have been more left undisturbed. Even though the remains were small, it was still interesting to examine up close. We could pick out debris among the vegetation for a good distance as we continued to hike.

Among the aspens, we intersected the Mountain Loop trail. This pleasant walk would bring us to our destination.

We wandered through the sprawling field then among the aspen trees with massive trunks. Their roots pressed up through the dirt of the trail, revealing the network between the entire forest. We were spoiled by the laziness of the trail, such a contrast to the brief steep section we had just completed.

The Mountain Loop is only a mile and a half. After another section of incline and expansive views, we found ourselves at the top.

Locating the top was more challenging than on a 14er. Past treeline, identifying the summit is simple. It is also usually littered with cardboard signs for selfies. We settled on one rock formation before continuing on to locate what we believe was Robber’s Roost. It was as close as we could get to the antennae farm of NORAD without going off the edge or over a fence. So we called that our summit.

After staring at the red, blinking antennae atop NORAD my entire life, it was surreal to see them from an entirely new perspective. They actually looked small once we were so close.

Since the ascent was significantly easier than we had anticipated from our research, we decided to add the Dragon’s Backbone to our descent.

On the Dragon’s backbone, we found the challenge we had been expecting from the extreme rating. We also found even more spectacular views.

The trail began similar to its intersecting counterparts at first, wandering along toward the ridge. After some clear views from the perceived safety of enclosing rocks and trees, the trail becomes much more technical. Despite the clear trail markings and cairns, we still managed to deviate from the path several times and almost crawl across the face of the crags.

The trail narrows, becomes entirely large rock stairs and drops. The trees and surrounding rocks recede so that the path is like walking along a backbone, with one side as the steep fall off the side of the mountain. Navigating it got the heart pumping for multiple reasons. Even at less than a mile, it was the longest part of our journey.

The Dragon’s Backbone dumped us back into the aspen field, and we began our long descent. Aside from the backbone, none of the trails were hard to come down. It was more the relentless accumulation of the miles. The sun baked down on us once we left the trees on the steep park of Dixon. By the time we reached Talon, we and our bodies were just over it.

The hike was no longer challenging, but the last 3-5 miles just dragged on. Our feet hurt. Our legs were tired. Our back were knotted. We were just done.

That feeling lifted when we reached the car and the 16.5 miles were behind us. We were relieved to discover the hike only recorded at 16 miles rather than the forecasted 18.  Another two miles may have pushed any of us over the line.

Cheyenne Mountain is a beautiful hike. Long but much easier than advertised, if you are accustomed to gauging by 14ers and all the suck that exists past treeline. With all the hype of finally being able to summit this famed and familiar mountain, I was surprised to find the trail largely vacant. We encountered one other group of hikers past where Dixon gets extreme, and we only encountered a handful of people in Cheyenne Mountain Park itself.

Perhaps traffic will increase the longer the full trail is open. Mountain Loop could definitely use some foot traffic to fully establish the trail through the field.

It felt good to be back on the trail, and Cheyenne Mountain was the perfect place to start. I love walking to my car, looking west, and thinking, “I was up there.” Just like I do for Pikes Peak. I have now pointed out Dragon’s Backbone to my kids.

If you want to try Cheyenne Mountain, this article on Springs Magazine gave us flawless directions.

This year will ultimately be largely an off year for hiking for me. We are going to descend Pikes Peak (I’m so excited; I love downhill) in a couple weeks, but I don’t know if we will tackle any new 14ers before the fall snows descend. It may just be something we return to next year, more healed and better planned.

Christina Bergling

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Approaching Surgery

Hip surgery is imminent. I went to my preop appointment yesterday in preparation for my hip labrum surgery the first week of December. I signed all the paperwork and went home with the brace I will live in for 2-3 weeks.

Now, it feels real. Part of me wants to just do it and get it over with, get into the pain so I can put it behind me and actually heal. The other part of me does not want to do it at all and is rationalizing how I can live with the pain as it is now.

But, where have I been since altitude sickness on my last 14er? What have I been doing on my way from summer to surgery?

The altitude sickness may have concluded my pursuit of 14er summits for the year; however, it did not end my hiking. Our little group decided to hike half of Pikes Peak in the beginning of October (as opposed to the full summit last year).

We had a magical, euphoric, perfect fall hike. A chilly fog clutched the trail on our ascent to Barr Camp. Then the sun ignited the autumn colors on our descent back down. It was the perfect weather, the perfect distance, the perfect company–simply the perfect hike.

This hike highlighted a very long and successful fitness run for me. I was running regularly, returning to my normal mile pace (slow though it always may be), building up my distances over 6 miles. I was taking multiple barre classes a month and seeing the results. I had returned fully to belly dance and even had begun performing again.

My fitness cadence was exactly as I wanted it. My routine was solid and balanced, and so my mind was solid and balanced in reaction. Honestly, I felt like myself. And I felt pretty fucking happy.

When I hit that blissful point, I knew it was transitory, as it always is. I knew the pendulum was reaching its full extension to one side and would instantly be arching in reverse. It always does. Every time I feel like I have achieved my goal or am where I want, the situation immediately changes. The rug is pulled out, and I fall directly on my ass to start over. That is my cycle; that is the pattern of my life.

In this case, I thought it was because surgery was coming and I would inevitably have to start over after recovery. I was wrong. A debilitating, month-long sinus infection took me entirely by surprise and derailed me just as effectively.

Of course, I tried to fast and run through it and failed exquisitely. The illness finally bent me to its mercy. After three different antibiotics, two different steroids, and so many weeks, I am finally, physically back to more normal. However, all that progress and euphoria and balance evaporated. To reclaim my motivation in the waning window before I go under the knife, I have had to just accept this limitation. I have had to just do what I can.

I did not do that well or gracefully, but I think I have largely made my peace and moved past my frustration. Though being knocked so completely off balance paired with being so annoyingly sick sent my bipolar cycles into overdrive. It had been a while, and I was woefully out of practice, so that was fun for all involved. But again, I think I have regained myself, or at least control of myself.

So, next up, surgery.

At this point, might as well. Maybe it’s easier to go under and jump into the limits of recovery when I’m already below my expectations. Maybe the fall won’t be as far. Or perhaps it’s worse to have squandered these last weeks before I don’t have a choice. Or maybe it sucks either way. I need to just embrace the suck. I need to just do this and get it over with.

I’m not necessarily nervous about the surgery itself. I might have been earlier, but my salpingectomy (Fallopian tube removal) surgery went so smoothly in January that it actually calmed me. I, of course, cried hysterically after anesthesia. I always do. However, that procedure was also laparoscopic, and I healed near effortlessly. I went on a real run in less than 48 hours. I appreciate that was a far more minor procedure and recovery time, but it still gives me somewhat of a preview to pacify my rampant brain.

I dread only the recovery. Not even the pain. I can deal with the pain. I have been for two and a half years for this injury; at least surgery recovery pain might lessen and lead to actual improvement. It is the physical limitation of the surgery. All the ways I went off the rails by having a sinus infection amplified, the removal of my balance and my therapy.

To combat this anxiety, I am proactively choosing to focus on other things. I have scheduled lazy time with several friends. I plan to fast hard on the couch, and I plan to pour all my time into my writing (which has unexpectedly been neglected for the fast two months).

Until then though… I’m capitalizing on not dying and not being cut open. All the running and all the barre classes. My daughter and I choreographed a horror heavy metal belly dance number I want to get recorded. I am back to cramming as many activities in as possible before spending my holidays relegated to the couch.

Wish me luck! (And expect more frequent posting.)

 

Christina Bergling

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Mt Democrat, Mt Cameron, and Altitude Sickness

After the poor planning and research of our Mt Harvard hike and my poor life choices before our Quandary hike, when we decided to tackle to Mt Democrat-Mt Cameron-Mt Lincoln-Mt Bross loop in one day, I made a concerted effort to learn from past mistakes and prepare properly. In the end, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

We started our trek early under perfect weather conditions. I had gone to bed early and slept well. I had put down a bunch of water on our drive out. I had even eaten breakfast (which is something I no longer do). As we took the trail toward Mt Democrat, I felt good.

My ascent was slow and steady, as always. I know I will never be fast uphill. Not running or hiking. Just never. But we made it to the saddle between Democrat and Cameron easily enough, veering off to ascend Democrat first.

After the trail branched, the incline increased dramatically. As it always does when it is too high for any life to grow. The hike started at 12,000 feet, well above treeline, so the entire route was the hard part of hiking 14ers. Yet it was all so much shorter than the previous hikes that started lower that it seemed like it would be easier.

Seemed.

We made our ascent up Democrat at a reasonable pace. One of us was struggling with motivation. I always struggle with incline. However, overall, it went surprisingly smooth and well. Considering how painful the previous ascents had been, Democrat came fast and easy.

We took a quick rest to have a snack and enjoy the view then turned to the descent. Like always, I bounded down ahead like a mountain goat and fully enjoyed the way back. By the time I reached the saddle to take the turn for Mt Cameron, I was feeling great. The same euphoria at the base of every hike coupled with the motivation to move to the next mountain.

Yet this is where my hike began to unravel.

As we regrouped and turned to take Mt Cameron, my struggle with the incline steadily increased. It felt different than muscle fatigue, but I dismissed it. Then a nagging headache started tapping on my forehead. I adjusted my hat, adjusted my pack, drank more water, had a snack. Yet the headache persisted and burrowed deeper until nausea bloomed in my belly.

At this point, things did not feel normal or right. Something inside me kept whispering, something is wrong…something is not OK. But I dismissed it. The headache and nausea increased, and hiking became suddenly daunting. More daunting than usual, more daunting than at my most exhausted. It did not feel like normal fatigue. Instead, it felt like I had absolutely nothing in me. No go, no gas, no juice, NOTHING.

I dismissed it and pressed on anyway. At shameful and unimaginably slow pace, we made Cameron.

Once we summitted and turned to the gradual saddle between Cameron and Lincoln (the slight distance that disqualifies Mt Cameron as an official 14er). I did not feel great, and the headache and nausea did not abate, but I could at least move. I figured I could make it the 300 feet to summit Lincoln since we were already there.

I was wrong.

A few steps up the final ascent to Lincoln, I simply could not. My body had nothing. It felt like I could not breathe. My chest hurt as if something was compressing my lungs. I sat down on the trail, and that was all I had. I shooed the rest of my party on to summit and stayed exactly where I was.

In all honesty, I don’t remember much vividly from when the headache started. I know I stumbled my way up Cameron. I know I sat down on the trail. I know I was struggling to breathe and just wanted to lay down on the rocks and sleep so I stood as I waited for them. By the time they returned (which was not long), I was in rough shape, barely functioning.

We turned to Mt Bross to make an immediate descent. If I could not make 300 feet of Lincoln, I could not make anything but back to the car. Unfortunately, we made a wrong turn. Instead of following the trail that cut across the top of Bross’s stained and scarred face, we wandered down a dead end. With the risk of mine shafts anywhere, we had to turn back around. Trying to ascend again destroyed me. When we returned to the top of the trail, I had to collapse briefly.

Finally, we made it across Bross’s mangled face and began to actually drop in altitude. I continued to struggle. Whenever my heart rate climbed, my headache pounded harder. Whenever the headache increased, the nausea pressed on the back of my teeth. I still could not breathe, but moving downhill, I did not need to fight for it as hard.

However, Bross was a terrible descent. Huge boulders and slippery scree the entire length of the mountain. Everyone suffered. Everyone was miserable.

I refused to vomit as we descended the rocks. I knew puking would make me shaky, and I did not know if I could navigate the terrain with unsteady legs. However, once we finally reached the grass, I sat down and puked my guts out. I wish I could say it made me feel better.

The valley where we started was still gorgeous. My favorite flower (the columbine) was everywhere. I wish I could have actually seen and enjoyed it. I suffered severe tunnel vision. All I wanted to do was lay down in the car.

When we did finally reach the parking lot, I took off my boots and lay down in the passenger seat. The rest of the group had their celebratory beers and make PB&J sandwiches, but I just wanted to die. The ride down the trail was not much better. I had to vomit again when we reached the highway. Then I passed out for the rest of the trip.

Altitude sickness.

It took me about three full days to recover. I felt better after my car nap but still miserable. It was difficult to walk. I got winded just moving around the house. I have lived in Colorado, skied and hiked frequently my entire life. This is the first time I ever remember experiencing altitude sickness.

Maybe it was because I was in Dallas, near sea level a few days earlier. Maybe it was because I was still suffering a lingering cold. Maybe it was because the hike started above tree line. Maybe I wasn’t hydrated enough. Honestly, I have no idea. Altitude sickness can really strike anyone at any time under any circumstances. I can’t say it makes sense in this instance, unless it happened just to punish me for thinking I was prepared.

I feel like I should be super frustrated and disappointed to have made it so close and been taken out. I guess I am disappointed that I did not get to enjoy the hike, that I got so sick. However, I was so utterly miserable that I don’t really care that I couldn’t make the last summit (or two). It was unpleasant enough to overshadow any ambition I had.

Part of me wants to redo Cameron, Lincoln, and Bross. Part of me doesn’t care. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I’m just relieved that the sickness has passed and I can breathe again.

Christina Bergling

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Mt Harvard and Quandary Peak

In October, we embarked on my husband’s goal of hiking 14ers in Colorado. We decided to press on it this summer. We started off by hitting it hard, doing two 14ers in two weekends.

Mt. Harvard

First, we decided to tackle Mt Harvard. My father, who avidly hiked 14ers at my present age, warned us that it was going to be challenging. While we believed him, we overestimated ourselves and underestimated the snow.

As my father forecasted, the hike began gently. The first couple miles wound lazily up gentle forest switchbacks. Snow began to appear on the edges of the trail or hidden in the shadows of the trees. I was so excited to see snow after such a disappointing and fruitless winter. As we continued to climb, the snow patches thickened into drifts that began to slow us down.

The winding forest trail eventually sprawled into a large valley beset by the breathtaking peaks of the collegiate 14ers. As the sun show brightly in a vividly clear sky, the scenery was sublime, and our spirits bordered on euphoric.

 

As we moved out of the gentle valley, the snow increased. We navigated through drifts that were mostly crunchy on the top, yet when my leg plunged through the surface, the snow came up to my vagina. The struggle started comical but gradually grew more arduous as the drifts grew deeper and wider until we faced long, uphill spans of slippery snow. Anxiety crawled on my skin as my paranoid steps tempted exacerbating my hamstring/hip injury.

At the first ocean of snow, I nearly declined to continue. I did not want to get more hurt, but I decided to give it a try. It was less challenging than I expected, so I pressed on. We broke past treeline and approached the rocky step switchbacks.

As we ascended the large, flat rock islands amidst shifting gravel, I wondered how I would ever descent such terrain without killing myself. I fought the increasing incline with decreasing oxygen and remembered that there is a distinct reason trees do not care to grow that high.

We made it all the way to the final ascent, the last cairn where we could see the summit. I saw a trail of steep and slippery snow and large boulders. Here, I decided to accept my limitations. It felt ridiculous to come so far, to be 1 mile and 1,000 feet short of the summit and stop. Yet my instincts banged and hollered to not risk it. So, for once, against who I am, I didn’t.

While I am exceedingly stubborn and often push my body too far, this 14er pursuit is not my dream. I am a supportive partner who will take any excuse to be active, punish myself, and be outside in the mountains. But it’s acceptable if I don’t make every summit or I’m not there for every hike. I am a tourist and a tagalong here, the support staff doing the planning.

Two of us stayed at the cairn for three hours while the other three continued.

Then, the weather decided to turn on us. The morning sun folded under thick clouds, and a piercing wind battered us. We sat on the cairn, had a frozen dance party, and waited. For a while, we could watch their tiny forms ascend. Then they vanished for what seemed like an eternity. We almost resigned ourselves to migrate lower when we finally spotted them–a red shirt, a white shirt, and a black shirt–hiking and sliding back down.

Only one of us was able to fully summit (my husband). One was 10 feet short. One was 100 feet short. It sounded quite intense at the top, so I made the right decision to stay behind. I am no rock climber. I am uncomfortable with heights.

Since we only hiked up Pikes Peak, Harvard was our first decent of a 14er. Turns out, my body is built for coming downhill, just like running. As we approached the boulder stairs that made me so nervous coming up, the footfalls suddenly made complete sense. My feet, never entirely graceful, just knew where to go. I bounded down the hill like a mountain goat and had so much fun doing so.

The descent was never-ending though. The snow had softened during the day, and we continually plunged through the surface. It was daunting and repetitive, and the miles just dragged on. But many hours after we projected, we made it. We did our group hug in the parking lot and hurried off into the night for real food and sleep.

Quandary Peak

The next weekend, we aimed a little lower. We went up to Breckenridge, stayed overnight, and set out early to attack Quandary Peak. An easier and shorter hike (recommended by my father).

This trail started narrow and quite steep as it climbed up the hill. The switchbacks drew up the side of the mountain quickly. The sun had just broken the horizon, and the temperature hovered in the limbo where I roasted in my fleece but shivered without it.

I, in my infinitely stupidity and relentless affinity for poor life choices, got to carry a pretty severe hangover with me. What could have been a gentle and pleasant hike was instead quite uncomfortable for me. My thighs balked at the activity immediately. Nausea flirted with my throat. I suffered for my foolishness.

After a couple miles in the trees, we arrived at the customary rocky stair-like switchbacks. We also reached the snow, but it did not compare to Harvard. These drifts were ankle-deep rather than vagina-deep. Instead, our unexpected challenge was the wind. By the time we broke treeline, the wind was near unbearable. At points, I had to struggle to move against it.

There always seems to be one factor that we did not plan for on these hikes. Every mountain seems to teach us something new. Don’t underestimate the mountain. Don’t trust trail estimates. Don’t forget your yaks. Don’t forget your windbreaker. Don’t get drunk the night before. So many lessons.

By the time we passed treeline and battled the wind, I thought my hangover had broken. The trail flattened out a bit before the final ascent, and I was feeling good.

I was wrong.

The final ascent of Quandary did not have switchbacks. No, it climbed straight up the ridge to the summit. And it was terrible. At tackling the extreme grade, my hangover resurged over me. Every four steps, I stopped to evaluate my need to vomit. I moved painfully slow up the final ascent. But I did make it.

We crested the hill and enjoyed a nice flat portion before the summit. The wind even finally died down for us to enjoy our celebratory beers.

Then the descent. My favorite part. All the euphoric rush of victory floating on down the mountain.

The snowy descent did make me a little nervous. Again, I did not want to slip and further injure myself. But I found that sliding down the mountain (in established butt trails that didn’t go off the side of the face) was a much quicker and more fun way to get down. Aside from the horrendous stinging of the cold. Worth it.

The descent was pleasant and so much shorter than Harvard. The wind had died down, and the weather was temperate. It was just nice.

We made it back to the car by lunchtime and were able to enjoy the hot tub in Breckenridge before heading home. While Quandary was not as scenically gorgeous as Pikes Peak or Harvard, it definitely was a more pleasant hike overall. If you subtract the idiocy of my hangover.

Currently, we have two more 14ers scheduled for the summer. Perhaps another one or two in the fall. If nothing else, we have made strong strides on my husband’s goal. And I have seen some beautiful things.

Christina Bergling

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Back Again

I went for a run yesterday. A real run.

Embarrassingly, I have not gone for a real run in a long time. I have gone for runs, sure. Group runs at various paces for various distances. I have been content to jog and cut off miles, which is very uncharacteristic of me. I have even gone for solo runs. Yet I have been talking myself into keeping them short or slow.

I am not entirely sure what had been happening. I felt gun shy about running. In theory, I told myself I missed it and wanted to return to longer and harder running, yet I would permit myself the excuses for it not to happen. Again, not like myself.

I would say it was perhaps my perpetual hamstring injury, but that has not hindered me from running or exercising in the past 18 months, so why now?

I have definitely been distracted by other fitness pursuits. bodyboss was extremely time-consuming. Then there is barre. I have been practicing a lot of belly dance for an upcoming performance I’m traveling to next month. I also picked up a hip hop class (I am terrible, by the way). So maybe I have just been too distracted.

Whatever the bullshit reasons and excuses, I finally forced myself out for real yesterday. I didn’t permit myself the 2 mile or 3 mile I have been clinging too lately, even though they have come to feel like my comfort zone. I forced myself to do the 5 mile route, with the 2 horrible hills.

And it felt great. It felt just like it always did. It sucked; it hurt; I wanted to die. Then it was the amazing high. It was all so familiar, so comforting, so exactly how I left it. I even ran faster than I have been lately. I even managed to improve after such neglect.

That was comforting. Now, I remember why I need it. I recall it’s place in my life and my fitness routine. There may not always be time to satisfy it, but at least now I can keep in mind why I should try and prioritize it.

After reading The Obesity Code and recovering from mild surgery, I find my exercise addiction tempered. Finally, it is not the end of the world if I can’t fit in a workout every day. Finally, I am not doubling down on workouts multiple times a week. Finally, I am allowing myself rest days. It feels foreign and awkward but also like a relief. I have no intentions of falling off the fitness wagon entirely, so I am hoping this reduction is actually healthy.

In all my questing for the next time and the answer, I am hoping this is actually it. I might have just needed a good run for it to feel right.

Christina Bergling

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Ascending Pikes Peak

Yesterday, I hiked my first 14er.

At some point, my husband got the idea to do all the 14ers (mountains with summits over 14,000 feet above sea level) in the state. There is debate; however, the most agreed upon number is 58 14ers in Colorado.

We decided to start local with the mountain that sits along the west edge of home: Pikes Peak.

We started in Manitou Springs at 4:30 in the morning, headlamps and the glowing moon illuminating the lingering night. We parked downtown and made the trek in the dark to the parking lot at the base of Barr Trail.

I have experienced the terminal miles of Barr Trail numerous times descending from hiking The Incline. I have run it, walked it, fallen on my ass on it. I have made my way down in broad daylight and the dark and in every kind of weather. Yet, in the darkness, in the opposite direction, the perspective on the trail was extremely altered. Everything looked different, felt different yet familiar simultaneously.

Immediately, my younger sister and her party took off up the trail. Yet from the first few crunching steps, my husband began lagging. He set a very slow, methodical pace. I assumed it was from his lungs and the altitude (he has a history of pulmonary aneurysm, pneumonia, and altitude sickness). So our small group began a rhythm of hiking up and then regrouping.

As we carved our way up the side of the mountain through the battered trail of switchbacks, the sun gradually began threatening the horizon. Beyond the twinkling city lights below us, day menaced. At one point, the bright moon still lingered over the peak we would climb as the sun broke into the sky opposite it. For the a brief and surreal moment, we cast two shadows on the gravel.

By the time daylight fully broke over the mountain, we had passed both the bail out and the turn off points for The Incline. We were officially in uncharted territory for three out of four of us. The path showed far less abuse from far fewer boots. And the sun ignited fall all around us.

Fall is my favorite season. And fall can be potentially disappointing in a place like Colorado where it is summer then winter then they alternate and then repeat. Most years, it seems like it goes from hot to snow and unfortunately back again. Lazy, meandering transitions like fall in the South amazed me. Yet on the side of Pikes Peak, fall was all around us.

 

Leaves crunched beneath each of our footfalls. The sweet smell of their decay played on the air. A thin razor chill hung on the edge of the air. The sun blazed through the quivering golden aspen leaves around us. It was quintessential fall, and it was fucking euphoric.

As the naked peak began to loom grander and more ominous over us, we meandered along gentle rolling trails through an aspen valley. I caught myself just floating, lost in the mountain air and the seductive scenery. It was undoubtedly my favorite section of the hike.

My husband continued to struggle even through the flat or declining sections. Despite the fact that he is not an avid exerciser, this performance was very uncharacteristic for him. The previous year, he ran a 15K with zero training nearly as fast as I did running 3 times a week and sometimes over 10 miles. I, of course, feared for his lungs again, yet he said his legs were just not working. That it was just a struggle that it should not have been.

We made it to Barr Camp at the halfway point (6.5 miles from the base) and broke for an early lunch. My sister and her party had stayed waiting for us an hour (to make sure my husband was still alive). They broke off again, and we started as well after food, water, and rest.

The trail changed after Barr Camp. The gradual, curving stroll through the aspens began to actually climb the side of the mountain. The switchbacks stretched long to the point of annoyance, where at every crest there was more of the same length of trees.

The trail did not really become hard, but at this point, it did become more boring to me. I was too enamored with the mesmerizing aspen sunrise. Thin gravel carvings between mirrored trees just could not compare. We continued our steady pace of climb and regroup as the sun began to heat the chill off the mountain.

We reached 10,000 feet and kept plugging along.

Treeline proved an elusive mistress. Every row of trees appeared to be the last only for another set of siblings to appear behind them. The monotonous switchbacks just wound back and forth slowly. We could feel the air thinning with each cut across the mountainside.

While the views around us became more pedestrian forest, the views below us grew more impressive. We could pick out the other mountains we knew, Garden of the Gods, the parts of town we lived in, the east edge of town, Kansas itself.

Then treeline and the A frame finally happened.

At this point, we stopped for another legitimate break, taking off the packs that were drawing tension up in our shoulders and knotting in our lower backs. I could tell the instant my body needed calories. My legs got heavier while my head got lighter. I felt like a new person after some energy blocks every time.

The hike became a different trail after treeline. I regretted wishing to get there. The first 10 miles were a delightful easy little stroll up the mountain. The last 3 miles were not.

Looking back, my body is exactly the same with a half marathon (I have officially run 2 and several training distances that long). A 10 mile run is great. At multiple points in my running life, it has been my absolute favorite distance. However, 13.1 miles has always been horrible. I’m great for the first 10 miles; then the last 3 are an absolute struggle every step. Maybe my body just wants to stay under 10 miles.

Unfortunately, for my husband, his entire hike was a forced battle for every step.

The temperature was obviously hotter after treeline, in the direct sunlight, yet the drafts were colder and more abrasive. Though even at the worst of moments, we got impossibly lucky with the weather. The weather was literally perfect. Cool enough with barely any snow toward the top. Finding an October day like this in Colorado is nothing short of a miracle.

The views below were breathtaking, but the scenery around us was barren and mundane. Rocks and boulders stacked forever to the summit.

Our pace slowed and slowed. The air thinned and thinned.

The first mile past treeline was fine. It was slower, but it was not terrible. Not exceptionally steeper. However, the last two miles were hell. I really have no other way to say it.

No longer did three of us wander ahead then wait to regroup. Now, everyone was requesting breaks, taking a step they could not follow through with movement, breathing deep against a dizzy spell. I do not know if it was the altitude or the over 11 miles already stacked on our muscles or that it was the first 14er summit for all of us. Perhaps it was all of the above.

The hardcore people passed us, of course. This is Colorado. People run this route annually for the Pikes Peak Ascent half marathon then up and down for the full marathon. In one of the fittest cities in the country, even a compulsively active person can be proved completely out of shape. We marveled at the fact that any body could perform such a feat multiple times, and one of us removed participating in the event from their bucket list.

We trudged on. That is the most apt way to say it. The steps were slow and heavy. The breaths were deep and labored. The muscles burned. The thoughts revolted. And yet, we trudged on.

The absolute worst part (for EVERYONE) was the very final stretch, horrendously dubbed The Golden Stairs. At this point, we had made our way to the final boulder field approaching the peak. We could hear and see the cog railway moving along the top of the mountain. We could even hear the tourists milling about above us, most likely spectating our sad ascent.

The switchbacks jagged severely and rapidly across the waning mountainside with larger and more fierce rocks to overcome. These 16 “steps” felt like they were never going to end. For an eternity, it felt like we were so impossibly close and so depressingly far from the end. Like we could reach out and touch it yet never actually reach it.

Then it was there. The summit. The end.

We had fucking made it.

Directly at the terminus of the trail, the four of us circled together in a group hug. Some of us may have cried (me absolutely). I said how proud I was of them. And I was. So proud of all of us.

In all honesty, on that hike, our group enjoyed the perfect chemistry. No one got irritated or bitchy, even at our lowest moments. The levity was an appropriate balance. The support was amazing. No one got left behind.

My sister and crew finished a good two and a half hours before we made it to the top. It took us just over 10 hours to go about 14 miles from car to summit. Thankfully, we had two separate pick up cars.

Looking back at the hike as a whole, it was not hard. It was actually quite easy as far as hikes go. Base to treeline was easy. Everything until the last two miles was tolerable. (The last two miles were HELL.) It was just long. So long. Over 13 miles just in up. Yet that all just managed to accentuate the accomplishment.

In the wake, I find myself changed. I have such a completely different perspective on something that has loomed over me most of the days of my life. I grew up in Pikes Peak’s shadow. I have been up the highway to the summit plenty of times. Yet nothing was like actually learning the mountain the way we did with each step, actually experiencing the entire length of something I saw every day, something I ignored many days.

I have had many experiences in my life that utterly shifted my perspectives on everything. Accepting being bipolar. Going to Iraq. This was the first one that occurred entirely externally. It felt like a metaphor, like a physical experience of all the perspective shifts I have experienced on the inside. I was able to see something familiar from an entirely different angle. Everything changed, and everything stayed the same.

I have a pretty decent view of Pikes Peak at the end of my street, and every time I have been outside today, I am just dumbstruck thinking that only yesterday I was up there. Right there at the top. I walked up that entire mountain.

And what is the one thing I have no mentioned? My hamstring. That’s right. I have not mentioned my hamstring because it was a nonissue. It is a nonissue. There were certainly moments of discomfort and tightness along the trail. I did not sit very often because it hurt. Yet my hamstring was not a hindrance. That is a HUGE change from earlier this year when I could cry rolling over in bed or standing up out of my car.

Today I find that I feel like nothing happened. My hamstring does not hurt at all. I am not even sore (though that could be waiting for me in the morning). I must be doing something right with all these workouts. It must be doing something.

But none of that matters as much as the fact that my hamstring does not hurt.

Christina Bergling

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Back on the Slopes

I have been following in my father’s ski tracks my entire life. Not much has changed. My father put me on skies when I was three years-old; then I spent winter mornings in ski school until I was able to ski blue runs fluently.

So many ski trips are burned into my memory. Packing up before dawn and heading out toward the mountains. A pack of licorice and the ski cassette tape of classic rock, so used that it began to unravel. Aching ankles, sore legs, and full body chills into the nap on the way home.

I haven’t skied in YEARS. The last time I attempted to ski, I never even saw the slopes. I was pregnant with my (now two year-old) son and had debilitating morning sickness. I puked the entire drive up to the resort, on the side of the road in heavy Denver traffic. Then I spent the day vomiting in the lodge. The entire day. I passed out on the table then stumbled into the bathroom to lose the sips of water I had taken. The sickness, puking, and cramps were so serious that I was honestly concerned I was going to lose my baby.

This time, I brought my five year-old daughter for her first time skiing, and, just like my father before me, I deposited her in ski school in the morning. Establishing and continuing family traditions.

The day did not start out well for me. After my daughter was all squared away and I launched off with my father and sister, I found my ski boots very uncomfortable. I had them before my two children and apparently my feet changed substantially in that time. When I wrestled all the bindings closed, they pressed on my ankle in some way that was just excruciating. My toes went numb; it felt like the side of my foot was tearing.

I tried to power through. I told myself to breathe through it. I told myself it would loosen with time. I popped a couple bindings. Yet, on the lift, I had to counsel myself out of how much it hurt.

On the first run down, I found skiing to be very difficult, harder than I really remembered. I wobbled. I was slow and cautious. It was just unpleasant. I did not feel like myself at all. I thought perhaps it had been too long and I had forgotten my technique over the years. By the bottom, I decided to just go rent new boots.

New boots were like a whole new world. Without the pain, everything became easy again; muscle memory returned. My mind even cleared and returned. After months of dealing with the constant hamstring pain, I simply could not process additional pain signals; I could not deal. Yet without the pain, skiing was awesome again! Even with my gimpy hamstring, I blazed down after my family, carving around moguls and bouncing over powder.

I forgot how good it felt to whip down a mountain, to hear the snow compacting under me, to feel the flakes in the winter air on my face. I felt that familiar euphoria and remember why I loved it so much.

We laid down some good runs in the morning. The Loveland win bit hard on the high lifts, but otherwise, we rode the mountain under clear skies and high sun. The hamstring only balked when carving through ice or deep powder and only when turning left when I really had to lean down into that left leg.

We took lunch and then back to the slopes. Somewhere in the afternoon, we accidentally ended up on a black run. Black runs are not out of any of our ability; however, with my father’s spinal stenosis and disk cyst and my 5 months injured hamstring, it was not in our plan for the day (I wonder where I get my tendency to ignore pain and do whatever I want in spite of my body). We all survived, but the run pretty much winded down our day.

We migrated from the Basin back to the Valley to have some drinks waiting for my daughter to be done with ski school. I was curious to see how she did, but she loved it and did fantastic.

We took her on one final run to end the day. She did so well. I was impressed at her ability after one short day and amazingly proud of her. For a child who often whines and attempts to get people to do things for her, she was calm and determined and brave, even after 5 hours of ski school. She wanted to keep going; she outlasted the adults.

In the end, it was a great day. Plenty of exercise that reminded me of why I love the sport and another opportunity to introduce my daughter to an activity I enjoy. It will definitely not be years before I return to the slopes.

Mine to Mine Failure

I never thought my child misbehaving in school and lying to me about it would hurt so bad. I never thought it would send me into a crippling depression. I always knew these things would eventually happen; I just did not expect it to happen so soon or for it to affect me so profoundly.

Yesterday, my daughter got into a lot of trouble at preschool and broke my heart by lying to me about it. Then today, I blew the one race all year that I care about and train for specifically. I felt like a failure as a mother, so it was all too easy to accept being a failure as a runner as well.

The Mine to Mine Challenge in Cripple Creek is my coveted race. I successful ran the distance two years ago, after I returned to living in Colorado. Hills are my nemesis, and high altitude only amplifies everything. Even after running two half marathons and a long variety of other races, I consider this one to be my most difficult. Completing it the first time was one of my favorite running accomplishments, one of the highest highs.

While I ran the first time alone (with a supportive driver), this time, I was joined by a contingent of Zombie Turtles. We gathered in the unseasonable sun outside the Heritage Center, waiting for the race to start.

At the start, we took off down the introductory hill. Just like last time, I gasped for air at the thin mountain altitude of over 9,000 feet (3,000 higher than home). Even running downhill, I was winded. And, just like last time, it caused me to worry for the duration of the race, particularly the relentless hills I knew were coming this time. Yet I just told myself to commit to the breathing, pace down, and take it one stride at a time.

Once the hill spilled down into Cripple Creek and the route began yielding flats and inclines, the heat became painfully more apparent. A fall day in the mountains felt decidedly like the stifling summer that was supposedly behind us. The sun felt low, huge, oppressive, and the sky was wide and vividly clear. While this resulted in gorgeous scenery, my still-weighted body began to roast from the inside, the heat blooming in my core and roaring up into my face like a radiator.

Then the hill started. At this point, the 10 am sun stared me straight in the face as the hill climbed to the east. I could not deny the heat as the sweat poured down my face and into my eyes. I felt nothing but hot. My breathing struggled only against the cooking I suffered. My muscles were exerted but still functional. But that heat.

I pressed, panting and sweating, in deliberate strides. Trisha lingered at my side, sometimes dropping just in front of me, sometimes creeping just ahead of me. Phil blazed ahead; then we steadily crept back up to him. The Zombie Turtles moved around each other as we sluggishly climbed the hill.

After about a kilometer or so of the steady incline and the raging heat, a single tree emerged, casting shade across the asphalt. I ran into the shade, but I did not run out of the other side. Instead, I lingered in the shadow of that tree, basking in the cool.

In that instant, it was over. My goal of running the distance, the object of all my training and killing myself slipped away unconsummated. With the failure achieved and with the dream dead, I embraced the walk break. I resigned myself to it. It was too hot; the nausea was already bubbling up to my teeth. With failure already in my heart, I could not berate myself into stubbornness, into powering through; I could only feel sad.

Usually, when met with a running failure (like the zoo run), I react by becoming devastated and livid, equal measures. This time, I felt the amplification of my existing sadness; then I just went with it. I decided to walk the next kilometer then start running again. I watched Phil and Trisha wog away ahead of me.

Then Trisha waited for me. She joined me on my walk. She allowed me to be distracted from all the failure on my brain.

My temperature did stop raging while I walked. After a kilometer, we returned to our wog, just as we approached the longest stretch of uncurved uphill. Halfway up the killer hill, the heat flared up again. It felt like the sun was actually pressing on my face, igniting every nerve. Since I had already sinned in walking, I walked again. No quams, no self-deprecation. Just more walking. Trisha and I admired the scenery.

My memory of the route after the huge hill from my first run was completely hazy. Potentially because I was near passing out when I successfully summitted it. I was thrilled to see that the last two kilometers were the gentle downhill, flat bridge, and the finish. A cool breeze lapped at my face as we started to run again. I found my rhythm; I fell into my pace; I felt like a runner again. Until I rounded the corner to scale the last tiny hill to the finish and the heat slapped me in the face again.

But I finished. My original time was :59. My goal for this attempt was under 1:10. I finished in 1:05. So while I failed to successfully run the entire distance, I still finished with a very acceptable time. I walked at least a kilometer and a half, so had I run the whole thing, I could have seen my previous time again.

Trisha kept me in perspective, on both the running and the parenting. She waited for me; she distracted me; she said the things I needed to hear against the sea of bullshit swimming on my brain. For that, I was grateful.

Phil ran the entire course on a day I could not. Michelle did the hardest race I know to date when she has been struggling with her runner mojo. Trisha hung back to be just the running buddy I needed. On a day I could have classified a failure, I found myself exceedingly proud of all of my Zombie Turtles.

Next year, I want to run the full distance. I will hope for colder temperatures as my running seems to be entirely contingent on the weather. But this year, even this failure will do.

Christina Bergling

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Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

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The Waning

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

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Half Failure

My running mates and I have been registered and training for a half marathon for months now. For two of us, this included training back up post partum.

Any distance under 10 miles can become routine for me. 13 miles never has. Every time I run it, whether in my one actual race or practice, I hit 10 miles, and I am done; those final 3 miles are a struggle. So it is a lot of work and effort, and it is a challenge.

However, we never even got the chance. Months and miles and many dollars later, we stood in line in the freezing dark for over an hour, and we were turned away.

The race, the Revel in the Rockies half marathon, was to be a scenic downhill route, snaking through breathtaking scenery as the sun rose.

Instead, I woke up at 4 am, pumped breastmilk in a cold, dark car, stood in a .75 mile long line that never moved while I shivered in the dark, and left with all my training completely unconsummated and feeling utterly unsatisfied.

I have had races cancelled for acts of God. Both the Bubble Run and the Devil Dash were cancelled on the same day when Denver/Boulder/Lyons had such severe flooding a couple years ago. That happens. And honestly, what can you do? It is always disappointing, but nothing can be done but reschedule or refund (almost always just reschedule).

This was not an act of God.

We stood in line pointlessly because there were no buses. Per the email from Revel after everything unraveled, the 52 contracted buses never arrived, and they had to cancel the half marathon due to permit restrictions. Even considering that this failure was completely human error, after my rage and disappointment subsided, I could dig some understanding out from the back of my brain. The buses the event contracted did not show; what could they really do about that at 3 am (besides actually having a Plan B)?

Angry, confused, disappointed, and somewhat lost, a contingent of our team decided we were running anyway. We drove into Morrison, found a park, and just ran. We needed to do something with all that anger; we needed to satisfy some of our bodies’ expectations for the morning.

We were not happy, but it was something more than just returning to camp fucking livid.

The run we found would have actually been quite delightful–on any other day. Compared to the beautiful downhill half we had been anticipating so long, it was instead a slap in the face. The park had a paved trail that snaked through some lovely fields and trees before winding along a creek. It was gentle uphill on the way out then downhill on the way back. Not as good as 13 miles of down but still so much better than the brutal hills we live among. There was even shade and breeze. The weather was wonderful, mild with cloud cover.

All the perfect conditions for a half.

And I felt great running. The anger lay heavy on my pace. We ran 8 miles, and I could have kept going. The sun even came out, and it got hot. And I could have kept going. I sprinted hard at the end. And I could have kept going.

My body wanted to run that half marathon. Everything was aligned for my 13 miles. Except access to the route.

We did our run. We packed up camp and left. As we moved on with our normal lives, I tried to just let it go, only getting riled up again when we explained what had happened.

However, then I got home and learned from social media and the internet that 350 participants did in fact complete the half marathon. And it was supported. And they were timed and had winners and an award ceremony.

How in the fuck is that cancelled?

Learning that, I was just as pissed all over again. I understand they had participants at the start; I understand they could not allow the 1500 participants in line to drive themselves to the start. I understand the logistics there. However, if you support the participants that did make it up, the race actually happened. It was not cancelled, and I was prevented from participating my factors under the event’s responsibility.

And that is bullshit.

My understand and empathy have vanished, and I want my money back.

I don’t know where to go from here. I have two awesome shirts that I am hesitant to wear because the sight of them inflames my anger and I feel guilty because I did not complete the race they advertise.

Completing a half marathon was supposed to cement my recovery from pregnancy; it was supposed to bookend childbirth and return me to the condition I was in when I ran my first half when I was in my first trimester. The fact that it did not happen just seems to confirm that I have not made it back; that I will not make it back.

There is no way back.

Now do I try to run a different half marathon? Do I abandon the idea and return to my favored 10 miles and under? I just don’t know.

As upset as I have been at different instances today, I have not lost perspective entirely. It is just a race; it is just a superficial problem. It is extremely disappointing after so much work and preparation, and the entire situation was even worse for my sister who flew out from Boston exclusively for this race. Even if they reschedule (which why would they since they did actually hold the race?), it would do nothing for her. But, in  the end, it is just a run.

I am anxiously waiting to see how Revel intends to rectify this clusterfuck of a lack of a race.

**Update**

Revel sent out an email taking full responsibility for the chaos and promising the choice of either a full refund or a registration transfer to any 2015/2015 Revel event. That resolution seems perfectly appropriate and has quelled my anger. I have made peace with my disappointment and am returning to considering a replacement half marathon. It seems wasteful to squander all that training.

 

Christina Bergling

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Savages

Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

Available now on Amazon!
savagesnovella.com

The Waning, coming July 2015

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

Available now on Amazon!
thewaning.com