WE'RE MOVING SOON

At Sage to Summit, everything seems to happen at once. We're planning to move to our new location at 312 N. Main Street in a few weeks. The timing is crazy. Jeff Kozak will be running the Hardrock 100 that week (I'm predicting he'll be in the 10 ten), Neil Satterfield, owner of Sierra Mountain Guides (office in the back of the store) will be in Europe, which leaves Howie, Annie, and Karen to move the store. If the move date is any later, Howie will be in Europe, Karen will be at Outdoor Retailer, which leaves Annie to move the store herself!

The space is looking amazing! There are wood beams in the ceiling, solar tubes giving the space natural light. We're planning on having way more inventory so Eastside residents will have a killer selection of shoes, clothing and little fun gadgets to make our outdoor lifestyle happy.

Here are some photos of the construction thus far:

New Concrete Floors


Back Entrance Demo


New Windows, Thanks Country Glass!


Goodbye 1900s construction, 100 year old wood and termites!


The city made us put in a new sidewalk. I
decided we could add a few more trees in Bishop.
We're putting in smoke trees.


The wind blew a few leaves into the
concrete.


The stock room and command center.
Sage to Summit and SMG offices.


Nice new drywall and a new picture
window.

Course Records Crushed at Bishop High Sierra Ultra

Congratulations to all finishers of the May 16 2009 Bishop High Sierra Ultra and Fun Run.

Two outstanding performances deserve special recognition.

1. Jeff Kozak (pictured above) of Bishop, CA bettered the course record in the 50 mile distance by 17 minutes and 38 seconds.

2. Dan Yarborough (pictured below) of Bishop, CA bettered the course record in the 50 kilometer distance by 11 minutes and 8 seconds.

Baggin' On A Tree, Part Deux

Sunday mornings haven't been easy like, well, you know, lately but they sure have been adventurous and fun. The concept of run'n'bag now has a new dimension: run'n'hug'n'bag, at least when trees are involved (I've never tried to wrap my arms around a peak's summit rock and give it a big squeeze, but maybe...and if I could just meet some mountain mama hottie there would definitely be some huggin' in high places). Old trees, like people, deserve a big hug just by virtue of ignoring life's swan song for so damn long and the Bristlecone Pine National Forest is full of exceptionally old trees.
Last Sunday The Redman (Brannon Forrester) and Tumbleweed (me) spent the morning rising in bipedal fashion off the Owens Valley floor to pay respects to the Patriarch, the largest known Bristlecone Pine, only to spend the first half of the afternoon retracing our steps in a quad-busting descent back to where we had started. We had so much fun (pain and pleasure really can go hand in hand) that we decided to do it all over again yesterday, but with another tree in mind: the Methuselah, the oldest known Bristlecone.
Once again sunrise alpenglow on the Sierra crest found us standing in shadow at 6:15 am where the pavement ends and the fun begins on Silver Canyon Rd above Laws. This time however there was no lolligagging casual start with frequent walking breaks on the climb up to White Mtn Rd as the Redman announced that he was "gonna go for it."
"Awww hell," I thought to myself. I had run 22 hilly miles the day before and was planning to "tak'er easy." Before I could find my rhythm The Redman was practically out of sight and I spent the next 10 miles trying desperately to keep him in sight. Two and a half hours later I was standing at 10,400' at the road junction, having arrived a few minutes after the Redman, in complete surprise; thirty minutes faster than last week and feeling good. You just never know when you're gonna wake up and feel the power.
Three miles later, heading south this time along White Mtn Rd, we hit the pavement at Shulman Grove. The last time I visited this grove was over 20 years ago and my memory of the interpretive trail did not include it being a 4.25 mile loop...because it wasn't built yet. The Methuselah Marathon as I had envisioned the day's mileage being was about to become the Methuselah 50K; a name with not quite the same roll-off-your-tongue-ring to it, but who's gonna pass up 4 miles of incredible singletrack through some of the most amazingly gnarled and wind-sculpted trees on the planet backdropped by sweet views into Deep Springs Valley and Nevada points further east? Not us. Besides we still had to search for the elusive, unmarked Methuselah. Why unmarked you ask? Because certain representatives of the universe-revolves-around-me human species whose members live to be, with a little luck, a whopping 100 years would definitely feel the self-important need to carve their intials in several thousand year old wood.
The 4+ mile loop took us a solid 1 1/2 hours. It is nearly impossible to move fast amongst such ancient beauty. Being early in the season and with a fair amount of snow still lurking in shaded areas we had the loop to ourselves making the experience that much more special. If we are receptive to learning anything from these trees it's that time IS on our side if we can simply let go and go with the flow of ageing and experience, allowing these two forces to shape us as they please, like wind, water, sun and aridity acting on wood to create beautiful Bristlecone art. As John Lennon sang, there's "nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be" and "nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time." It's easy. All you need is love...and for us trail runners an adventurous run now and again.
Whether our eyes actually cast upon the oldest of the old we will never know. Nor does it really matter. We humans love to categorize, compartmentalize, analyze, rank and just generally transform the chaotic variables of our world into neat, right-angled and numbered order. To the mysterious forces of the universe it makes no difference. A Bristlecone by any other age is just as beautiful.

Runnin' Down A Tree

I've never had a tree as a destination for an out-and-back run in the mountains but apparantly there really is a first time for everything. I prefer loops, peaks make natural turnaround points, lakes are okay, but a tree? This wasn't just any old tree though...well, okay actually it was a really old tree: The Patriarch in the Bristlecone National Forest high up in the White Mountains, the largest known tree of its kind. At 6:15 am, with sunrise bathing the crest of the Sierra in a pinkish hue and Silver Canyon still shrouded in cold shadows, Brannon Forrester and I snapped a few photos and, pointed ourselves east and began the long, slow climb off the Owens Valley floor where the pavement ends above Laws: elevation 4180'. The Silver Canyon Road climbs gradually for the first 7 miles and these early miles passed by quickly and easily. Nearing 7000' the road veered away from the creek and began climbing in earnest. Running became fast hiking became slow walking and within 3 miles we were standing at the intersection with White Mountain Road at well over 10000'. An incredible expanse of the Sierra unfolded to the west. The view stretched from the Olancha Peak area to the south all the way north to Dunderberg Peak near Conway Summit. If the range seems mighty while playing from within, its size and scope seem to grow exponentially from this White Mountains viewing platform across the valley. Standing at the road junction taking it all in, my long-distance trail runner's mind couldn't help but fixate on two particular numbers on the signage. One sign pointing west back down Silver Canyon said "Bishop 15" and the other pointing east said "Deep Springs Valley 16." Way too much of a coincidence to dismiss. It will have to be done: the White Mountains Crossing 50K had been born in my mind. We weren't even halfway done with the day's adventure and I was already planning another. Continuing north on White Mountain Road we were soon dealing with snow in shaded areas, still firm and runnable this early in the morning, and a cold north wind on exposed high points that kept the layers on and the desire to move quickly strong. The 9 miles to Patriarch Grove passed by easily, the altitude a surprising non-factor as it was my first foray above 10,000' this year. Along the way we saw a lone wild mustang casually grazing its way across the plateau. Within minutes of leaving a meltwater puddle on the road that I had busted the ice off of in a desperate, failed attempt to enhance my meager water supply, the mustang was happily lapping up the silty water. I didn't have the fortitude to indulge. The water had a coffee with cream complexion that didn't inspire confidence. Five and a half hours after leaving Laws we found ourselves quietly paying our respects in the presence of incredibly old age: The Patriarch stood before us like a sentinel over the ages. A human lifetime seems really insignificant in comparison to longevity of these beautifully gnarled, wind-sculpted trees. The snow cover on the ground took away a bit of the extreme feeling of dryness that the Whites often exude. But water was an issue for the two humans standing around in silent reverie. It was a long way back to the water source at the base of the switchbacks in Silver Canyon and I was wondering how long my system was going to go along with my playing camel. By the time we had retraced our steps to the pavement in Laws, 10 hours of meditative motion had elapsed and my quads were ready for some horizontal time. There was really only one climb in this outing but it had taken us to 11,300' and as Tom Petty sang years ago, "I'm learnin' to fly but I ain't got wings...COMING DOWN IS THE HARDEST THING." Seems like Petty knows a thing or two about mountain running.

Learnin' New Tricks At the American River 50M

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Well, it certainly is true that some old habits die a really slow, painful death (if they die at all) and, for me, as a runner, during the course of 12 years on the trails, reaching into my bag of racing tricks has consistently left me on the receiving end of a second half bonk. The lame excuse for taking it out too hard off the gun usually involves some variation on the "well, I was feeling really good" theme. Of course you felt good dumbass. It was the start of the race, responds the mental coach sometime post-death march.
It is an unassailable distance-running fact that all great performances (and it makes no difference whether you are referring to a world record at the international level or a personal best at the plodder level) are executed only after paying the hefty psychological dues at the alter of consistency. Even pacing. Even splits; negative splits even. It is incredibly challenging mentally to hold back when you are feeling invincible, when you know you could be running faster; but the reality is that those 30 seconds or so per mile you save in the early going can quickly become many minutes per mile given back to the clock when the wheels come off. If you are reduced to a walk, those minutes can transform into hours. I know. I have "bonked," "had the wheels come off," "been part of the carnage," and, generally speaking, felt more misery in the second half of more races than I care to recall.
After adding the Way Too Cool 50K to that illustrious list in mid-March I was determined to redeem myself at American River on April 4. The gun went off and the top 20 or so quickly vanished into the ghostly light of daybreak. A few miles down the bike path I tucked in behind the three lead women running in a pack. Although this was completely unplanned I knew it was a fortunate circumstance as women tend to be much smarter when it comes to race strategy than dudes. It took a few miles however and a round of introductions before the self-conscious feeling of being a male interloper in this evenly-paced estrogen club finally dissipated. The plan quickly became to stay with the lead woman through the first half and take it from there. This plan quickly unraveled as my ass decided to take center stage giving enhanced meaning to the Swedish interval running term: "fartleks" or "speed play." My version was anything but playful or enjoyable and I became fixated on my poor decision to join friends on Thursday evening for a Mexican food extravaganza for the ensuing 15 miles. On five separate occasions I found myself practically diving into the bushes alongside the bike path, completely indifferent to the abundance of poison oak, only to emerge a few minutes later and take off at an unreasonable pace until I made visual contact with the female trio again. At some point during this madness the lead female group splintered for good and I settled into my own comfort zone, thankful to have emerged intact on the other side of intestinal distress.
In spite of the lost time in the bushes and, in some ways worse, constantly losing my focus and rhythm I managed to come through 50K in 3:56, only 5 minutes off my 50K PR and feeling reasonably well. Following the customary mid-race "bad patch" that hit me this time between miles 29 and 33 things really began clicking and as the race course left the asphalt bike path and dirt roads permanently for progressively more rolling and technical single-track I became the hunter on the prowl for late-race carnage. Every time I caught someone I would get a surge of adrenaline. It felt sooooo good to be blowing by people, not because I relished their misfortune but because I knew how they felt and had completely forgotten what it was to be on the other side of the predator-prey race dynamic. By the time I crossed the finish line in 6:51.43 with a 15 minute 50M PR I had picked off 11 and only been re-passed by 1 on the final 3 mile climb to the finish. Coming in 18th I was nowhere near the fun up front but on this day it did not matter. What did was even pacing and keeping my cool. Now only one question remains: can I prove that this was not a fluke? As we all know, old habits die harder than bad action movies.

Way Too Freakin' Fast at the Way Too Cool 50K

At precisely 8:05.55 on the morning of Saturday, March 14th I had a moment of clarity. I had just run the 1st mile of the Way Too Cool 50K in under 6 minutes and I was somewhere between 15th and 20th place. After 2 miles in 12:10 my place hadn't changed much but my 20/20 vision (with contacts of course!) was no longer good enough to make out the lead pack clearly and I had forgotten to bring along my binoculars. I laughed out loud at the notion of a top 3 placing, an idea that the past 3 months of speedwork had planted inside my head, along with other delusions of grandeur.
In my 12 years as an ultra-distance runner I had thought about it often but never managed to bring myself to actually revisit the interval training of my high school/college days. I couldn't stand the thought of sacrificing mountain trail time for mile repeats on the road or track. The cold hard fact that I was not going to improve significantly at this point in my running career finally lit a fire under my ass last November and into the anaerobic world I returned. At first it was a supremely painful, lung searing proposition but "muscle memory" is a very real physiological concept and my body began to adapt quickly, better than I had anticipated actually and my mile repeat times improved dramatically over the winter. For the first time since entering the ultra world I actually felt like a runner, the way I did in high school, and not simply someone who went long and slow all day in the mountains, hiking as much as running but calling it a "run." All of this had me fired up as I drove north to Cool. It was amazing how quickly reality came crashing through my glass house of dreams. I have a looooong way to go.
Back in the throes of the race I managed to go through 10 miles in 1:16 and 20 miles in 2:23. Somewhere around mile 21 or 22 I was running behind Rod Bien whom I had been near all day and I looked down at my GPS watch: we were still managing 6:30 pace on the faster rolling single-track sections of the course. This would have been exciting except for the fact that I was hearing "passing on the left" at regular intervals and, more importantly, I was beginning to get that funny feeling in my legs that usually precedes a dramatic slowdown in pace. Sure enough there it was: 8:30 pace now felt like 6:30 and then came the infamous steepest climb of the course, Goat Hill. I "ran" the first 20 yards of it then went into walking mode. Brian Purcell (of 80's Western States 100 fame) called out "They don't call it Goat Hill for nothin'!" No doubt. At the top I had about a thousand forks in me, I was that done. Running uphill was no longer an option and I struggled in the final 4 miles. To put it in perspective my friend Rod finished in 4 flat to my 4:15 and we were together at 23 miles.
The top 2 places were taken by road runners with 2:21 and 2:26 marathon credentials. When that kind of speed shows up on the trails what are ya gonna do? Sacrifice a bit more mountain plodding time and keep on dreamin', that's what.

Spring Is In The Air

I'll apologize from the get-go here to all the skiers out there for my excitement at seeing mid to upper 70s in the forecast for the Owens Valley next week! Looks as if winter could be making another pre-mature exit as it did last year. What's bad for state-wide reservoirs is great for fair-weather runners :)
Good luck to all of you that make it out to Millpond this Saturday for the final 10K in the "Winter" Race Series. As it turns out winter never really seemed to be an apropos title for the series. When you all toe the line at 9am I will be one hour into the most competitive race of my life at the Way Too Cool 50K near Auburn; and while you are recovering an hour or so later with bagels, fruit and beverage, I will probably be wishing I hadn't missed the last 10K in order to go an extra 25!
One last thing: Karen and I are thinking of bringing back the monthly "guided" local mountain runs this summer, probably starting in June. We had great turnout for the first one, a 20+ miler on Coyote Ridge but then the numbers really dwindled and we ended up cancelling the last few altogether. In retrospect I feel we may have been a bit overambitious in the distance of the runs (most were 20+ miles) so I'm thinking this year we'd keep them to 15 miles or less. If you have any suggestions hit that comment button and type away!