You'll Shoot Your Eye Out...

We sat at Grandpa Stretch's house Sunday afternoon, visiting and enjoying our Christmas Day while A Christmas Story played in the background. Suddenly Patrick tugged on my arm.
'Papa!' he said. 'Look! That kid got a Red Rider BB gun. Just like the one I got!'

'Imagine that.' I replied. 'They stole my idea.'

No, we didn't get my nine-year-old a BB gun for Christmas. We got it for him when he turned 8. However, there are few holidays and birthdays where Patrick does not get a new gun. When I was a kid Nerf made squishy footballs and basketballs. I don't know if they still make sporting items, but they have a lucrative business in arms sales for kids. I am pretty sure that Patrick has one of every model gun they've ever made, and we have an impressive amount of suction cup and whistling bullets strewn about our house and yard.

In addition to the sponge bullet shooters, he also has an array of water guns, and his latest weapon shoots Orbeez, which are tiny water-filled balls that splat on contact with hard surfaces.

I shouldn't be surprised at his love of guns, though his father's only owned gun is a .22 pistol that, to the best of my knowledge has never been fired. After all, we live in Utah, a state that now has an 'official' handgun. It won't be long before he starts carrying an NNRA (National Nerf Rifle Association) card and touting his right to carry his recon pistol to church. He's even asked me to build a hidden gun safe into the wall of his bedroom.

Just the other night, when he refused to clean his room and put the guns away, I threatened to take them away. At this he held one aloft and cried, 'From my cold, dead hands!'

At least I know that when the Nerf-Zombie apocalypse happens I will have him to protect me...

Short and Stout...

Recently Whitney took a beginning pottery class. It has been one of the few she has enjoyed. She has been very proud of the pieces she has been bringing home.

I love the ugly mug on this mug.

She was a bit frustrated with her little tea pot. I told her it looks as a tea pot should: short and stout...

Of course, she compared hers to a tea pot Kate made in school, that we still have.

We have several of Kate's pieces from when she was in school. Of all of them her 'cat pot' is one of my favorites.

But of all of the creations Whitney has brought home, none has been more awesome than her garden gnome. She asked if we would put it in the garden, and we said no way. I love it too much to risk seeing it broken outside. He is currently guarding the kitchen, patrolling for late night food thieves.

And though this piece is not pottery, I include this bronze as another of my favorites of Kate's creation. But it's still not as cool as the gnome...

It's So Great to be Eight...

I hope you enjoy these photos from Samantha's baptism. It was a great day. Samantha played a nice piano piece before the baptism. Big brother Patrick did a great job with the spotlight. The only hitch came when I got a text 30 minutes before the baptism telling me that someone who was to give a talk, who will remain nameless (Chas) was stuck in Park City and would be late. We juggled the program, and all went well. I am very proud of her, and thankful that I could be a part of this with her.

Why do you have to be so much like me?

Often I find my kids doing things that remind me of things I did when I was a kid. When I was a kid, these things were okay. Now that I am a parent, they make no sense to me, and I find myself saying to my kids ‘Do as I say, not as I have done.’

For example, Patrick insists on riding his bike to school every day. This is a good thing. We live close enough that he should not need a ride to school, even in winter. The problem is that he refuses to wear a coat. He insists that he does not get cold, despite the fact that his cheeks (all sets) are purple before he gets there when the temperature is in the teens. I am reminded of times when I was a youth, walking to school in short pants in the middle of winter, with icicles forming on me leg hairs. Why did I do this? Why does anyone do anything? Because they can.

Last night I sent the kids down to their rooms for reading time. After a time I noticed that Patrick’s light was off. Knowing that there was no way he had gone to bed on his own, I ventured down to find the door to Samantha and Lauren’s room closed. I opened the door to find that the three had taken every stuffed animal, pillow and blanket in the house (there are many) and lined the floor of the bedroom. They had then proceeded to stuff their pajamas with pillows and stuffed animals and were punching each other in the chest and kicking each other in the butt as hard as they could, trying to knock each other down. They were also belly-flopping from the upper bunk into a pile of pillows, blankets and teddy bears.

My first thought was to get mad at them for eschewing story time in favor of roughhousing. However, though they were throwing punches, they were not ‘fighting’ as they usually do. Also, they agreed to clean up the mess. And most importantly, they were not lounging in front of the TV, thumbing through the iPod, or playing video games.

The activity reminded me of some of the many adventures we got into as kids. Specifically the slide we used to make down the basement stairs. We would drag two mattresses from our beds and place them end to end on the stairs, forming a nearly 12 foot slide. Due to the narrowness of the stairs, the mattresses were cupped, and we would shoot recklessly down the chute. At the bottom of the slide we had created a padded landing, similar to the one my kids were using to dive from the top bunk. The difference between our escapades on the stair-slide and my kids’ wrestling, is that our fun usually lasted until someone fell into tears. P-Man, Sam and Bean eventually cleaned up their mess and went to bed without incident. Maybe it’s only a matter of time before we end up in the ER with a head injury or a tooth through the lip. It’s all a part of growing up I guess…

Time to Reflect

We just got home from the Reflections contest award ceremony at the kids' school. Samantha viewed it as a waste of time because she did not get more than an honorable mention. Adding insult to her injury, Patrick got a medal for an 'award of merit'. The kids did a great job with their entries this year.

The theme this year was 'Diversity means...' Bean decided to go with an entry that featured her with her bodybuilder friend, showing that people who are different in appearance can still be good friends.

Samantha went 'Warhol' with her entry, using the same photo with several variations in color and tint with the words 'Beautiful in every color'.

Patrick's entry also showed how people of differing interests can get along. He used a picture of him with his friend Max and the raingutter regatta holding up their respective boats above the title 'Love your enemies.'

A Halloween First

Halloween was a little different this year. Just like years past, we managed to get through the pumpkin carving without a trip to the ER for stitches. But this year, for the first time, I did not go trick-or-treating. Whitney wanted to take the kids around the neighborhood, so I was able to sit on my butt and watch really bad football (Chargers v. Chiefs).

I wasn't worried about Whit taking the kids out. Her 'crazy Ute' costume stood out so much that there was no chance of a car not seeing her.

Patrick opted for the hippie look. Before he dressed in his costume, Bean informed me that he would look like 'Jimmy Hendrickson'.

Samantha first dressed as a baby. As did most of the girls in her class. So before going out that night she changed into a 'dead bride' costume.

And Bean decided to go as a lamb, leaving a trail of cottonballs as she walked.

It was a good night, though we did not have many kids come to our door. I blame that on the proponents of the trunk-or-treat. But I don't mind. Less candy handed out means more candy for me to take to work...

Beano and Goliath

Last Spring before Kate's competition, Bean had the chance to meet Phil Heath, a guest poser at the competition. I did not know who he was at this time, though I thought it was funny to see such a dainty little thing next to such a mountain of a man. Since then Bean has mentioned her meeting with Phil often, referring to him as her 'best friend'.

When Phil recently graced the cover of 'Flex' magazine, Kate picked up a copy for Bean, though it was mostly because Kate's friend Heather Dees was also featured in the magazine. Bean sat at the kitchen table, 'reading' the magazine.

Heath became Mr. Olympia for 2011 this September. This weekend he was back in Salt Lake as a guest poser, and Bean got the opportunity to see him again. I felt a little awkward taking her in, considering that most of the people that were there to see Phil had biceps the size of my thighs. We had recently been at a baptism and Bean was still sporting her brown church dress.

I found Mr. Heath to be quite genial, and was great with both Lauren and Patrick. Because of this I forgave him for crushing three bones in my hand as he shook it.

As I drove home after our meeting with Mr. Olympia I asked Lauren if she was going to grow up to be a body builder like her best friend. She said she doesn't want to look like Phil, but instead would prefer to look more like Heather. I think that's a good thing...

Notice that as the two flex their guns, Bean is still holding her Derek Jeter doll. If there was a Phil Heath doll, she would have that instead.

The Dirty Dash 2011

I'll let these pictures speak for themselves...

The Inaugural Mt Nebo Half Marathon

He awoke with a start and reached for his phone. Had he slept through his alarm? No. It was 2:50AM. The alarm on his phone would not go off for another ten minutes. He rolled over in the hope of getting a few extra minutes of sleep. He had not wanted to get up this early on a Saturday morning, but the packet pick-up for the half marathon had been in Provo on Friday. He did not want to drive all the way down there from Sandy to pick up his packet, drive home. And then have to drive all the way to Payson the next morning for the run. They were offering race day pickup, but you had to be there by 4:30 to get your bib and shirt.

He rolled out of bed just a few minutes before the alarm was to go off and staggered toward the kitchen. Usually the night before an organized run he went to bed early. This week was an exception. He and Kate had tickets to see the play ‘Mary Poppins’ the night before and he wouldn’t miss the chance for a night out with his wife. They felt like real boors, sneaking out as soon as the play ended, without staying for the curtain call. But Kate had to be up by 5 for work, so they both had an excuse as to why they needed to beat traffic and get home.

He stood in the kitchen and downed a couple of bread slices and some chocolate milk. He was not a morning person, and rarely ate breakfast. But he had learned the hard way that he needed a lot of fuel to cover the 13.1 miles that were ahead of him.
Quietly he crept back into the bedroom and switched on the closet light. He had packed most of his things the night before, and was able to quickly dress and slip in his contacts. He carried his gym bag and shoes down to the living room, where he spent the next ten minutes stretching. Flexibility was a problem for him, though it was getting much better since he started seeing a physical therapist after injuring his knee three months earlier.

By 3:30 he had extinguished all the lights in the house and quietly locked the front door behind him. The morning air smelled of rain, and he took it in as he walked to his car. The gas light came on when he turned the ignition, and he cursed himself for not remembering to fill the tank the night before. At the 7-11 he filled the tank and bought a doughnut and Gatorade.

As he turned off the freeway in Payson he noticed that he was ahead of schedule: it was 4:15. Halfway down Main Street he found the high school. He had not encountered another set of headlights since he turned off the freeway. He pulled into a parking stall and turned the engine off. The full moon was out, and everything was still and silent. The Gatorade had been the last step in a week-long hydration process. Now he realized that his bladder was full, and there were no restrooms in sight. He quickly ran across the school ground and found a dark place behind one of the buildings. It wasn’t until after he had voided that he realized that he had urinated on a seminary building. He silently asked forgiveness for his blaspheme as he retreated to the car. A slight breeze had picked up, and it was chilly.

By 4:40 he could see signs of life. Cars were one by one filing into the parking lot and soon he saw someone set up a table. He got out of the car and stepped into the line that was forming.
“Hi. I am Chris Shirley.” He said to the woman behind the table. She scanned her list for a moment.
“I am showing that you picked your packet up already.” She replied. He stared at her for a moment.
“No.” He said slowly. “I didn’t.”
“Well, you’re going to have to talk to my husband.” She said. “He’ll be here shortly, so just hang tight.”

He stepped off to the side and watched others pick up their packets. Eventually the husband appeared, and she motioned him over. The man scanned through his lap top computer and assigned him a new bib number. This meant that whoever had his packet probably didn’t know, and would look for his name on the official race time list after the run, unable to find himself. This also meant that Chris would not be listed on the official race time list.

He climbed on to one of the yellow school buses that had appeared and found a seat. He wasn’t upset about the bib mix-up. This was the first year of this run. There were bound to be minor problems. He leaned back against the window and closed his eyes as he listened to the groups of people in the other seats sharing stories of other running experiences. He had almost dozed off when the engine rumbled to life and began its ascent up the canyon.

It was 5:40 when the bus pulled off the road into a small clearing among the trees. The moon was now obscured by clouds, and he could see nothing outside the bus. As he filed down the steps he saw a flash. A young man had just started a fire. He watched as the man walked from fire pit to fire pit, dousing each set of logs with gasoline before igniting them. As the flames roared up he made out a line of port-a-potties and realized he needed one again. He had been on the first bus, and there were just a few people in line ahead of him.

As there were only a few dozen people at the start line it was easy for him to find a spot near the open flame. He wore an old sweatshirt, but still shivered. The starting elevation for this run was over 8,000 feet and the September chill was getting to him. He listened to the conversations around the campfires, wandering from one pit to another. They were all the same. People were sharing experiences from previous races, laughing at each others’ anecdotes. Sometimes a person would make the mistake of admitting that this was his or her first run. Inevitably one of the experienced runners would start to give unsolicited advice about how to run properly.

By quarter to seven there was enough light to appreciate the scenery. It was spectacular. He looked down the canyon at the countless trees, most of which were still green, with small patches of yellow creeping in. He slipped away from the crowd and found a spot to stretch one more time. Then he went through his last pre-run checklist. iPod and earphones: check. Knee brace tightened: check. Running belt with supply of Gu: check. Nipples taped: check. Bodyglide: no.

Damn, he thought. Oh well. He was ready.

He filed in with the other runners near the gate. There were only 350 runners for this event, and he enjoyed that fact that it was small. He was used to the masses at the Salt Lake Marathon. Before the horn was blown they were given their last set of instructions. The canyon was open to cars, so they had to watch their step. It was a 3,500 foot elevation drop, so they needed to be careful with the steep downhills. The organizers did not want any injuries.

Finally it was time. Just before the horn was blown he peeled off his throw away sweatshirt. He filed through the gate and immediately saw a woman ahead fall hard. As he approached he saw that she was holding her right forearm and wincing in agony. Something about the arm was askew. He thought about how best to help her. But before he could approach, an army of fellow runners and race organizers swarmed her. For better or worse, he left the injured woman behind, hoping he would not be the next.

As he came around the first bend he saw a woman dressed in orange hunting gear walking up the road. She held a crossbow in her hand. He had not expected that.

It didn’t take long before he felt the effects of the downhill running. A dull ache began to form in his shins. He did his best to shut it out. He was doing everything right. His physical therapist had shown him how he was placing unnecessary stress on his hips by crossing over as he ran. She made him run with his head down so he could see what was happening on the ground. He visualized a line on the street, careful to make sure his feet did not cross over it. He was also careful to ensure that as he kicked out his feet didn’t cross over behind him. Ever since the PT had suggested this, the pain he felt in his knees had dissipated. He wondered if he even needed the brace any more.

No…one’s…gonna….STOP! Perry Farrell wailed through his earphones.

He put his head up just as he rounded a corner and found himself face to face with the largest black bovine he had ever seen. The cow stood stock still, regarding him as he ran by. Another sight he had not expected that morning.

He was surprised as he reached the second mile marker. Usually he was able to know his distances based on the number of songs that filtered through his iPod. Generally two songs equated to one mile. He had been near the end of a Soundgarden song when he passed the first mile marker. As he reached the second, he was only through one more song. He assumed that it was simply due to the fact that the most recent song was a long version from Tool. By the time he reached the third mile marker he knew that he was running at a faster pace than his norm.

Fuel was foremost on his mind. He had had problems with running out of gas on previous long runs, and knew that by the time he felt hungry it would be too late to catch up. He had studied the map prior to the race and knew where the water stops were. He planned the Gu packets just before the water stations, so he could wash it down with some PowerAde and a water chaser.

Big wheel keep on turnin’…John Fogerty sang out Proud Mary keep on burnin’…

His running playlist was an eclectic collection of song that ranged from The Kingston Trio to White Zombie. He made a mental note to remove Social Distortion’s “Ball and Chain” when it came on.

When he passed the six mile marker he knew that he was going to set a personal record. He felt great. But he resisted the urge to reach out and slap the mile marker as he passed, something he had started on his first marathon. During the Mt. Timpanogos half marathon he had slapped the 11 mile marker as he passed it, accidentally knocking it over. He had stopped to right the marker, which did not want to stay up. He wasted more than a minute with it, which proved costly. He had missed his goal of a 2 hour half by a lousy 7.5 seconds because of it.

Fly away on my Zephyr…I feel it more than ever…

The sun had not been able to reach the bottom of the narrow canyon, and a slight breeze was all that was needed to keep things cool. He was a sweater, and had never been able to figure out why. No matter how well conditioned he was for a race, he always felt that he was sweating more profusely than anyone else. He passed a spot where a small waterfall came right near the road. The spray of the water felt great.

Just past the 10 mile marker the canyon mouth opened up, and the ground leveled out. He usually began to hit his first wall at this point, but not today. Things were going well. However, leaving the canyon also meant leaving the shade. The direct sunlight was a sharp contrast to the coolness of the canyon breeze. The road soon became a long roller coaster. The uphills were not steep, but each one seemed to get longer than the last.

He could tell that he was slowing down. His steps were shorter. He debated about whether or not he should power through, stretching his gait and racing the last couple of miles. He decided against it. He had made decent time, and didn’t want to risk injury.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

The last water stop was at the 11 mile marker. After the PowerAde he sipped a bit of the water and poured the rest down his shirt. It was a nice jolt. Fatigue was setting in and though the ache in his shins was gone, his quadriceps and hamstrings were getting tight. He began to do the math. Even if his pace was down to 10 minute miles, he was still only 20 minutes from the finish line. 20 minutes? No problem. Nothing lasted 20 minutes. Muscle pain was no problem. Joint pain was. And his joints were not signaling that they were in distress.

A policeman directed the runners from the canyon road to a residential neighborhood. He was all but there.

I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door…

He looked above the rooftops of the homes and saw the light posts for the baseball field. That was the finish line. He was all but there.

A rogue drop of sweat dove from his brow, hesitated on his eyelash, and before he could wipe it away splashed into his eye. He squinted and rubbed the eye. He hated when the salty sweat got into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision. During the cold months he ran with a cap, which served to keep the sweat out of his eyes. But he couldn’t bring himself to wear a sweatband. Something about the image of a bald thirty-something running down the road with an 80’s style NBA headband did not appeal to him.

He rounded the last corner and saw a crowd of people at the finish line. It was the first crowd he had seen. His vision was blurred enough that he couldn’t make out the time clock, other than the ‘1’ at the beginning. He had done it. He had broken through the 2 hour mark. That had been his only goal. He trotted along down the last passage as the crescendo of cheering became louder. As he passed the finish line he saw the clock: 1:49:20. He had been hoping to beat his previous best by 5 minutes. He ended up doing it by nearly 11.

He bent down and accepted as a young girl placed a finisher’s medallion around his neck. Another passed him a bottle of water.

He paced back and forth along the outfield wall, sipping the water and cooling down. After a time he sat and stretched. The elevation loss on the run had been nearly 3,500 feet. Discounting the last couple of miles that were fairly even, the grade had been better than 5%. Fairly steep.

He hadn’t broken any land speed records. He didn’t finish first. He did feel great. He had set a personal record, and done it without injuries on the most beautiful course he had ever seen. Yes, he felt pretty damn good.

Ninety Years Young!

Labor Day weekend was a little extra special this year. As most of the family was going to be in Idaho for the holiday weekend, Aunt Jan decided to coordinate a little early birthday party for Grandma Shirley, who turns 90 this year.

Jan worked very hard to ensure that the party was a surprise. Grandma knew of the party, as we have one for Labor Day every year. She was more than a little surprised when a birthday cake with her name on it was brought out with candles alight.

Jan also hit a home run with the birthday gift. She had each of Marge’s children and grandchildren write a special reflection about Grandma. She then printed them and arranged them in a book with a picture of the families on a background themed around the writer. It was touching.

Though I can’t remember word for word what I said in my reflection, I can reflect on some of the things that make Grandma special. Some of my earliest memories of Marge relate to summers spent at her home, where we would get eaten alive by mosquitoes. She always had a small green bottle with some salve with a sharp smell. She would gently dab our affected skin with the ointment, which made the itch disappear. She would take us to the St. Anthony sand dunes and stand atop the hill as a sentinel, guarding against any dune buggies that might come our way.

Marge has one of the warmest spirits I have ever encountered. I cannot recall a time when I felt that I was in trouble, though there were many times that I should have been. When as kids (and later as adults) we would do something naughty, she would just purse her lips together and raise her eyebrows. She even did this to me this weekend, when I told her I would be driving home at night, something she does not approve of.

Her mannerisms are quite unique. She has a deep, hearty laugh that Mrs. Bird (now deceased) used to imitate. And whenever we tell her something of import, she gives her famous phrase “Well for Heaven’s sake.”

I remember times when we were out hunting Christmas trees until well after dark, and returning to her house to see her standing out front, on patrol with her hands on her hips. And regardless of how late it was, there was always a hot meal served to us.

It is no secret that I still look up to my father. And when I reflect on the person he has become, I have to take note of the kind of person who raised him, and the wonderful attributes he inherited from her, as well as the hard work ethic that was instilled in him. I am grateful for the influence that Grandma Shirley has had in my life, and I am thankful that my children have had a chance to know her and spend some time with her.

Happy Birthday, Marge Shirley!

Hike 'Em Up!

The annual Shirley family campout was held last weekend at Tanner’s Flat Campground. We camped on the lower loop, where we had no threat of mountain bikers coming through the camp. My tent was so close to the creek that my kids and I had the sound of water to lull us to sleep both nights. The number one activity on any camp trip is eating, and this was no exception. Whitney has been asking me all summer to make Navajo Tacos again, so Friday night we did just that, with buttered and cinnamon scones for dessert. I also brought marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey bars for s’mores. As did Alley. As did Heather. As did Dad. The level of stickiness was off the charts. Saturday night we feasted on tinfoil dinners that Kate prepared for us (even though she was unable to attend the camp trip). Instead of potatoes she added frozen tater tots, which were a big hit with the kids. And of course no camp trip would be complete without the requisite banana boats.

To counter the mass calories consumed, we embarked on a hike up the side of the mountain. As Tanner’s Flat is a watershed area, we couldn’t ford the river, and needed to walk downstream to find some logs that had fallen across, which we used to walk over. As usual, we did not follow a defined trail. We went straight up the face of the mountain, picking between the bushes and trees as we went. After cresting the shoulder of the mountain we looped back in with the waterfall we followed last year, which I have since learned is called Red Pine. The first thing I noticed was that the water was much higher and faster this year.

Our goal was to see how high we could get this year, so we followed the Red Pine up. Because of the steepness of the canyon walls there were times that we would have to climb away from the river to more level ground, and then make our way back to the water as we got higher. At one point Dad, Patrick and I became separated from Chas and Hannah. We continued up for a time, assuming that they were somewhere ahead of us. After a while Dad decided to wait for them, while Patrick and I continued on. Up and up we went, until I could see that P-man was getting tired. For a nine year old boy he is a great climber, but the hike was a lot for even me. We were at a very steep spot, and I told him that we would just climb up to a large rock above us, and then turn back. When we crested the hill, we took a break, and as we did I looked over and saw some people with backpacks. We hiked over to them and learned that they were on the Pfeifferhorn trail, headed back from Red Pine Lake. He told us that we were still an hour away from the lake (I later learned that was a lie). Since we had no water I decided to head back.

We started down the trail, but after a quarter mile I decided to cut off the trail and make my way back to the river, looking for Dad, Chas and Hannah. We never found them, but I wasn’t worried, assuming that they had started back down ahead of us. The further we got down the waterfalls the more I started wondering what I was thinking. Because of the higher, faster water, the climb down was far more treacherous, and I found myself looking at my son, wondering how I would get him back to camp safely. The last half mile was painstakingly slow, as boulders slipped from under our feet, crashing into the water below, and we had little vegetation to use as we lowered ourselves down. I have no pictures of this, as I was spending all my energy not getting killed.


Eventually we got to the bottom, where the Red Pine connects with Little Cottonwood Creek. We began picking our way through the trees looking for the downed logs. Eventually we came across a large stone outcropping that went right into the river. We were both too spent to climb up over it, and were stuck. I decided at that point to break the rules. I placed Patrick on my back, and began to quickly cross the icy cold water. Midway through the creek I took a step and found nothing underneath me. The water went from knee deep to chest deep in an instant, and I slipped, falling forward. I grabbed Patrick’s arm and started pulling him across. His arm slipped from my grip, and in an instant I had a vision of him being swept downstream. I threw my camera up on the North bank and turned in time to see him scrambling back to the South bank. I waded over and picked him up, this time in a fireman carry. More slowly this time I waded across, pitching him up on to the bank, soaking wet and muddy.

After returning to camp and depositing him in the tent to change clothes I went to see if the rest of the party had returned. To my dismay, I found Chas, but not Dad or Hannah. They had met up, and then become separated. Chas had also found the trail, and hiked all the way up to the lake, then down to Snowbird and down the canyon, back to camp. We went to the river and looked across at the waterfall to see if we could spot them coming down, which we could not. We were about to cross over and again ascend the waterfall looking for them, when Dad came down the road. As it turns out, he and Hannah had also come down the Pfeifferhorn trail, which I guess I should have done. It was a good adventure, but we were all gassed by bedtime, and slept well.

Unfortunately I don’t have any pictures of the campout’s last day, as I completely submerged my camera. Luckily, after drying it out for a day with everything open, it recovered, and works as good as new now.
I think a nice easy hike is in order for next year, like Mount Timpanogos

My Rehab Run

The Salt Lake City Marathon did not go well for me this year. Without getting into detail, I will just say that my knee and hip ache just thinking about the 19 mile marker. After the marathon I went to see an ortho doc. She gave me a nice 'old man' brace for me knee. I looked at it and thought there was no way it was going to help anything.

I told family members that if they did not see a blog post about the Timpanogos half marathon, that it didn't go well. As you can see, I am blogging about it, and it went well.

I reported to American Fork High School at 5:00 this morning and boarded a bus that took me to the start line at Tibble Fork Reservoir. The race came down the canyon, past the Timpanogos Cave trailhead and back to the high school. The scenery was incredible. I will do this run again.

I didn't want to push it too hard, but I did have 2 goals: Finish in within 2 hours and without injury. I reached one of my goals. I am a firm believer in my new knee brace. I feel great. My unofficial finish time was 2:00:50. We'll see what the official time was. Either way, I can't feel bad about it.

Now that I can run without pain, I can keep training. In September I will run the Mt. Nebo half, another race with a serious elevation drop. The goal for that will be to beat my Timp time. But if I don't blog about it, you'll know why...

Mt. Timpanogos behind the start line