Solo Missions

After several days of 90+ degrees, the end of the week called for much cooler temperatures. I've never been good at physical performance in heat. I have a friend who thrives in it: he ONLY exercises at peak heat and loves to sweat. Like, he'll go out at 3pm for a long-run in the dead of summer. I have an uncle who lives (by choice) in Phoenix, Arizona where it's currently 115-degrees. He floods his yard to keep it alive, has a pool for his dogs, and only really goes outdoors before sunrise and after sunset. I don't get it. I mean, I love summer: I love the long days and the ability to be outside so much, but I think my ideal temperature is 67. In extreme heat (especially combined with any humidity) I generally suck at running or anything else. I get dizzy and dehydrated even if I've been hydrating better than usual. It takes me a long time to recover. On Thursday for instance, my "tempo run" which was supposed to be "on" for 10 minutes, "off" for 10 minutes, times three...totally fell apart. And it wasn't even THAT hot out yet. 

But yesterday, Friday, everything shifted. I was scheduled for a 45-mile ride, and had been wanting to try a big (for me) climb. I was mostly stoked that I wouldn't be fretting about sweating to death. What I didn't think about, was the opposite. 

My ride took me from around 5K feet (in Boulder) to almost 10K feet (Ward, CO). As I started the ride, it was dark but only misting a bit. I had a feeling it would burn off, but I wore a light jacket, just to be "safe." As I rode, conditions got more and more foggy. I had the option to bow out of the biggest part of the climb, but I was pretty set on it. I made the turn. When I was 3 or 4 miles from the summit, I couldn't see farther than 15-meters in front of my bike. No one else was on the road. I saw warning signs for bears. I said (out loud) "Not today, bears." 

When I reached the summit--marked by an epic old general store where I bought Gummy bears and Chapstick--a kid on the street said, "Well that was ballsy of you!" I felt good about it. I had climbed over 4,500 feet in 20 miles, and despite the conditions, it was a hell of an adventure. Things had only just begun, though. It was 35-degrees and I was about to go downhill. 

As soon as I turned around for the 20-mile decent, I realized I was going to freeze. My hands instantly went numb. Without the light jacket I had brought, I may have died. Or, at least had to ask a stranger to drive me back to town. No cell service. I stopped once to warm up, but I think that made things worse. I started feeling a little delirious--like the first time I hiked above 14K feet. I decided I just had to get all the way down and then worry about it. 

By the time I was back in Boulder, I was mostly fine. I shivered and chattered the entire way down--to the point that I thought I might lose control of my bike. But I made it. After a long, hot shower at the rec center, I was able to laugh at my mistake. Plan ahead, folks! One day it will be 95-degrees, and the next--depending on altitude--it could be 35. I feel like I've learned this one before; but, lesson re-learned! 

Paris, France *Swoon*

On March 12th, we were scheduled to fly to Paris for spring break. We were excited. We had been counting down the days for weeks. But really, we had been planning this trip for over a year. Our flight was mid-day, so we decided to check-in online before driving to the Denver airport. A warning popped up: our passports were due to expire within 3 months of our return. We made a lot of phone calls, but to no avail. A newish rule states that expiration within 3 months now prevents you from flying to many countries in Europe. Our vacation was off. We unpacked our bags from a trip we didn't take. It was a sad, sad day. 

We lost the money from our AirBnb, but we recovered our frequent flyer miles, which meant we were able to reschedule. After riding on anticipation for a little longer, we made it to Paris almost exactly 2 months after our original trip was scheduled. And it was bliss. 

In college I spent a winter term traveling throughout Italy. At the beginning of that trip we flew into Paris, spent one day (I went to the Louvre) and then took a train to Italy. That was 15 years ago. I hadn't been back since. 

This time we didn't have a plan, really. Some ideas, but no itinerary. We met up with friends  who are finishing a year-long sabbatical from university jobs. We bought a baguette each morning, and slathered it with jam. We took long, long, long walks in every direction. We swam in one of the city pools and accidentally broke all of the rules. We climbed 300 steps to see the views form the highest point. We talked about how the appreciation for art and culture is so wildly different from America. We tracked the street artist Invader. 

Invader

Renew your passports, people! And get to Paris no matter what obstacle you encounter.  

Horsetooth Half Marathon

Post race

Sorry Indiana: I don't think I can ever run a flat race again. Running big hills is just too much fun. I've been sort of terrified of this race since I signed up in February. The net elevation gain over 13.1 miles is only 1,000 feet, but the hills are steep: really steep. Within the first 1.7 miles you gain more than 500 feet. (There's a cash prime for the first man and woman to reach the top of those first 2 big hills). Another pretty significant hill is at mile 4, and another one at 8. But then, smooth sailing to the finish line. I highly recommend this race: the opposite of any race experience I've had in big cities. Start time was 8:30 (about an hour and a half too late if you ask me). People show up at 8:15. No drama, no chaos, no waves. Just 1,200 people looking to eat some hills for breakfast. Everyone was so happy to be there. The 1:45 pacer couldn't have been nicer! Small crowds gathered around the hills and dams of the reservoir to cheer. There were cowbells. This is what racing is supposed to be like. The finish line is at the New Belgium Brewery in Ft. Collins, which is a beautiful place to hang out. A (really good) band played, people relaxed on the lawn and enjoyed either free beer or, like me, DAIRY FREE CHOCOLATE MILK! 

Monster Mountain

As soon as my quads are fully recovered from the downhill sections, I'll be back on those hills to train. And I'll certainly be back next year: by that time, I hope to be able to sprint up the hills with super lungs and legs. 

Support Local

Since December I've been mulling over the idea of a big race. For a long while, I thought I had decided on a half Ironman (70.3). I started following the Boulder Ironman 70.3 club on Strava. I toyed with the idea in my mind. I even told a few people. But then I got uncomfortable with it. I had some weird anxiety dreams, and a few times felt like I was actually panicking about it before I had even signed up. Finally, finally, I realized it didn't feel right because it's so massive. So corporate. When I lived in NYC, I got overwhelmed with racing and took a year off from entering any event. In NYC the races were enormous fields (tens of thousands of people), and sold out in a matter of seconds, 4-5 months in advance of race day. To me, that's not fun. I realized that's what was giving me stress. So I did a search for locally owned and operated races. I found a series with an 800-participant cap that includes 3 events throughout the summer for the same price as one Ironman event. Now I'm excited to compete. I'm excited to keep my money local, and support people who live in my community. Ironman was bought by a billionaire in China a couple years ago, and while that's not necessarily bad for the sport or the brand, I like my money and support going to the grassroots folks. I spent most of last summer living in Buena Vista and Leadville: two towns with populations under 3,000 people. Everything in these alpine towns is local. Everything is mom-and-pop. Leadville is known for high-altitude endurance sporting events, and the town takes pride in the fact that they support world-class athletes. When I had my bike shipped from NYC, the locally-owned bike shop took better care of it than I've experienced anywhere else. I've been back to that shop, for gear and gifts, because I like the people who run it. 

Sometimes it's impossible to avoid the big-box places, but not very often. I've found--maybe especially in Colorado--that if you look around a bit, you can find a small business version of just about anything you're looking for. And those people take pride in what they're doing: like artists, they're doing it because of passion. I can support passion any day. Bring on the (local) race season!

Ed Whitlock

I'm currently training for a half-marathon in Fort Collins that has massive hills with such names as "Monster Mountain" and "Dam Hill." This will be my first real race at elevation: my first mile-high. With all that up (and down), my goal time is pretty conservative. I was thinking about not even wearing a watch: just going with the road and the pain and wind that lives in the reservoirs of Northern Colorado. 

When I started running with my father in 1990 we didn't use any technology: it didn't exist. No Garmin, no Gu, no distractions. When Ed Whitlock started, there was no such thing as running shoes. It pains me that we lost this legacy to cancer--the thing that takes our best. But, Ed taught us a lot: to get out there, to do the thing, to listen to the body. Leave the phone and the music and the heart-rate monitor at home. Shoes. Laces, I guess. That's about all you need. Keep competing, if only against yourself. 

Pour one out for Ed: he likely ran his last half-marathon faster than I'll run my next! 

I'm In the Hive!

A few months ago Honey Stinger put out a call for (non-pro) athletes to tell their story, and to get sponsorship. I figured, why not? When I lived in NYC I worked part-time at a running/triathlete store. I had spent my whole life running, and had never used any nutrition--a lot of it didn't exist when I started putting in miles with my dad as a kid. In New York, we had a lot of reps come in to talk up their products. I started doing longer runs, and cycling a bit. When I was on the bike for hours at a time, I got shaky: I needed calories. Because I had access to all of the newest nutrition (where I worked), I tried it all (except the truly nasty flavored gels). Most people who knew me (and knew how active I was) couldn't believe that I waited so long to try "the goo." Some of it was ok--mostly it tasted like dessert, which isn't (always) bad. Cake icing, jelly donuts, and pie filling. But I never liked the fact that it was chemicals. I always felt like I'd rather be consuming something real and natural. 

It wasn't until I moved to Colorado last summer that I put an honest effort into finding nutrition that was real food; and I landed on Honey Stinger. I've never been the kind of person to preach about product--people tend to be obnoxious about it--but for me, having a natural/real food option works really well. I'm a purist: the classic "gold" is my favorite, mainly because it's just pure honey, water, and enough sodium to help with hydration. Plus there's really nothing better than getting to the top of a mountain and sucking down a packet of honey. I'm being serious. I love it.  

I'm stoked to be sponsored by Honey Stinger. I'm not going to wallpaper my bedroom with Honey Stinger packets...actually, now that I'm writing this...I might. But, it feels good to be part of something: The Hive. Now I guess I have to do that 70.3 don't I? 

#StingorBEEstung #HoneyStinger #HSHive 

Women's March

Denver

Everything about the worldwide Women's March on Saturday was impressive. The sheer number of people who came out, and how wildly that number exceeded what was expected in every city. The fact that there was no violence, and no arrests. The fact that it was a WORLDWIDE event; and that it was organized both globally and locally by women. The fact that there were marches in even traditionally "red" and conservative cities. And on, and on. I desperately wanted to make it to Washington DC, but work responsibilities and money, kept me in Colorado last weekend. However, like most others, I was shocked at the number of people in Civic Park, in downtown Denver. I was also super surprised at how warm and welcoming the entire event was. My mother spent the 60s and 70s protesting nonstop: women's rights, civil rights, Vietnam. I always assumed that protests (though, this wasn't that, exactly) had an air of anger. Certainly that exists--there are plenty of reasons to be angry--but that wasn't the attitude on Saturday. People were happy to be there: it was a community. I asked several people if I could take their picture, with their signs, and they all seemed so touched. Like, "Yes, document that I was here: that I stand for this." For the past couple of months, I've generally felt embarrassed by our nation; but on Saturday, I was utterly proud. Friends of mine from Indiana, NYC, Texas, DC, and LA sent pictures from their respective march. All I can think is, there's hope. 

Denver

I put together a Vimeo from all of the signs that I saw and received. 

Here are some of my favorite lists from other collections of signs seen at marches from around the world. David Byrne! 

The Beginning of the Beginning

I had to share my birthday week with inauguration this year, which was not cool. I keep talking to people about how this could have happened. (Not the unfortunate birthday/inauguration reality, but the election itself). I think most people (or, most people I know) have just been in a sort of confused haze for the past 2 months. And, maybe because of the past 8 years, kept thinking something would stop this: someone would swoop in and save us. I've never been really into comic-book style heroes, but lately I've been watching Luke Cage. It was filmed where I just moved from in Harlem; in fact, a few scenes were literally in our building. It's fun to recognize all of Harlem in the show: a version of home. But, what's really lasting about it, is that the cast is full of diversity. Black actors and female actors are in all of the important roles. This seems crucial, especially now. I miss Harlem for its deep culture. I'm going to miss seeing Obama--who, in many ways, came to embody a sort of hero--and his family in the White House. Politics aside, the Obama family has been empowering, beautiful, humbling, generous, hilarious, and healthy for this country. 

So, as Luke Cage and Barack Obama have both said, Forward, always. My twin brother came to Colorado to celebrate our birthday. We talked about a lot of things: NYC, art, the seeming impossibility of the new president, and what comes next. We went skiing, and (indoor) rock climbing. We ate cake. I've been thinking about what, specifically, I should do to counter the extreme anxiety that seems to be clouding the nation, and my own mind. Get strong, I guess. Get as strong as possible in as many ways imaginable.  

To close out the birthday weekend, we went to see Louis CK in Denver: it was fabulous. Without mentioning names, he walked us through all kinds of humor about the current state of things. It's good to laugh. It's good to be surrounded by creativity. It's necessary to have people help us look at things in a way that makes sense. Louis CK paints pictures--or, makes little films, actually--with all of his narratives. As an artist (of sorts), I've always thought that the ultimate goal would be to write something that is equivalent to an aching violin. But now I think being a narrative stand-up comedian is it. Maybe a violin-playing narrative stand-up comedian. Goals. 

Rapha Festive 500 Story

Check out my story via Vimeo!

Rapha's #Festive500

From Christmas Eve to New Year's Eve, Rapha facilitates a challenge for cyclists to ride 500 kilometers in 8 days. That works out to about 38 miles per day. Which can be a lot, especially in winter conditions. I started getting obsessed with the weather about 2 weeks before the start of the challenge. Which felt a lot like checking the weather for Santa as a child. Except reverse. This time I was hoping we DIDN'T get a white Christmas. Hopefully the children praying for the white stuff were satisfied with the few flurries that fell right as I was riding, late Christmas morning. Luckily, the rest of the week's weather was pretty impressive: mostly mild (think 30s and sometimes 40s) and only a few exceptionally windy sections. (Well, days 5 and 7 were almost entirely wind...still!) 

I noticed a few things: even though I swim, bike, or run every day without rest days, biking every day for nearly 3 hours makes me WAY hungrier than usual. I went through a lot of Trader Joe's Joe-Joes. Second, the sun is everything. Day 1 was 62 miles, and when I started it was 17-degrees. Day 3 was only 16-degrees at the start. But both days had beaming sun. And both days had me sweating. Also, after biking a lot of hills, flat rides are super boring, but necessary, to recover the legs. I think I could actually keep this up for some time, but I miss running. 

A few mornings (Day 4, 6, and 8) I started the day with a swim before my ride. I found that that actually helped. Or maybe it was the fact that I ate a real breakfast on those days instead of just a Clif bar or a banana. Oatmeal for the win! (Thanks, Doug's Diner). 

I saw (and spoke to) a lot of animals along the way. Specifically deer, cows, horses, and alpacas. The alpacas were always the most curious. Like, "What in the world are YOU?!" They're such Muppets. 

I also really enjoyed seeing people around the world doing the challenge. I started following a few people on Instagram and Strava who are in Belgium, the UK, and Italy. It's pretty great to see people doing (virtually) the same thing, time zones away.

Next week it's supposed to dip into teens as the high, and negative numbers as the low. I certainly lucked out, even when my toes got crazy numb despite shoe covers. By day 6, I felt like I had learned how to dress perfectly for between 20 and 35 degrees. It's an art. This is my first winter in Colorado, but if it keeps giving us sun and solid biking days most weeks, I'm in for the long haul. And I'm definitely looking forward to the next challenge. 

Frank Waln, 7 (featuring Tanaya Winder)

This past October 10th, 26 cities in the United States celebrated Indigenous Peoples’ Day instead of the wildly offensive Columbus Day. Frank Waln released a single that day, “7.” It’s catchy and hypnotic, but also jarringly accurate in its accusations and calls to action.

Waln grew up on the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota, and has recently been getting a lot of press. Most notably, because his anthem is being echoed among the Water Protectors gathered to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline.

In many ways, the United States is stepping back in time. Or, it’s never bothered to right some serious wrongs.  

Currently, at the Oceti Sakowin Camp, Natives from Sioux, Lakota and other tribes across North America, have gathered to peacefully protect the water. This has made mainstream news as of late, but unsurprisingly, it took a while. Generally, the popular media does not recognize this ongoing plight as worthy of spotlight. Frank Waln is changing that.

“7” (which references the 7th generation Lakota people) is more than just a song: it’s an anthem, and a poem, and a plea. It’s necessarily angry, and that’s what sticks. The track opens with lines spoken by poet Tanaya Winder, and closes with Waln sobbing, while a Lakota elder prays for healing. I mostly love this song because my grandfather would have loved this song, and I've spent my whole life wishing I could have known him. 

There’s no way to ignore this. The drum. The war cry. The truth. Waln ends with, “we’re stronger and we know it now, we know it now.” 

Grandfather Hollis

Opt Outside Always

Seen on my bike ride to the sand dunes

It's Black Friday, as they say. And I've been having a hard time imagining how anyone could be in the mood for shopping...especially holiday shopping. But then, I've never enjoyed shopping, and have rarely enjoyed "the holidays" in a traditional sense. This year seems different: like a collective blah has settled in. The cure, for sure, is to be outdoors. There's not enough adventure in holidays, in my opinion. I'd much rather go explore than sit on a couch. So, we rented a Jeep and drove to the Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve in southern Colorado. We found a cabin, built a fire, biked, climbed, and swam in a hot spring pool while the air temperature was 26-degrees. 

We read the history of the dunes. They started forming 440,000 years ago from the sand deposits of the Rio Grande. They're surrounded by the insanely impressive (now snow-capped) Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range. To go from soaking in natural 106-degree water, to bounding down enormous sand/snow dunes in the middle of the mountains, it's shocking (and also brilliant) that it's not as crowded as the malls. This place--this region, this state, this country--is full of staggering beauty. 

But, it's also in some pretty funky danger as of late. Driving back from glamping down south, I listened to Frank Waln, and sent some support to the Veterans for Standing Rock. If I were rich and/or famous, I would be donating a huge chunk of money to these guys. What happens at Standing Rock, will inevitably have an effect on the dunes, and all of us. As far as I can see, it will make or break everything.

Darker Now

Well holy hell. If there's anything more crushing than watching an awful, racist, misogynistic coward elected to lead the United States, it's losing a beautiful, calm, creative poet and songwriter. Leonard Cohen has always been an angel to me. I've been listening to his latest album for the last 24 hours. Who else is there to grieve with? For the first time since I've been in Colorado, I sort of longed to be in NYC--just to be surrounded by diverse faces, all of us broken. New York City knows how to mourn. Cohen does what every artist wants to do: he captures the sharpest versions of emotion in the truest way. His songs assure you, he's been through it all, just like you: he'll help you with your version. Here's a little more about one of my best days with Cohen in the city. We're so sad to see you go, man. The game isn't the same without you. 

Challenge Complete

When we were 5 years old, my twin brother and I got matching BMX bikes. I named mine "Speedy," because together, we were. We lived on a dead-end road: virtually danger-free. I'd ride Speedy up and down the road, all afternoon, until dark. I'd give myself little challenges, even then. Pedal down and back without stopping. Race Thomas. Have dad time me. Anything to get better, and stronger. These days, climbing 9,000 meters in a month is not an easy task. But I did it. (Actually, 9,135 meters). I don't ride every day. Sometimes I run and swim. Sometimes I row. So, riding 3-4 times a week to get to 9K was actually even more difficult than I imagined. It was those long climbs that made the difference. Those rides that gave me 10-12% of my goal; those made it doable. 

On a nearly 4-hour, 50-mile ride, with 4,000 feet of gain from Loveland, Colorado to Estes Park, the long way, I thought about a lot of things. For one, I tried to name all of the characters from The Wire. (That show had the BEST names). But also, about all of the little things you notice when you're riding--especially when you're riding uphill, and thus at a pretty slow pace. A single shoe. A washcloth. Painted notes for traffic signs. A deer skull. A deer ribcage. A sign for "help yourself honey." Those things stick. A friend of mine is writing about her trek across the Mojave Desert on a road bike. It wasn't what she was expecting it to be, which is exactly the point of a challenge. I've got two new goals for next month. For one, to ride a century: a lot can happen in 100 miles, I'm sure; but I've never ridden that long, so I need to find out what, for myself. 

The Challenge

The top of the climb to Estes Park

I joined Strava a couple of months ago. I'm late to the game, I know. It's been around since 2009, and acts as a social network for athletes, in addition to tracking every statistic of every ride, run, row, or hike. You can also enter challenges, which is right up my alley. I tend to not enjoy competing directly with a group (hence my resolution at the beginning of this year to NOT enter organized races...though I may break that promise in November to try my high-elevation legs at a 5K). I raced in college (running), almost every week, and then for years after. Don't get me wrong, I love to win, and I love to go fast, no matter the sport. But I really don't like the ritual of outright competition. What I do love, to the point of obsession, is competing with myself. I almost always run alone, and ride alone. I like the meditation of it, but also, turning the pressure up when no one else is around...and when no one else cares. 

I'm still completely enamored with Colorado: the endless incredible roads to ride, and the crazy climbs. This month I entered a cycling challenge on Strava. The goal: to climb 9,000 meters by the end of the month. It's the 15th; I'm at 49%. These past couple of weeks have been tough, but now it gets tougher. I'm going out of town next weekend, which means I'll be away from my bike, and away from my mountains. I have no doubt that if I don't make it by the 30th, I'll spend my Halloween doing repeats on my closest hill. That's just in me. 

There's something hugely satisfying (to me) about completing a task that gains no real recognition. Sure, the 15 people following me on Strava--many of them strangers--might give me a "thumbs up," but that's about it. Except, of course, the knowing--the determination to finish something, as often as possible, alone. 

On the Brain

I don’t think I have the smarts for it, but lately I’ve been thinking I should have pursued neuroscience. I started reading Patient H.M.: A Story of Memory, Madness, and Family Secrets by Luke Dittrich. The Kirkus Review describes it as, “Oliver Sacks meets Stephen King,” which I agree with. The brain is so incredible, which seems like a painfully simplistic and obvious thing to say, but it’s true. I’m teaching at a community college in northern Colorado, and I’m talking with my students almost every day about brain activity, how memory works, and how we learn. In Dittrich’s book he explores how relatively new what we know about the brain really is. We’re constantly learning about the thing that controls us.

I’ve recently become mildly obsessed with synesthesia: an overlapping multi-sensory experience; something Oliver Sacks also wrote a lot about. I think, most likely, I’m taken by synesthesia because it’s that experience that poets constantly try to capture, and think through. What a banana sounds like is the whole point of poetry. Thinking about how songs taste, and what colors feel like is hilarious and great to me. I could cross and combine senses all day.

In my creative writing workshop at Watershed in Buena Vista, Colorado, I had students of all ages smell, taste, and listen to several sensory examples. We talked about the memories and reactions that came out of tasting arugula, smelling chocolate, and listening to Maurice Ravel’s Bolero. I hope that someone will do something to combine them all. But more so, I hope that we can all think about the incredibly poetic science that’s going on in our brains when we use our senses.

Riding my bike home from rowing on a lake near my apartment, I usually smell what everyone in the neighborhood is cooking for dinner. Meatloaf, lasagna, burgers. That’s one of my favorite parts of the evening. Just being able to smell, and imagine. Just being able to train my brain to remember the ride through my nose. 

Watershed

For the past few months, I've been working on a project about signs. Specifically, Colorado signs. A combination of photography and translation, I launched a show last week at Watershed in Buena Vista, Colorado. It was a little bit amazing. The community in BV is impressive, to say the least. I met so many great people, and got so many "sign stories." I really appreciate the entire experience. Check out some photos of the the process! 

Back on the Water

When I was in first grade, my father's job moved us to central Ohio--right downtown, Columbus. If you've ever been to Columbus, you know that Ohio State University dominates the city. Also, two rivers, the Scioto and the Olentangy, meander through campus and the surrounding suburbs. When I saw a crew team for the first time, it was like seeing a giant, graceful, 8-legged animal. I wanted to do that. I loved watching the Ohio State crew practice. Sometimes my parents even let me get close enough to the river to see exactly what the rowers were doing. The slide, the oars, the blades, the riggers. Lucky for me, my father's job gave us a house in one of the wealthier areas of the city; meaning, I got to go to the rich school. I counted the days until I was in high school, and could sign up for the crew team. It was everything I wanted it to be. Physically, one of the most demanding sports imaginable. Mentally, so many things to think about. Most people don't realize this. We met for practice on the Olentangy River, at the end of a dirt road, where a camp had been turned into our boathouse. We ran a few miles, did calisthenics (the first time I learned what a burpie was), and prepared our boats for the water. There was a lot to learn, about the equipment, about balance, about the lingo. I was tall and skinny, but more determined than anyone. I sat port, and eventually sat stroke. I set the pace. We traveled all over the midwest, and competed against colleges and private high schools at some of the most impressive regattas in the region. I rowed crew both spring and fall seasons, for my entire high school career. And at the end, I had no idea what I would do without the water. 

I ran a lot. I rode my bike. But every time I'd see a truck hauling sculls, or a crew on the water, I'd get an ache. In graduate school, I joined a private club. It really is like riding a bike. I got up before dawn and drove 12 miles to a little lake. Lake Lemon. We saw eagles, and deer, and no one else was awake. I learned how to scull, and how to maneuver a single. Sometimes on my way home, I'd stop at a friend's house for blueberry pancakes. Post-row is an incredible combination of pain and resilience. 

After more than 7 years out of the boat, I'm finally relishing new blisters again. Northern Colorado has lakes: lots of them. This week I woke at 4:30am to meet other rowers at the water by 5:15. We watched the sun rise over the mountains to the sound of oars feathering and water rushing under the hull. It was nothing less than perfect.   

Kent Haruf

In college, I read all of Kent Haruf's books and imagined his fictional town of Holt, Colorado. Last week, I rode my bike 62 miles from Loveland, Colorado to Cheyenne, Wyoming. About halfway, I came upon a little, rural town called Ault (population 1,574). It was just as I had imagined Holt. I checked Benediction out at the library. Haruf's final book. The plot here, if there is one, is time, and age, and death. Not a lot happens, except, everything happens. The character who all the rest call "Dad," is dying. Rapidly. There's reflection. There's coming to terms with mistakes. There's life to put to an end. Haruf's real talent was capturing humanness. And dialogue. A book where you come to know the characters so well that you feel related. I finished reading this book as I rode in a truck from NYC back to Loveland, Colorado--home. What I noticed was, Kansas is huge. This country is enormous. So much farm land. So many people living simple lives with simple jobs. But really, we're all the same. We enjoy accomplishing tasks. We enjoy being quiet, watching the afternoon drift by. We love people. We miss people. We want someone there at the end, when breathing gets tough, and our last day drifts into night. My only lament in finishing Benediction is that I live so close to Holt now, and Haruf is gone. 

Justin Vernon

In case you missed it, Kanye West named Justin Vernon as his “favorite living artist.” Recently, Vernon performed at the Sydney Opera House, and will be at his own Eaux Claires music festival this weekend (August 12-13). If you’re going, you will not be disappointed. In Sydney, an acapella version of “Heavenly Father” was captured and is incredible. Especially because Vernon is standing with a group, in a circle, backs to the audience. There’s light clapping and thumping on chests. There’s Vernon in a t-shirt and a ball cap that says, “My Other Truck is They Might Be Giants.” Everyone else is in black. Everyone else an instrument. Vernon puts his whole self into this song. It’s all that matters. I wasn’t there, but I’ve watched the videos from Sydney non-stop for weeks. I did see Bon Iver a few years back. I had just moved to New York City: still impressed with the lights. I got in touch with the guys from Jagjaguwar, who I knew from my time in Bloomington, Indiana. I ended up with front-row seats at Madison Square Garden. It was one of the best nights of my life. The point is, I agree with Kanye. Vernon is the kind of musical genius that makes everyone he works with better; you can just see that. People like Vernon are rare. You recognize them because you love their music, of course, but also because they’re constantly trying such new things that at first you wonder, “Can he do that?” Can he sell out the Sydney Opera House and perform in a t-shirt? Can he keep singing that way? Can he work with Kanye? Can he switch from jazz to metal to harmonica within a single song? Yeah, he can. Spend some time with the Sydney Opera House videos. If you can, get to Wisconsin. Watching Justin Vernon is as phenomenal as watching an Olympic athlete. So do both.