Time to get hammered

We are cribless. The girls spent their first night in their big beds and we heard nary a peep from their room. 

We are a house without tiny plastic potties, daytime diapers, bottles, daytime pacifiers, baby toys and Baby Einstein.

We're taking the house back, dammit, one milestone at a time.

A love story

For months and into a year I've had to put up with crap stacked on the futon. Stuff crammed into the closets. Shit, really, in every tiny corner of the basement.

Then the girls (finally) got a bit older, and, therefore, didn't need the mounds of baby toys, clothes and whatever else, enough to supply the population of India.

Then we had a garage sale.

Then water leaked into our basement, molding the old carpet.

So I had to pack up the basement. But this was an opportunity, not a sentence, even if it felt like it sometimes.

Weeks more of waiting, but Friday, the new carpet was installed.

And I organized and unpacked and sorted.

And we have a new basement, with a (sorta) toy room and an over-organized, clutter-free life. At least underground.

My type-A, anal itch for putting things in their place is finally, blissfully scratched and twitterpated.

Make up session

We almost broke up.

I was pissed. I had worked my mind up for a tempo run (not an easy task at 6:45 a.m., at least not for me), was dressed and ready to go and stepped outside. It had been a while for a tempo run, and I was practically excited for it.

I expected the bite on my skin, raising my goose bumps, but I was still ready. It's OK, dear, I thought, I can take that. I've taken that many times from you in the past. I know you're a little fickle. 

But as I was strapping Andie and Allie in their seats, just two minutes away from the start of my run, I heard a splatter, then a spatter, then a hard splat. Oh, no. You wouldn't dare, would you, dear?

My frown turned into a growl. Rain. At 6:50 a.m. It was cold and wet. Warm and wet is lovely. I had that last week, during a two-hour run in the rain, as summer gave me one last kiss. Cold and wet, quite frankly, sucks.

Wow. Summer never even got to say good-bye. You just couldn't wait, could you dear? And what a start.

I was not talking to her as I drove to the gym and parked my car. No way. I scowled as the rain soaked my arms and made my shirt stick to my skin. Fine. I'll lift. You won't stop me from working out.

Ugh. I was really pissed.

The rain came down even harder. Unapologetically, actually, as if she didn't care just how poorly she was ruining my day. I got in the car, sniffling from the rain that ran down my cheeks and the cold that frosted them. Grrr.

I decided to make her jealous. At least I'll have a hot shower when I get home. Maybe it's better to just stay inside for the season, I said.

Maybe it worked. The sun broke through the muck that afternoon, and this morning was gray and a little dark and a little nippy. But clear and cool and crisp. Crisp. Ah. You always seem to know what I like, baby.

I had to wear an extra layer but no gloves and shorts. I never overheated. I never sweated too much, just enough to let me know I was working. I breathed in and breathed out. The cool air teased me, then embraced me. She saved the wind for later, after I was done.

I had goose bumps at the beginning and the end.

Dear, dear Fall. Welcome back. I've missed you.

Fretting (and not on the guitar)

I'm not really a worrier. I used to stare into the sky before climbs, but I always go to bed with the knowledge that I can't control the weather, so worrying about it takes away energy that I'll surely need on the peak.

I still need that energy - my kids are still around, along with a wife just getting over the swine flu - but I find myself worrying more than ever.

Maybe it's because I work in the newspaper business, not exactly a reassuring career, but I continue to have a hard time believing this recession/depression is getting better anytime soon. I don't WANT to think this way, just like I want to honestly believe there is no such thing as climate change and that our health care will be reformed in a smart way and that we'll find a way to deal with our crippling national budget deficit. But more and more, I can't. 

Our city of 100,000, Greeley, is cutting $10 million from its budget this year. One of largest car dealership closed. My favorite downtown restaurant closed. 

Worst of all, I fear my fantasy football team might be mediocre, squeezing what little joy the NFL brings me these days (I am, after all, a Chiefs fan).

Sometimes I honestly think if my children will have a future at all, which is terrible to think and a little worthless, since 20 years ago, it was 1988, and times have changed since then (it was a time when you WEREN'T sick of "Pour Some Sugar On Me," for instance, in fact you begged to hear that song, and don't deny it, you know you did).

Anyway, these days I fret, a little too much, in fact. Funny. At one point all I worried about was the repealing of the poker law. Now I'm not sure I care. We've got bigger problems.

So I've booked my trip to Vegas. I'll be there for blogger weekend, starting Thursday. I'll try to soothe my fears with mediocre poker, Steel Panther and maybe a drink or two.

It may not work, but at least I can say I was there one more time before all that glamor comes crumbling to the ground.

Anatomy of a race

Breaking down the Labor Day Park-to-Park 10-miler in Denver.

4:49 a.m. - Coldplay's "Viva a Vida" wakes me up. I didn't pick the song, but I like it. I throw the sheets back in the hotel and flip off the air conditioner. I try to poop. No go. Uh oh. Pooping is the most important thing you can do before a race. Besides dressing.

5:15 a.m. - Time to caravan the cars. This course ends 20 minutes from the start at the Denver Zoo. I'm tired. I've had a busy few weeks and they are catching up to me. But I crank Metallica's latest, and I feel the first jolt of excitement about the race halfway through "That Was Just Your Life." I was beginning to wonder. I wish I had more control over how I felt before a race, but a little person inside me determines that.

6:35 a.m. - The race is close to starting, and we walk up to the starting line. I'm relieved to see a generous helping of port-a-potties. I do the deed. Thank God.

6:59 a.m. - Nerves blast through my body as the Star Spangled Banner rings out. I'm getting into the mindset you need to have to ignore pain, exhaustion and discomfort for as long as I can. The music helps.

7:01 a.m. - Stratrovarious speeds through my ears. And we're off.

7:03 a.m. - Dammit. I can already tell this race may not be my best. My body feels tight. I run into a 7:45 pace, which is what I'm hoping for, but it feels like I'm dragging my body with it, rather than floating along. Not a good sign.

Mile 3 - This is a pretty race. Lots of parks. I try to notice. I'm maintaining a good pace, around 7:40 or so, but my body still feels like it's made of iron, not paper mache.

Mile 3.2 - Hills. Shit.

Mile 4 - Oh man. This hill's a killer. The whole mile is uphill, and I've got a cramp in my side. I try to ignore it, and surprisingly, I do a pretty good job. My attitude remains good, but not even speed metal can drive it away. I'm maintaining a pretty good pace up the hills, but I've just got to get over the top. Ouch. The cramp really hurts.

Mile 4.3 - I consider walking it off, but I'll lose a lot of time. I'll run through this, but if it gets any worse, I'll have to walk.

Mile 5.5 - Whew. OK. I'm starting to feel better. I dig through a pocket in my shorts and find some Sport Beans. I try to eat a couple. I stick them in my cheek, and they sit there, like a patch of tobacco. Eating something is tough when you're breathing hard, and I don't really need it, but if I start to feel tired, it's too late and I've blown my race.

Mile 6 - So far, so good, still on pace, I just ran a sub-48-minute 10K. Or close to it.

Mile 7 - Ugh. The troll is starting to creep in my head. I've done a good job of keeping him out, but I can only block my thoughts for so long. This is something I'll have to work on this fall during my half marathons. The troll doesn't tell me to walk, but it does whisper in my ear that it sure would be nice to stop.

Mile 8 - I'm tired, and these constant rolling hills aren't helping. It seems like as soon as I finish one I've got another to tackle. The hills aren't steep but they are consistent, and that's almost worse. I can't really find a groove. I start to fall off pace. What's worse is I stop caring.

Mile 8.5 - Well, my plan to finish strong is gone. I'm really tired, my body's tired and my legs are heavy. I'm really looking forward to the finish. I try to find a pace and stick with it, and I fear that that pace is 8:45. Sigh. I don't have it anymore today.

Mile 9.5 - I'm dying here. I feel like I've got a sack of sand tied to my ass. What a disappointment. It's small consolation that I am able to run hard at the end.

Mile 10 - I'm done. 1:20:22. 8:01 pace. Still good, but disappointing given my good start.

Walking to a blueberry muffin is difficult. I've got to get something in my body.

Why did I finish so poorly? I ponder this as I wait for my friends to finish. I have three thoughts. One is I'm tired. Those peaks were difficult, and we ran the mile Wednesday (6:05 was my time), and your body can break down occasionally. I didn't give myself a chance to peak.

Second is I wonder if I have the mental strength for something like this. I should have just stuck with it, even if I was feeling bad. Sometimes I don't suck it up enough.

Third is I didn't eat enough and it caught up to me, and not only that, but all the hills caught up to me. This course was harder than I thought it would be.

The rest of the day I walked around the zoo with the kids, and now I'm on the couch. I'm really exhausted. I should feel better about the day than I do. That, too, is part of getting better.

I walk the line

I looked at Teakettle's cirque of amazing features, shapes that such be displayed in a pottery gallery, really, and as we approached the final traverse that led to its summit tower, I should have felt awe, inspiration and excitement.

That's what I would have felt in the past. That's what I was feeling now. But I also felt something else: An undercurrent of fear.

This is the first year since I had kids that I began really stretching my abilities. I started with a climb in the Never Summers range, a climb up the Hart Ridge with Cirrus and Lead mountains. That was a nice warm-up, a couple of ridges, some exposure, even a little danger.

Then I really pushed it with a climb up Capitol the weekend before Saturday's attempt of Teakettle, 13,800+. I was fine up until K2, but as we started to crawl over its top and back down, I was a little nervous, and then, as I stared as its knife ridge, I felt fear.

I hadn't felt fear in a long, long time in the mountains, certainly not for five years, at least. And this fear was different. Tears actually sprang to my eyes as I gathered the group and told them I wasn't sure I should go on. It's not my life any longer, I told them. It's the lives of a 4-year-old and two 2-year-olds, and it was hard for me to justify risking their lives when they don't have a choice.

Before kids, when I climbed, I never worried about my life. It's not like I did the tango on a ridge or two-stepped a sprint across summits. I was always careful. But I was never really afraid either.

That changed, of course, and so when I was attempting Teakettle with Pete Krzanowsky, Adam McFarren and the Artist Currently Known As Piper, I felt that damn fear once again.

I knew I stood out a bit in this group. Climbing mountains is a hobby to me, something fun to do on an occasional weekend, a way to challenge myself and a way to get out and see Colorado. It's a lifestyle for Pete, Adam and Piper. I hadn't really obsessed over the peaks for a few years, since, I'm sorry to say, I finished the 14ers. This was my third time out this year. Pete said he'd been out close to 50 times. That kind of devotion to anything impresses me, and their skill levels reflected that.

I could not have paid for better guides up the peak, especially Adam, our leader. They knew the route cold, set a quick pace and helped me with gear.

Gear is really what prevents me from doing these kinds of peaks more often. I don't know anyone in Greeley, where I live, who has the equipment and the knowledge to lead climbs. Besides that, I struggle when it comes to gear.

Like, a lot.

If this frustrated Adam, Piper and Pete, they didn't show it. They were very good to me. To be honest, I don't know if I would have been as good if, say, I was on the summit of Teakettle, and one of my climbing partners not only didn't have an ATC with him, he didn't really even know what one was. That might have happened. It was pretty high. Altitude fogs memories.

They double checked my harness, helped me with knots, gave me an extra biner to back up my own and generally helped me get through the final, 40-foot summit tower. They also sent up an extra ATC to the summit for the guy who forgot one.

When I didn't have to worry about the gear, I could concentrate on the climbing, and that was really fun. That's something I can do for the most part.

Sure, rappelling was a little rough at first, but it came back to me fairly quickly, and that, too, was fun.

We made it back down off the final ridge before the tower, went back down the black gully (not nearly as scary as advertised, by the way, it was actually one of the highlights of the climb) and then worked out way down a horrible, awful, terrible, very bad slope filled with loose rock, screen and loose rock. Also there was loose rock. I haven't yelled "Rock!" that much since I went to a Metallica concert a decade ago.

Oh, why do we always have to pay for such fun with such crappy, loose rock that the Elks and the San Juans throw at us?

By the time we were headed for our attempt at Dallas the next day, I'd had enough. True, I'd only camped one night and climbed one tough peak, but parenthood's left me a little soft, I guess. I didn't sleep very well in the tent - I never really do - and wasn't looking forward to another night or hauling a heavy pack up to our campsite.

I was looking forward to Dallas, however, and so I was disappointed as well as relieved when rain started pelting our tent at 3 a.m. The attempt really ended with those first few raindrops, even if it let up twice and didn't rain on us again even hours later.

I reached a conclusion in my tent as the rain came down that I hope will help calm my fears as I do another attempt like this one next year (maybe Dallas again, I hope). I will continue to push myself and climb challenging peaks, but only under optimal conditions, if they're within my ability and if I'm with good people.

Teakettle matched all that criteria, even if I wasn't as good with the gear. Dallas, however, was not under optimal conditions, and Adam wisely recognized that and called it off at the base of its majesty.

In the past, I'd be crushed. I don't honestly know if I'll get to attempt Dallas again, at least for a while. And we spent the night out. But now I appreciate the beautiful hike up and a good reconnaissance mission and the company of new friends. I appreciate the chance to get out.

I still recognize the need to get out. I still want to get out. It's so damn fun.

And most importantly, it makes me appreciate the small things. Camping and climbing for a few days makes you appreciate a pillow, hot water cascading over your body, clean skin, a fresh scent, an uncluttered car, white fingernails, a freedom to pee whenever you want and without having to put on your boots to do it, four-lane highways, real food like a cheeseburger (not an energy bar, gel or chew), sheets, cotton T-shirts, a place to keep your stuff (and your back not having to be the place where it all goes), sandals, lip balm, a couch, water from a faucet (not filtered from a creek), healthy toenails, flat terrain clear of rocks, cell phone reception and shelter from a storm.

And I really appreciate my family thanks to the peaks. There are always good things, like my kids shouting "Daddy!" when I get home, and there are always bad things, like my kids turning bedtime into a Civil War (actually it's pretty uncivil).

In fact, as Swine Flu invades our house - Kate answered the door tonight as I was getting out of car tonight with a "welcome to your infected house" and a cough - I may continue to worry about pushing my limits on the peaks.

But I'm also already keeping an eye to a few trips next year.

Wanna see more pics?

With a Capitol C

Returning to the knife edge

It was probably five or six years ago when my wife and I were walking out of a movie theater, and she turned to me and said, "It's nice to spend a Saturday with you."

In that wonderfully selfish manner that's second nature to all mountain climbers, I hadn't really thought about how much time I was spending away from home until Kate said that. It was summer, after all, and summers were meant for climbing peaks and checking them off my list.

Oh, how times have changed. I've been out once this year.

One of my BFF's said this would happen, and at the time, when I didn't have a kid or twins to bookend him, I thought no way. No way would my desire to explore and challenge myself and, yes, check off peaks on a list would ever go away.

Well, three things happened.

First, I didn't really lose the desire to challenge myself, it just changed into a more manageable sport. Running is the most challenging thing I've ever done. Climbing is second nature to me, so I'll always be dialed into getting up and hiking when most of you go to bed in Vegas (probably earlier, actually), going all morning, into the afternoon and evening, and facing fun scrambles. But running is different. It's caused the kind of agony I never thought I'd feel, yet it's a welcoming pain, not the agony of defeat but of accomplishment. I'm running three half marathons this fall and I've got a 10-mile race to run on Labor Day. I can't wait. And the best part? I can do these things and be home after two hours to play with my kids. I might be hobbling around, but they love it when I lay on the floor anyway.

Second, and this happens to most parents, my desires changed. I just don't want to be away that much anymore. When Kate and I happen to go to a movie on a Saturday afternoon, I want it to be unusual because we rarely get to see a movie in the theater together, not because there's an empty space on the couch. My kids should be happy to see me, not pleasantly surprised.

Third? Well, I accomplished my main goal, which was climbing all 54 14ers in Colorado. I've done a lot of what I want to do. I just don't NEED to be out that much any longer. 

But all that changes a bit starting this weekend. My longtime hiking partners, who were there for at least 25 of the 14ers and were the only ones who accompanied me on my last one, will be climbing Capitol Peak. They want me along, and I couldn't refuse. I've got some other dear friends along. 

You've probably guess that Capitol is rough. In fact it might be the toughest 14er of them all. It's long (17 miles), steep and features dangerous, exposed, tough terrain once you get to 13,900. 

It even has a knife edge, a 100-yard section thinner than a desk with a drop that would kill you if you slip.

It's also beautiful and fun and one of my favorites. And it's in Aspen. That's pretty sweet too.

Next weekend I'm climbing two tough 13,900+ peaks, Dallas and Teakettle, in the San Juans, perhaps my favorite place in all of Colorado.

Yes, I'm worried about whether this is stupid or not given I have a family. But I'll be careful, and when you're careful, you (almost always) don't die. Death is a byproduct of carelessness and cockiness.

Plus we've had a lot of shit in the saying "shit happens" lately. The van needed to be repaired and was under warranty, but we had to drive it to Fort Collins, 30 miles away, to get it looked at because the dealer just closed here (thanks recession!). I've already talked about the water in the basement, and we need to get the drywall repaired from that. We picked out new carpet last week (exciting) but may have to move some shit in the basement to get it done (not exciting). 

Oh, and the kids have all been sick.

I'm usually a big whiny baby during shit like this, but strangely I've been the calm one throughout this mess. 

I think it's because of the trips coming up. The mountains have always been there for me. And my desire to visit them has been compromised, but it won't ever completely go away.

 

The Battle Rages On

I was a master at justifying it when my treatment of my kids was a bit rough.

Among them? I never hit them, kick them or purposely hurt them in any way. I yelled at them at times, yes, but I never called them names.

But mostly, if I did lose my temper for a snap second, I figured no one would blame us for it. We have three kids under 5. We have 2-year-old twins. And they are cute, smart and loving, but they are also challenging. As my mother said, "They're just not relaxed children." It's the best way to describe them. They challenge us every day, and not just every day but several times a day.

It's so easy to sink down into a pit and believe life could not get any harder. We have two cars, good jobs, parents who help support us any way they can, healthy, cute, smart kids and our health (and it's good health), but I still believe that almost every day. I believed it today when one of the three pretty much screamed from 7 a.m. until 11 a.m. They switch off.

At times, all that stress has to go somewhere. And until recently, occasionally I'd ship it back to my kids.

I don't know when it occurred to me that I wasn't being the father I wanted to be, but I think it was when Jayden was causing trouble with the girls, as he will do (as any 4-year-old would do as the brother of twin girls, I think) and I wondered for the 105,000th time why can't our kids just sit there? Why can't they just relax? 

The obvious answer, that they are just kids, did not occur to me, and instead I grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the girls, and he fell on the ground, and I dragged him a bit on the ground. Then I told him to leave them alone.

There are few things more awful in this world when your kids look at you with fear in their eyes, and what's even worse is when you're the one they're afraid of.

So I thought about that later and made a goal. I'm good with goals. Goals are why I run hard, why I've climbed so many peaks and why I work hard on so many of my stories. 

My new goal is to fight the urge to be angry, to feel sorry for myself, and instead be a lot more patient with the girls and especially with Jayden. They deserve that and so do I.

Lately, it's worked. Today, for instance, Jayden was throwing a fit because he was with me and not with Kate because I met her at the wrong park. It had, as I said, been a tough morning, and in the past, my tolerance would have worn down and I would have told him to shut up or forced him back in the car. 

But today I calmly told him to get in the car, tried to soothe his tears and drove him to the park. We wound up having a great day, with him curled up next to me, as we watched Tiger Woods choke away his first PGA title, until I had to go to work.

It's progress. It will always be a battle with me. But it's one worth fighting.

A gold star for the man board

I don't think there's anything more intimidating to a guy like myself than entering a Home Depot or Lowe's.

By a "guy like myself," I mean a guy who can't build his own deck. Or a swingset out back for the kids. Or a treehouse. Or a doghouse. Or, like, help his kids play with Legos. 

I'm completely comfortable with my manhood, thanks to my mountain climbing and running (not teeth-gnashing sports like football, I realize, but they're intense and, at times, ballsy enough to wither just about anyone), my love for Megan Fox and my ability to play poker (though my game is trapped in Sucksville, I'm still better than enough).

But walk into one of those places, and my weakness gets sniffed out pretty easily. And I actually needed some supplies to help shore up our window well, so we don't get a sequel to our basement's soaked, moldy carpet (and it's $1,200 bill). 

You can almost smell the manhood, a strange mixture of Old Spice, lumber and paint remover, when you walk into a Home Depot or Lowe's. I break out in goosebumps, the kind usually reserved for a hospital. Usually whenever a worker - usually a guy with stubble on his chin and a voice that still cracks but could build his own deck, which always makes me feel awesome - asks if I need help, I lower my head, the way wolves do to alpha pack leaders - and say nothanksI'llfindit and rush off to another aisle. 

In doing so, this time I stumbled across the shovel section. I needed a short shovel that would help me dig out the gravel from the basement window. That would be much easier since our window well seems to be deeper than most mining operations. I found one. Success! 

Then I wandered around all the pretty flowers in the gardening section and finally sighed and asked for gravel and a window well cover. "Building Supplies," a guy muttered. Right. Makes sense. Only no aisle was labeled that way. I meekly asked where that was, and the guy looked at me like I was humming a Britney Spears tune. Look for the lumber, he said. Got it.

My heart sank when I finally found the covers. There wasn't one big enough. Rather than rejoice at the fact that my window well was so big that no cover would fit it, which surely was a sign of manhood, I realized I'd have to go through all this again at the other home improvement store.

Another half-hour of wandering at the other store, and I found bags of gravel (damn those things are heavy, I needed Bad Blood) and a BIG cover to fit over the window well. 

I hauled the stuff downstairs and started digging out the gravel and dirt, filling it in buckets and hauling those buckets out to a corner in the backyard where I could probably dump bleached bones and no one would notice. 

Home improvement, more than anything, seems to be about slave labor. After the eighth load, my shoulders ached and my hands hurt and I was bitchy. And people say running a half marathon is hard. Ha.

Still, when I was done, and the new rock was in place, helping the water to drain, rather than collect and run into our basement, and the toad that was in there was properly rescued and placed in our backyard window well, where he has friends, I paused.

Hey, not bad, I thought.

In fact, Kate's father later told the wife that I did a "great" job with it all, as he helped caulk the well and put on the window well cover. Kate's father could probably have his own home improvement show. He once built a car from scratch. He's a guy.

I just earned my first gold star for my man board. And I have to say, it feels pretty good. 

Where does the time go?

So Kate called me down to the basement, telling me I "needed to look at something." I sincerely hoped it had nothing to do with potty training the twins.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, it didn't.

"That's mold," Kate said, pointing to a large swath of white on the carpet.

Apparently water had run behind the wall in the basement and soaked a good portion of our carpet, and we had not noticed this until we saw the mold growing. We've had several savage storms in this unusually swampy summer, and apparently during one of them, the rain was hard enough to run sideways and leak into our window well.

Now I can race down a mountain when lightning is trying to fry my ass and lead a group down a snowfield in a storm, but I do not handle things like a soaked carpet very well. Meaning, really, not well at all. Meaning, I cursed under my breath a lot, whined and stomped about. This is how I process a crisis like this one. All I can think about is how much work it's going to take and how so much of my free time is already whittled away.

I know, as a guy, I should be relishing a chance to get my tools out rather than mourning time spent watching "Battlestar Galactica" and playing limit online poker (a new passion, there's a post there soon). But that's me. 

So most likely this weekend, meaning Saturday, after a possible 12-mile run, I'll be digging around our window well, digging crap out of our window well and cauking a gap between the window well and our house that apparently screwed us in the first place.

My point in all this is people asked me how I got stuff done when I was climbing all those mountains every weekend. And somehow, I got it all done. I think when you don't plan your weekends with something, life will plan it out for you. If I had a race Saturday, I'd still get all this done, but I'd also have something to hang my hat on for the weekend. 

So if you're wondering where all your time goes, and you can't get anything like a goal accomplished, plan it out and schedule it for a weekend. Yes, you have the time. You really do. 

If you don't, you might find it seeping down and well and soaking a carpet.

Steeped in pee and poo

Every time I walk by the plastic potty, it needs to be emptied.

I was on the throne myself - the one free of plastic and Elmo's face - when Allie walked in and told me she had to potty. Then, two seconds later, she demanded it. So, yep, had to, um, rush my pooing and get her on the potty. That's just one thing I do not like to rush.

This is my life these days. My girls have a potty mouth. They not only talk about the potty all the time, they use it with the kind of frequency reserved for men with prostate issues on their 12th Keystone Light. 

This may sound like complaining. It is not complaining. Four years of my life have been consumed by diapers, feces, wipes, old pee smell and urine-soaked sheets. I figured it would be at least another year. 

Yet the girls are naturals, nay geniuses (and I do not throw that term around too often) at potty training. They just turned 2, yet Andie, after just a couple weeks, is an accident-free little girl. She pees and poos whenever, wherever, as long as it's in a toilet. I could kiss her. In fact I have. Many times. And doled out Skittles. Allie isn't quite as good. She pees like a champion but hasn't quite made the connection that poo, indeed, goes in the potty as well. This has led to a few, um, uncomfortable moments, like at a park, when Allie seems to crap her pants every.single.time. we go. But I'm a proud father.

It's just that when you are potty training, even if you are doing it well, your personal connection with poo and pee doesn't lighten up. In fact, it gets worse. I have emptied that plastic potty at least ten times a day, and yes, it's every bit as disgusting as it sounds. When I'm not emptying, I'm pulling down panties and placing a little bottom on a big potty with the squishy tushy firmly in place, then acting like she just crapped a golden egg when it's over (positive feedback is important).

Even Jayden, the 4-year-old, makes us look at his poo before he flushes. Not that I blame him for wanting a little affirmation himself.

It's turned into a slight obsession. I've said "Do you need to potty" to one of the three at least 40 times a day, and usually, why yes, one of them does in fact need to go. I've spent so much time worrying about my kids' pottying that I've started to take more notice of my own. 

Just today, in fact, I told Kate that I had TWO significant poops before 11 a.m., one before my 10-mile run and one after. Strangely enough, she didn't seem quite as excited as she obviously is when one of the girls does the same thing. 

Sometimes life isn't fair.

 

We Are The Parents

This was the best tribute to Michael Jackson I could think of that was also really self serving and a way to blow off some steam:

There comes a time.

When the tears begin to fall.

And the wailing

comes together as one.

There are eardrums dying.

Including yours, we know

And the other

Is kicking on the ground.

We are the parents.

Who have young children.

We are the ones who make a bad day worse

With all our screaming.

There's a choice we're making

We're trying to have a life.

But it's true it makes your life worse

We know. Trust me.

Send us your heart

Or a little sympathy

Not those looks

Of death and misery.

As Allie shows us, her shorts are full of poop

So we all, must lend a helping hand.

We are the parents.

Who have young children.

We are the ones who make a bad day worse

With all our screaming.

There's a choice we're making

We're trying to have a life.

But it's true that makes your life worse

We know. Trust me.

You're trying to eat

in quiet and the peace

But our kids just

keep kicking your seat

Well well well welllll we realize you don't have any kids

but you're saying, "Why can't their kids act like my niece?"

We are the parents.

Who have young children.

We are the ones who make a bad day worse

With all our screaming.

There's a choice we're making

We're trying to have a life.

But it's true that makes your life worse

We know. Trust me.

Yes, our children screaming

Might make you grind your teeth

But it's true it'll stop in time

Just wait and see.

(Ah come on now, let me hear you)....

One down, hundreds to go

Two miles, 800 feet gained, several stickers avoided, one summit gained. Not bad for 4!

P.S. I promise you he wanted to do this. I did not force him.

A kind soul goes home

When I got the news, I thought of the time Uncle Carl gave us a riddle.

"We're going to a place where we're going to have some fun. Birthday or Christmas? Choose one."

I was young, at an age when Poltergeist would keep me up nights, so I had no idea what the riddle meant. What could it mean?

My brother and I knew it would be good. It always was with Uncle Carl.

There are cool uncles. And we have one, Keith, who swam in oceans for his triathlons and introduced me to Queen and even liked some of my heavy metal music and almost never got married until a lady finally ensnared his heart. He sends me text messages. He's cool.

There are funny uncles. And we have one, Clyde, who wears a big, thick, Deadwood-type mustache and laughs like he'd been sucking on helium balloons for three days. He always chuckled and tried to get us to do the same. He loves to tell jokes. He's funny.

Carl was neither of these.

He was the kind one.

The thought of a bachelor bringing two boys to his apartment to play Atari 2600 and swim in his pool today might give some people goose bumps, but every time we visited California to spend time with my parents' parents and brothers and sisters, we got a day with Uncle Carl. We looked forward to that special day as much as any other. My parents never worried. They knew we were in good hands.

We just knew it would be fun. It always was with Uncle Carl.

He'd greet us with his Donald Duck voice. Sometimes I swore he was the guy in the cartoons. Then he'd probably play something for us on his guitar and sing: I'm certain that my brother and I got my musical talent from him. Then he would take us for our fun outing.

The time that stuck with me, after I got the news, was the riddle. Carl liked to challenge us, to make us use our brains. That was probably the teacher in him. He would play video games with us, sure, but only for a limited amount of time. The goal wasn't to burn the day with us to give my parents a break, though, as a parent today, I realize how nice that was for Mom and Dad. It was to spend quality, real time with his nephews.

"We're going to a place where we're going to have some fun. Birthday or Christmas? Choose one."

I still didn't know what it meant when he pulled up to the toy store. I was young. My brother was younger.

Then it hit me.

"Do you mean we get to pick something from the store?" I said.

He smiled.

I settled on a Burger King handheld video game. I probably took advantage of him. He mumbled something about how this would cost us BOTH my birthday and Christmas presents. That was OK. I played it for a few years. It was worth it.

I think, in his eyes, we were always that age, even when he showed us respect for our individualism and our own adult choices as we got older. He continued to call me and sing Happy Birthday on our special day. He would send us cards for every occasion, even Valentine's Day, and occasionally we'd still get a couple crisp dollar bills in those cards. Remember how cool it was to get dollar bills in your cards when you were a kid? I never forgot what that was like.

He wouldn't let me forget what that was like to feel 12 and special. It was always like that with Uncle Carl.

He was 60. I got the news today that his body finally broke down, and his spirit left him that morning. Carl was grossly overweight his whole life. He knew it. We knew it. We always hoped he would fix it, but bad genes and addiction to food were stronger than his willpower. If that sounds judgmental, I don't mean it that way. I was blessed with good genes, and food never meant to me what it did to him. I was able to get that feeling from mountain climbing, music and running. I'm lucky. I know that. Let's just say I ran my intervals extra hard tonight.

I just wish he was still around.

My memories of him will not be clouded by that. I'll remember the riddle, the special days together and the conversations about, and over, video games.

And I'll remember the time Carl took us to his school for another outing. This was always my favorite memory of Uncle Carl.

We were young. Really young, actually, for a bunch of high school students. But his students all ran out to greet us. They were great to us. They were really nice. They were fun.

They were kind.

People want to be kind. I want to be kind. We all just need someone like Carl to show us the way.

A day in the mountains

Two blisters + three ridges + 1,000 feet of snow glissaded + 9 scrapes and slight gashes + one Sonic cheeseburger + three gels + one disgusting backpack + one mountain lion + two moose + two summits + 78 screaming muscles = An awesome day in the Never Summer range in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Ow. :)

Breakthrough

I limit myself sometimes. Especially when it comes to proving myself as an athlete.

I'm pretty sure that goes way back to elementary school. I'd hate to think that getting picked last over and over at kickball could affect me at 37. But I'm afraid it does.

I also think that's why I'm so comfortable in my Wednesday track group. Many of them are the superstars of Greeley. They regularly place or even win their age groups at major races. One of the older females won her age group this year at the Bolder/Boulder. That's almost 50,000 runners, folks, and she beat them all. And in this group, she's just one of the runners.

I know there's no way I'll ever compete with them. They were blessed with genes I don't have. They've been runners their whole lives. I'm on my fifth summer. They ran track or cross country in high school, and some of them even ran in college. I was in marching band. They're too good.

At least that's what I told myself.

I set two milestones for myself this summer, two longtime goals that I've had since I began running competitively. The first was to break 22 minutes in a 5K. I thought that was attainable. Sure enough, I did it July 4.

The second was to break 6 minutes in a mile. I honestly wasn't sure I'd do that. That's 1:30 quarters. Try running a quarter-mile in 1:30. It's hard. It was really hard for me to put four together. I could put two or even three together. But four? No.

And last year we ran the mile three times as a group, and my best time was 6:20. I was pretty pleased with that. It was a great time. For me, I thought.

Yesterday, I ran a 5:57 mile.

Yes, the course was fast. And to show you how fast our group is, that placed me maybe 20th out of 35-40 runners. But I still broke six minutes. I still can't believe it.

Maybe I should believe it. Maybe I should stop capping myself. Maybe now the sky's the limit.

The bright side of a broken arm

This sounds awful. But every time I come home from a run, I have to take three deep breaths before I can open the door.

Runs are peaceful. They're hard, yes, especially when it's 147 degrees out, as it was Sunday morning (at 9:30 a.m. no less), but they're quiet, and I can actually think about something other than where the stupid frakkin (yep, watching too much BSG, I like that word) juice cups are. 

Sure enough, I walked inside Sunday (after four deep breaths because I could already hear the screaming from my car), and it's chaos, as usual. Jayden was having one of his powerful, black-hole-mood-creating fits, and Kate had just sent him to his room. And then she broke the news about Andie. Namely, her break.

Andie was clutching her arm. Jayden, apparently, had jumped on her, only he landed on her wrong, and she was holding her wrist. It had already started to swell. Kate, a PE teacher, knows her injuries, and she thought it was broken.

Great.

"Daddy!" Andie held out her arms. Sigh. I always thought it was a cliche when parents said they would trade places with their child. Something they really didn't mean. Folks, they mean it. I know that now.

But Andie wanting me to hold her, and not just Kate, confirms something I've noticed lately. I'm actually Parent #2 now. I'm not just a guy to jump on when I'm on the floor trying to stretch after a run. I'm not just a temporary set of arms until Mom's are empty. I'm an option now, and not only that, sometimes I'm the preferred option.

I had long ago accepted the fact that Mom was #1. It's like that with most kids, I was told by many fathers, even my own. I worked hard not to take it personally, though that's harder with twins, given that you're doing just as much (if not more) work than a mother with singletons, let alone any father out there. A little extra love from the kids would be nice given that. But no, it was Mom Mom Mom. OK. I can be a stopgap, I thought.

Sometimes, because of that, I accepted it a little too well. When one was crying, I didn't bother to comfort her, knowing she'd probably just resist my arms anyway and I wasn't in the mood for another rejection. That could have added to them wanting Mom even more. It's possible there was a cycle there.

The cycle, however, appears to be over. I'm not sure what the difference is, but when I ask the girls to come sit with me, they do, or they just climb up the couch with their tiny legs and plop down by me while I'm eating. 

Then they start to demand my food.

When Kate finally took Andie out of the Urgent Care facility, she looked at Kate and said, "Go home and see Daddy?" I was at work, but my heart warmed when Kate told me she said that. I made it a point this morning to spend some time with her.

Jayden and I will camp out tonight, and it should be fun, just the two of us. Tuesday I was going to go climbing, but I decided against that, knowing that I have a cool trip planned Friday and that time with the kids is starting to get a lot of fun. 

I'll take Andie to the doctor myself Tuesday to figure out what we need to do about this arm. 

She'll need me there, and for the first time, probably as much as I need her.

Home Improvement a grain at a time

I should probably resign from being a male by saying this.

But I hate home improvement projects.

I mean I really hate them. Our day is already packed full of the kids. I mean I literally have a hard

time taking 15 minutes for myself every day I'm home. So throw anything at all on top of just trying toget through the day and household chores such as laundry, the kitchen and feedings, and I'm whipped

by 8 p.m.

But throw a big, frickin', huge pile of sand on top of that, and we're screwed.

And I'm sore.

We had a monster pile delivered to our house today so we could essentially create a big, mongo sandbox in the backyard. It's now our job to shovel that sand into a wheelbarrow and barrow it to the backyard, where we dump the load and start over, etc., etc., etc., until the pile is gone.

I realize this is the kind of thing that a man should love. It's a chance to show how strong and powerful you are by shoveling tons (literally) into a wheelbarrow. I even had my shirt off while working. But it, like most home improvement projects, is simply mindless, hot, numbing work, the kind usually reserved for prisoners or friends you've plied with light beer.

I'm obviously not lazy - anyone who considers running and climbing mountains a fun pastime can't be lazy - but I do resent being put to work like this. I'm really trying to get over it, but this is my flaw as a male. Throw in the fact that I'm hooked on BSG, I got a new cell phone (no, it's not the iPhone, dammit) and I just got the kids' movie done for the year and there's too much temptation to sit on the couch and play. Maybe I should tell Kate I need to go run 10 miles and hide out in the park with my new phone.

I love summer, but the problem with summer is Kate's at home, with the kids, because she's a teacher, and though there aren't many moments of boredom, when the girls are napping, she gets a tad bored and probably finds lots of projects that we suddenly need to do right then. She's already painted the deck and bought a bunch of frames to redo our "family picture wall," as she calls it. She's also talking about painting the house next summer.

If you need me, I'll be under the bed in the basement.

Seriously, I'm more comfortable with our other, more important home improvement project, and that's project potty. Times two. The girls have been out of diapers for a week, and surprisingly, they're doing great. Already they're telling us when they need to go. Diapers have their advantages - after we got our cell phones, Allie told me she needed to potty, and we were by the food court, and everyone, including me, was hungry, and the bathrooms looked a half-mile away.

But I haven't changed a shitty diaper in at least a week. I honestly forgot how nice it is to not have feces on your hands. It's really is kinda nice. It took Jayden at least three years before we started to even think about potty training, but the girls, because they're girls, I guess, are kicking ass.

Maybe we should throw a party. I'll try anything to get out of shoveling sand Saturday.

The final countdown

I approached this year's goal of going under 22 minutes in a 5K for the first time ever with a strange sensation in my gut.

I actually thought I could do it.

The goal of going under 22 minutes was actually a goal for three years, sort of one of those life lists, like running a mile under 6 minutes. But it seemed like some faraway obstacle, something that only elite runners and athletes achieve. I didn't put myself in those categories. I was merely above average.

I first started running races as seriously as I could take them in 2005. That meant I went for a time and tried to get a lot of sleep before the event (which, as you loyal readers know, isn't really up to me) and even kept my weight to below what I weighed my senior year in high school. That first year, I was thrilled to run the July 4 5K in 23:15. I ran it the next year in 22:34, and that seemed like a ceiling. The twins hadn't been born yet. I predictably bombed out of the 2007 July 4 5K a month after the girls were born. I simply had no energy.

But later that year, on an impossibly fast course (most of it was downhill), I ran 22:01, just two seconds from the golden standard. In fact, they had me at 21:53, until I discovered that they got the times out of order and I went up the race director to correct the mistake. If I was going to reach that goal, I was going to do it honestly.

So I didn't get under 22 minutes, but that told me someday I might.

When people ask me if I'd rather run a half marathon or a 5K, they're always puzzled by my answer. It's always a half marathon. 13.1 over 3.1. Yep. Because though 13.1 is a bear, 3.1 is a bitch.

5Ks are by far the most intense thing I've ever done. Yes, I've climbed many mountains, some of them dangerous. But those are marathons, not sprints. And in fact though I'm faster than the average climber by quite a bit, many of the elite climbers who I climbed with could easily leave me in the dust because speed was never a priority.

Speed, suddenly, was a priority when I started running, and I had to adjust. I'm still adjusting. Half marathons, even at the 8-minute-per-mile pace I set for them, are a lot more like climbing a mountain. They're a long adventure, something you breathe hard, controlled breaths over for hours before you reach your goal. Plus the pressure's off. If you have to tie your shoe, take a gel or get a drink, you can without blowing your race.

5Ks are fast, insane little races where one slip can ruin your time. They don't have to be this way, of course, but try telling that to the little competitive demon inside me. I typically gasp my way through a 5K. The idea is to find the edge and stay there. Maybe even push it a bit. They're hard and uncomfortable and can get the best of anyone: One of my best friends, a 50-year-old woman who has run at least 35 marathons and probably, I'm not kidding, hundreds of 5Ks, threw up at this year's race.

But last fall, I experienced a breakthrough. I was running times that I didn't ever think were possible three years ago. My goal was to break 48 minutes in a 10K, and without a whole lot of effort, I broke 47 instead. I ran nearly 8-minute miles for the first time last fall in a half marathon, destroying my best time by nearly four minutes. I began running 5Ks smoothly even when I was regularly busting the 22:30 mark.

So why couldn't I break 22 minutes? I couldn't find an excuse. July 4 would be my first 5K of the

year, and I knew this was the year to do it.

And then the kids got sick.

We went to Kid Rock Friday night. The tickets were free, and I wasn't going to turn down a fun night

with my wife only because of a race. When we got home, the cries started around 11 p.m. Allie was

hot, then Andie was hot, then Jayden was warm, then hot, then one needed to be held. This went on

until 2 a.m. By the time I finally slipped into sleep, it was 2:30 a.m., and the alarm clock was set to

go off three hours later. I woke up a half before that.

Bye, bye, confidence.

I went to the race early, ate my meal and started to warm up, but deep down, I knew it probably wasn't going to happen. I don't have the athletic ability to make up for being tired even before the race starts. Even as my friends reassured me that the sleep the night before the race doesn't matter as much as the sleep leading up to it, I felt empty inside. I was tired and I knew it.

However, I may not have pure athletic ability, but I do have a talent for one thing, and it's gotten me on many peaks on bad days: sucking it up. I can suck it up with the best of them. Right before the gun went off, I decided I really wasn't that tired and would just try my best. Screw the excuses.

The thing is, you don't even know how you're going to feel until you start running a 5K. I felt a little sick, pretty tired and winded. But I also felt OK. When I crossed the first mile in 6:40, I still felt OK.

I suppose I have two demons inside me. The first is the competitive one who pushes me beyond

what I think is possible. The second I'll call couch potato demon. That's the one who loves to play

poker, drink and watch hours of "Battlestar Galactica." They were at war by the second mile as I

approached the hill.

"Just walk," couch potato whispered. "No one would blame you. You got less than three hours of sleep. You could at least slow down."

In the past year, I've researched different ways to beat the mental game of running fast much more than the physical side. I wouldn't think someone who has climbed nearly as many mountains as I have would be weak. I've had to battle heights, cold, dehydration, storms, sleep deprivation and altitude sickness, but the intensity of 5Ks appears to be my biggest weakness. I've worked on blocking out all thought. It's worked. But I still have a lot of work to do.

Just get to the top of the hill, I told myself as I huffed and puffed my way up it, trying to maintain enough speed so I'd have a chance at under 22 minutes and feeling like I was failing miserably.

When I made the turn and started downhill, I thought I'd blown it, and then a friend slipped beside me.

This guy had run 21:57 in last year's July 4 5K, and I knew he was on pace to do it again.

Don't lose him, I said to myself.

I stuck right by him and almost passed him a couple times. I also wanted the race to end in the worst way. I was panting like a dog, my legs were dead and I was tense. Then I looked at my GPS.

6:45, 21:05, 2.97.

That was my pace, my time and my mileage. I had a chance. My friend took off. So did I.

By the end, I was dying, but I sprinted as the last 10 seconds ticked away. And then I crossed the line.

21:59.

I pumped my fist in the air as I gasped for air.

Some of my running friends came over to say congratulations. They were the elite group who finished well ahead of me.

And now, finally, I could stand with them.

Stats: 21:59, 94/1,300 (estimated), 7:05 pace, 15th/89 in my age group.