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Running Up (And Down) That Hill
I had a doctor's appointment today, but I was feeling the effects of having slacked off on exercising for a while. So I resolved to head into Griffith Park for a quick hike. There is a new trail of caches, and I needed to get a new peak.
See, I'd tried to get to the top of Mount Bell before. And I thought I had. Except I didn't actually have very accurate information about where it was, so I pointed to the wrong place in Google Earth. On the day I came back from supposedly climbing it, I discovered, too late, that I had climbed what one hiker called "Mount Taco."
waah waaaaaaah
So this new trail was going right by Mount Bell; I figured I'd grab some caches and reach the top. Easy peasy.
Unfortunately, I let myself be sidetracked by some Mystery Hunt business, so I got out a lot later than I expected. I ended up in Griffith Park a bit after 11 a.m. But I figured I'd still have enough time to get up and back to the doctor's office at 2 p.m.
But once again, I forgot how long it takes me to look for caches. As it was approaching one, I was close to Mount Bell, but still not there. I knew I should go back, but I was so close; I couldn't let Mount Bell defeat me again. Last time, I'd come from the south, and there wasn't much elevation gain. This time I'd climbed up a thousand feet. And it was close, damnit, my GPSr said it was less than a quarter of a mile away. I mean, I knew it was longer by trails, but I could speed up and do it. And besides, I could go faster on my way down. I wouldn't be diverted by geocaching, and I'd be going down, which is always better than up.
So I hurried up, I hustled. I'd been in the area before; I knew the trails I was looking for; I knew I had to climb up, then do a long circling of the peak before I'd make my way to the south side, where the game trail to the top was. And from there, it would just be a quick jog to the top. The video would have to be short, but I could do it.
I started jogging, despite being in hiking boots. I sped up to a run when I could. And I pushed up that hill. I kept checking my watch, seeing if I was making it far enough. I had to make it to the smaller trail by one, I knew. I watched the minute hand crawl, while I pushed higher. It's those kinds of times when you're shocked to remember how much you can do in a minute, how far you can go. And so as I got closer and closer, I managed a pace that made me sure that I could make, and made me sure that I couldn't.
I rounded one switchback and made my way back. I was right by it. If there were a trail, I could go up right now. But instead I had to trace an achingly long circumference while my GPSr told me that the peak was 500 feet away—never more, never less, a vicious circle.
And then I was on the south side of the ridge. The wildflowers were right were the were supposed to be. I started running. In my massive hiking shoes, I was probably the most unlikely jogger in Griffith Park. I passed people with dogs. And I was there.
But the moment I saw the small trail again, I knew that I couldn't to do it. There'd been a lot more growth. And the rattlers had come out (I'd seen one earlier). I'd have to be more careful picking my way through the brush. My speed-demoning had been for naught. If I went higher, I'd be late for my appointment.
And as much as I love hiking, I hate being late even more.
Of course, now I was in a quandry. I should have turned back about fifteen minutes ago and enjoyed a leisurely stroll back to the car. Now, I had about a half hour to go back the two miles it had taken me 90 minutes to climb.
So I started running again.
When you weigh over two hundred pounds, momentum is more enemy than friend when going downhill. Oh, it was fun sometimes—careening down the fire road with the power of science propelling me, letting my the magic in my legs do as it would, flying—but at a certain point, I couldn't ignore the fact that I wasn't in a high school cross-country race anymore, and if I did twist an ankle, I'd miss my appointment (but have a date with an emergency room). I cooled down a bit, but I kept checking my watch, and the "instant speed" display on my GPS. Oh, the math! "If I average four miles per hour, I'll make it back to the car in half an hour. Hopefully sooner because I won't have detours. But if I let the average slip down to three m.p.h., it'll take fourty minutes!"
I ran, I jogged, I racewalked, and strolled purposefully, and ultimately, I made it down that hill.
With no problem.
See, I'd tried to get to the top of Mount Bell before. And I thought I had. Except I didn't actually have very accurate information about where it was, so I pointed to the wrong place in Google Earth. On the day I came back from supposedly climbing it, I discovered, too late, that I had climbed what one hiker called "Mount Taco."
waah waaaaaaah
So this new trail was going right by Mount Bell; I figured I'd grab some caches and reach the top. Easy peasy.
Unfortunately, I let myself be sidetracked by some Mystery Hunt business, so I got out a lot later than I expected. I ended up in Griffith Park a bit after 11 a.m. But I figured I'd still have enough time to get up and back to the doctor's office at 2 p.m.
But once again, I forgot how long it takes me to look for caches. As it was approaching one, I was close to Mount Bell, but still not there. I knew I should go back, but I was so close; I couldn't let Mount Bell defeat me again. Last time, I'd come from the south, and there wasn't much elevation gain. This time I'd climbed up a thousand feet. And it was close, damnit, my GPSr said it was less than a quarter of a mile away. I mean, I knew it was longer by trails, but I could speed up and do it. And besides, I could go faster on my way down. I wouldn't be diverted by geocaching, and I'd be going down, which is always better than up.
So I hurried up, I hustled. I'd been in the area before; I knew the trails I was looking for; I knew I had to climb up, then do a long circling of the peak before I'd make my way to the south side, where the game trail to the top was. And from there, it would just be a quick jog to the top. The video would have to be short, but I could do it.
I started jogging, despite being in hiking boots. I sped up to a run when I could. And I pushed up that hill. I kept checking my watch, seeing if I was making it far enough. I had to make it to the smaller trail by one, I knew. I watched the minute hand crawl, while I pushed higher. It's those kinds of times when you're shocked to remember how much you can do in a minute, how far you can go. And so as I got closer and closer, I managed a pace that made me sure that I could make, and made me sure that I couldn't.
I rounded one switchback and made my way back. I was right by it. If there were a trail, I could go up right now. But instead I had to trace an achingly long circumference while my GPSr told me that the peak was 500 feet away—never more, never less, a vicious circle.
And then I was on the south side of the ridge. The wildflowers were right were the were supposed to be. I started running. In my massive hiking shoes, I was probably the most unlikely jogger in Griffith Park. I passed people with dogs. And I was there.
But the moment I saw the small trail again, I knew that I couldn't to do it. There'd been a lot more growth. And the rattlers had come out (I'd seen one earlier). I'd have to be more careful picking my way through the brush. My speed-demoning had been for naught. If I went higher, I'd be late for my appointment.
And as much as I love hiking, I hate being late even more.
Of course, now I was in a quandry. I should have turned back about fifteen minutes ago and enjoyed a leisurely stroll back to the car. Now, I had about a half hour to go back the two miles it had taken me 90 minutes to climb.
So I started running again.
When you weigh over two hundred pounds, momentum is more enemy than friend when going downhill. Oh, it was fun sometimes—careening down the fire road with the power of science propelling me, letting my the magic in my legs do as it would, flying—but at a certain point, I couldn't ignore the fact that I wasn't in a high school cross-country race anymore, and if I did twist an ankle, I'd miss my appointment (but have a date with an emergency room). I cooled down a bit, but I kept checking my watch, and the "instant speed" display on my GPS. Oh, the math! "If I average four miles per hour, I'll make it back to the car in half an hour. Hopefully sooner because I won't have detours. But if I let the average slip down to three m.p.h., it'll take fourty minutes!"
I ran, I jogged, I racewalked, and strolled purposefully, and ultimately, I made it down that hill.
With no problem.