Colorado. Runner. Yogi. Fucking hilarious, like, 17% of the time.

which waze did he go

which waze did he go

Sometimes my own titles make me mad. I don't, like, change them or anything, I just look and go huh, that's really dumb, I shouldn't have committed that to bits and then carried on as if I were unable to edit it. And yet. 

I raced a race this weekend. The race was in Leadville, which, as I have recently learned, is the highest city in America. It isn't the highest town, ya know, because the line between cities and towns is the very intuitive and not at all ridiculously tiny 2,000. The highest *town* was Alma, but is apparently now Winter Park due to some shady ski area annexing? I don't know, man, I grew up at like 8,200 feet and less air doesn't seem like a thing to fight over, but perhaps I'm underestimating the tourist economy inherent in 'do you want to sleep where your chances of eyeball hemorrhages are way higher? Don't worry, they're usually self limiting!' Plus, Winter Park already had the ski area, so stealing that shit from Alma which has lbh very little going for it seems pretty low, right?

These are all towns in Colorado and all like two hours from each other.  This matters to no one but the people who live there and/or do their marketing, and I am neither, so I'm sorry 'bout that whole paragraph.

The race started in downtown Leadville, and went up to Mosquito Pass, and then came back down. The uppy-downy of it looked like this and woah monkey was I less prepared for said uppy-downy than I expected. I ran from 10,200 ft to 13,185 ft and then back down, and I did not die. 

Anyway! I finished! It was great! I drove home last night with sore legs, three hungry dogs in the car, and a persistent desire to get home to my own bed, my own advil, and my own selection of teas. 

Does everywhere have that local highway that people need and also hate? Like, in LA, is it the ... 405? That sounds right. (If it's right, let's all pretend I sounded a lot more confident when I said it please.) Here, it's I-70. You basically need to take it to get from the Denver area to the ski areas unless you're willing to double the distance travelled and risk the same traffic and weather issues. It's mostly two lanes in each direction, and there's nowhere to get off that actually goes anywhere - just little towns where you can get some gas, go pee, and then get back on the highway. There's a tunnel on the pass (top 'o the mtn to you flatlanders), and when I came out of the tunnel on my way home yesterday this big neon sign says 'crash in six miles, expect heavy delays'.

My bed and tea and the dog's dinners seemed very far away. 

That's when Waze is all: Heyyyyy girl, you know that weird exit that says no services that you've probably seen 100 times and always assumed led to a murdery abandoned gas station? Go ahead and hop off there, then take a left. Do it. I'll wait.

I could kind of see the exit, and no one looked like they were exiting there. I called Crockett and told him that Waze wanted me to die, obviously. Then, miraculously, three cars in front of me and another couple behind me all turn on their blinkers, and we all exit together. We take that left, and wind around, and seven miles later are back on the highway beyond the accident and moving on with our lives. 

SO. A) Waze was right. 
B) Waze was listening and sent a caravan when I said I wasn't going to take the turn alone.

(The comfort I take in assuming I'm the protagonist in all stories is bordering on sociopathic. It's ... good that I know that?)

To summarize: home now, legs still sore, dogs have been fed several times, as far as I know Alma and Winter Park haven't worked out their shit, and Waze just wants me to be safe and happy. How was YOUR weekend?

 

 

 

that's not what you do with a hole

two weeks