So a few weeks ago, my tri club took me on the best run of my entire life. I didn't actually believe the words "best" and "fun" and "run" even belonged in the same sentence. But on Spencer's Butte, yes. There's a lovely little trail head called "Martin Street", where you park your car and proceed to do something like 500 feet of climbing in 1 mile.
But then you hit the Dilliard Street trailhead and it's a mile of lovely rollers, so you feel incredibly powerful and mighty. You begin to think you are mighty and can actually run.
So perhaps on Saturday (after finishing up all the unexpected stuff that cropped up on Saturday), late in the afternoon, you suggest another trail run, and M might suggest you try the other trailhead. And you will soon discover that not all of Spencer's Butte is lovely rollers. You will drag yourself up some butt-kicker hills and arrive gasping at the next trail marker, knee deep in vegetation, hearing the crackle of the forest, and with your impossibly perky husband saying things like, "Wow, these trees are really awesome" and "Good workout, tough run". Your response will be, "Ah-HEEEE, ah-HEEEE, ah-HEEEEE". That only makes sense if you double over gasping for air while your leg muscles burn like firey lava and parts of your glutes actually feel numb from the effort.
Ah, DC, you flat race route, you.
We ran just to the Fox Hollow Trailhead, where you have the choice of heading to Williamette or all the way to the Summit. We were short on water, so decided to save the summit for the next day.
Sunday dawned, bright and clear. Services ended, with a smattering of chaos. I got to use my "let's be an extremely calm person" chaplain skills, and my ninja mind powers, which sadly, failed me at lunch time. By 3:30PM, coffee hour had been long cleared up and I had had nothing to eat all day save a scoop of blueberry cobbler that I swallowed with a modicum of actual chewing between services.
I was totally empty. Let's just say there may have been an emergency milkshake involved, and there is no tuna fish left in our house. By the time I got home, no vegetable was safe.
But then, raging on adrenaline and crazy-pants-ish-ness, I changed into my running clothes, declared the first 85 degree day to be a perfect day for a nice run, and dragged M out of the house.
He countered by changing into his regular shorts and packing two bottles of water. By the time we got to the Fox Hollow trailhead, he'd talked me down into a regular hike.
We went the two miles up to the summit of Spencer's Butte, and can I say WOW. (Not my picture, just a general web one.) We had no camera, and the landscape was too bright, but WOW. There were mountains all around us. There are rolling green hills. There were clouds and sun. This really is a gorgeous area of the country that we've moved to. It looks like actual nature out there.
And then I stepped into a big patch of poison oak. Let's all talk to God on my behalf, maybe.