This week was my mom’s 65th birthday and retirement party, on the same day. Mom has been an educator for 34 years and Friday was finally her last day of school. I drove the 9hrs home to Niobrara, NE to celebrate with her and my Dad, and the entire way I fought a vicious northerly headwind that left my ears ringing and my brain exhausted from focusing to keep The Roost on the road. But, once you get a 100 miles or so away from the Front Range and out onto the Great Plains, the wind is nothing really worth commenting on. It is simply endemic to the environment. Wind notwithstanding, late May is actually a really ideal time to visit my home—the hills are resplendent with a lush emerald; the whippoorwills have already made their way back, offering a reliable and lovely serenade each evening; the weather is pleasantly warm but not necessarily yet hot and sticky; and the bugs (chiggers in the grass during the day, mosquitos in the evening) haven’t quite yet decided that it’s time to torment.

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A Lifetime of Adventure

I never intended to become a runner. As a kid I hated running as a sport…

I never really thought of myself as an athlete. I didn’t do organized sports at school. Fitness and “exercise” were things I associated with that old dude in the sweats on TV. But I grew up skiing, and have been doing it as long as I can remember. When we lived in western Mass in the 1960s, my father had part interest in a small ski area. I had lace-up leather boots, cable bindings and skis longer than I could reach, and I remember being picked up off the ground regularly by the rope tow.

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