the trot zone

There is a perfect temperature for running.  I was first aware of it over a year ago, when my dad came to visit while I was training for a half-marathon.  I can't tell you the actual number of degrees, because it varies according to other weather conditions, terrain, and honestly, your clothing.

Which makes a certain kind of sense.

I can tell you how to determine this temperature, and it's an easy test.  There are only two qualifications.  If you are running during the Perfect Temperature for running, your vision will be impeded by two things:

1. Sweat in your eyes
2. A pulsating cloud of your own breath hanging in front of you.

There doesn't have to be much of either, but both have to happen.  I guess it's more accurate to say that there is a Perfect Range of Temperatures for running, but that lacks a certain flair.

The downside, of course, is that you don't hit that perfect range very often.  It's usually in the fall or spring, or on the occasional warm winter afternoon or unusually cold summer morning.  If you find the opportunity to run during that range, take it.  The air is crisp, but not so cold that your throat burns with coughing fits for hours afterward.  It's still warm enough that you can feel the sheen of sweat on your skin, but you can comfortably wear long sleeves, which makes wiping that sweat out of your eyes a little easier.  Hat and gloves are optional, but I'm usually ok without either after just a few minutes.

To be honest, I think the best reason for running during this ideal temperature range is that it makes me laugh every time I realize I've found it.  In my mind, most runners--especially marathon runners--are a little bit crazy.  And they're proud of that particular brand of crazy.  I may not be a real runner, but I can do crazy.  I can tell, because I love it when I have to wipe the sweat out of my eyes to see my foggy breath as I chug up a long hill early in the spring time.

Catoctin

Catoctin National Park is in Maryland, less than a two hour drive from the DC area.  It's a nice intro park, because instead of one really big hike, there is a network of linked trails, so you can plot a course through the woods to any of several viewpoints, and either head back to the car, or add on another loop and go a little farther.

We went a little farther.

Cunningham Falls

Our original plan was to find the Blue Ridge Overlook and Cunningham Falls (known locally as McAfee Falls) in the neighboring Cunningham Falls State Park, making one big loop connecting the two.  We finished early enough that we decided to really make the hike worthwhile, we should go find Chimney Rock, too.  It provided great views to the southeast, and the trail we took back to the visitors' center also led us to Wolf Rock.

Wolf Rock

It's pretty easy to see how it got its name.

The geology of the park is pretty interesting.  Boulder fields are everywhere, and spines of rock rise up from the ground, belying the tectonic activity of earlier millenia.

Not only is it closer to DC than Shenandoah, but the trail networks guarantee plenty to do on return visits.  Maybe not as many trails as Shenandoah National Park, but it doesn't have the crowds, either.

Highacre Haven

During the spring and fall, we work with a group that volunteers in one of the local parks doing outreach work with hikers and park visitors.  This weekend was the winter gathering, which mainly consisted of renting a place for some of us to stay and stuffing ourselves silly for two days straight.  Good times.

This year (my first with the group), the gathering was held at Highacre House in Harpers Ferry, WV, which I recently visited for the first time.  Oddly enough, we saw the house when we visited a couple weeks ago, and had no idea we would be staying there this weekend.

The Girl and I arrived Saturday morning, after the first night of eating and games had already happened; work, traffic, and baking a loaf of Cheesy Sexy Bread prevented an earlier arrival.  Our group started the day with a stroll through a portion of the town on top of the hill.

Driveway gate

Same driveway, same wall, same great stonework

car boots are sometimes unnecessary

Highacre house sits at the foot of the historic cemetery crowning the hill.  It has a great view of where the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers meet, and of the ruins of the St. John's Church, which was built, burned down, and rebuilt before succumbing a final time.

After lunch, a few of us headed across the river, and up the trail to Maryland Heights, diverting before the viewpoint to go up a very steep path to the old stone fort that once commanded the area with gun batteries and scores of troops who had to haul everything--water, food, supplies, and enormous, heavy cannons--up this road.  Not horses.  Troops.

Even though some of the cannons had a range of over a mile, the fort itself was still built to handle a direct attack.  Two long stone walls protected two long rifle trenches.  Originally, these walls extended well down the mountainside, and the top third of the mountain was clear-cut to provide wood for charcoal works, and to allow a clear line of sight in all directions.

The second day started early when I learned that it's hard to get a good sunrise shot from a valley.

However, I did get a better close-up of the sign on the cliff (I still can't read it) and a pair of climbers working their way up its face.

shiver me limber

The plan was to get my week's long run in this morning, so I can have the rest of the day to run errands and bake things for this weekend's outing.  This plan started to test me at 3 AM, when I awoke for no particular reason and stayed that way.  At 4, I succumbed to my growling stomach and the knowledge that the longer I was awake before my run, the more I would regret not eating before it.  I had a piece of the sausage-mushroom quiche left in the fridge and burnt the roof of my mouth on the first bite.  These things happen.

When I went back to bed, I still couldn't sleep, so I finished reading a book, then started reading a new book.  The alarm went off at 6; Wunderground forecast a 100% chance of rain (math is not my strong suit, but that is a near certainty) for the next 15 hours.  It was 34 degrees.  I dressed in a single layer, knowing I'd warm up as I ran, and still trying to convince myself that it was a good idea to go at all.

It wasn't easy.

I even had a long hesitation outside the front door when I confronted the rain and cold and nearly turned back to the door, but I'm stubborn, and sometimes that works in my favor.

It still took me a couple miles to warm to the idea.  Pun intended.

The thing is--and I always forget this, or have to forcefully remind myself of it--I like cold runs.  I even like rainy runs.  And, if really pressed, I kind of like cold, rainy runs, too.  I'm not sure why, but there's a list of hypotheses.  The crappy weather distracts me from how I feel, and how terrible I generally am at running.  I don't overheat; sweat hardly ever stings my eyes when it's that close to freezing.  I'm not as hesitant to plow through puddles because my lovely (new!) shoes are already soaked, so it can't make much difference, and puddles--as every three-year-old knows--are fun.  I like watching raindrops jet from my face when I pant through pursed lips.  I like the idea that every car who sees me thinks I am either nuts or a Real Runner (though in my mind, there is very little difference between the two), even though I usually see very few other runners when things get that nasty outside.

I like the feeling that I've made the challenge just a little bit greater by going up against bad weather, especially when I find that the bad weather actually helps me.

Sure, when I got back and iced my shins, I had goosebumps all the way down my legs, my fingers were tingly and numb (though they were fine during the run), and even with a blanket, my shoulders still felt cold, but during the run, I was great.  During the run, the weather didn't matter at all.

I need to remember that.

Harpers Ferry

I'll be honest.  (That's rare, so hold on to your cookies)  For some reason, I always thought Harpers Ferry was somewhere near the coast.  Maybe it's because The Girl had always talked about "going down" to Harpers Ferry.  Turns out it is in no way "down" from where we live.  It's west, and uphill.  Oops.  Of course, I also thought there was an apostrophe somewhere in Harpers Ferry, and that wasn't right, either, so I learned a lot when she finally took me on that very educational field trip.

Our National Parks Pass (a sound investment for any adventurer) gained us access to the upper parking lot.  There's a nice trail leading down through the woods and along a local road to enter the village of Harpers Ferry.  Before you actually reach the village, there are plenty of historical markers and informative signs telling you about things like this old pulp mill, which received logs floated down from upriver and processed them for lumber and paper products.

Harpers Ferry was the site of repeated Civil War battles for the valued strategic ground at the juncture of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers, and a commercial battleground in the fight between canals and railroads; railroads won.  Today it marks the point where Maryland. Virginia, and West Virginia meet, and the unofficial midpoint of the Appalachian Trail.  It's a popular destination for hiking, climbing, whitewater, fishing, and mountain biking.  Naturally, there's also plenty of shopping and tasty food.  We had some lunch before taking the AT across the river to the Maryland Heights trail.

I made several attempts to get a good picture of the sign painted high on the cliff face above the rail tunnel; this was my best result.

 The hike to Maryland Heights isn't particularly long, but it was pretty steep.  We gained about 800 feet to get to a viewpoint at the top of the cliffs looking straight down to the river.  In the view below, the AT crosses the bridge on the left.

The village itself climbs up a hill so steep that roads climb from the first story of a building to the second by the time they reach the other side of the building; several buildings were built against cliffs, and steep staircases provide access for the tenants.  One set of stairs was cut into the rock over one hundred years ago, and grooves have been worn into the steps by the hundreds of feet that have since used them.  It's a great place to visit, and we got back early enough to get an early dinner at a local barbecue place!

The New Project

After giving it lots of thought over the past few days, and then getting bullied all morning (and part of the afternoon) by a friend from Bend, I'd like to start writing about food.  More than I already do.  A friend once suggested that I just write a cookbook; I'm not quite there yet, but I could see posting about my culinary experiments more publicly than I already do, seeing how that goes, and maybe building that into a book in the future.

My proposed title was "The Fearless Kitchen," because I'm certain that the only reason people are impressed by most of what I make is because they're intimidated by cooking, so they're easily impressed.  I want to make cooking more approachable by showing how, with a little background, you can fake your way through an entire meal (as I do on a shockingly regular basis).  I could include tips on how to course-correct when things start to go sideways, and how to tell you're definitely on the right track already.  I envision lots of pictures, and florid descriptions of textures where pictures won't help.

Unfortunately, "Fearless Kitchen" is already taken, and they're doing almost exactly what I wanted to do.  I think.  I didn't look at the site much, because I didn't want to accidentally steal too much from them.  If you are from Fearless Kitchen, you'll have to take me at my word that I came up with this independently.  (You have to admit, it's a pretty great name, and a great idea)

Now I need a new name for the same idea.  My fallback position is "Bitter Muffin Bakery," because that's been a long-standing joke regarding my job search/cooking endeavors, but it doesn't really fit the idea of what I want to accomplish.

Want to help me name my new project?  If I really like your idea, I'll use it, but the only compensation you will ever receive is a box of baked goods shipped to wherever you are.  Contents of box are negotiable.

The local hawk

Saw this gentleman (gentlewoman?  gentlebird?  ferocious flying feathered fiend?) walking back from the library a month ago.  I know, I know, my posting schedule is erratic, but I have a good excuse!  I've been working on a Secret Plan B Project.  With any luck, I'll be done with the bulk of the work soon, and maybe in a few weeks (or months) it can become my Publicly Acknowledged Plan B Project.  I'm very excited about it.

In the meantime, I'll try to catch up with some of our recent adventures, and show you this hawk that visited my neighborhood.  It was perched less than two blocks from our building, making un-hawklike noises which drew my attention.  I've seen a lot of hawks in the area when we drive out of the city for hikes, but I've never seen one this close to where we live.

However, I did see a large red-tailed hawk perched along the Mt. Vernon trail as we drove back from this morning's long run (10 miles--we're getting ready for a half-marathon in March)