6:10.
I step out of the house into gray light. It rained last night and the air is trembling with moisture, heavy with the smell of damp earth, bubbling with bird calls. It's colder than it has been, so after several days of running in capris and a light-weight shirt I'm back to wool tights, gloves, and two layers on top. I know the outer layer will be too much after the first mile, and I will have to decide whether to tie it around my waist, gloves bulging in the pockets, or drape it over a park bench and hope it's still there when I finish the run.
I sit on the porch step to put on my shoes and drink a bit of water. This turns out to be a mistake, because the porch is wet enough to leave my socks and my rear end chilly and damp. Utah is beside me, impatiently moving from "sit" to "down" while he waits for me to start moving already.
6:15.
We're moving, across the street, onto the sidewalk at the park, walking for the first quarter mile then breaking into a jog. I'm not fast. That's okay. March Fourth is in my ears.
We're heading west. The monument, and the Uncompahgre Plateau behind it, are spattered with new snow. The top margin of the plateau is smudged, clouds piled on top of it and spilling over onto the face, a dollop of whipped cream sliding off a piece of gingerbread.
Hmmm, maybe I need to eat something before I run.
Utah pauses, four minutes after we start running (as usual, like clockwork), to make a transaction. I pick up the deposit in a plastic bag and drop it off in the next trash can we pass. It's a big advantage to running in the park; I never have to carry a stinky bag of steaming poop more than a couple minutes.
We've curved around and are moving east. In the distance, the Mesa looms above the clouds that are trapped in the valley. It too has a smattering of new snow from last night's storm. Most days, the sky behind it would be gold, a sliver of sun starting to emerge. Today it is just gray.
One lap done. Three to go.
Most of the morning regulars are here now: the stout woman with the blue heeler that is not nearly so timid as it was a year ago, the frizzy-haired lady who walks fast, with the golden retriever that barks loudly in the car as they arrive at the park.
I don't see the man with the aussie yet. He walks his dog with a stick rather than a leash - he lobs the stick into the center of the park and keeps walking while the dog chases the stick and brings it to him for him to throw again, and again, and again. They'll do 2 laps this way and the dog, though not leashed, never strays from its person, never takes its eyes off the stick. Utah doesn't have that kind of focus for anything but flat-out running, and he can't do that unless I have wheels.
Two laps. We reverse directions for the second half.
There was a lot of wind with the rain last night, but most of the flowering trees in the park are unscathed, still bursting with pink or white blossoms. The sidewalk under each tree is scattered with petals. I fancy that I'm following a flower girl, but up what aisle? And with a dog beside me? Best not follow that line of thought to its conclusion.
I stop at the drinking fountain for some water, and to shed my gloves and jacket. They end up tied around my waist. As I'm doing this, I drop Utah's leash and it lands in a puddle. The wet nylon strap is clammy in my sweaty hand.
I'm tired today, sluggish, heavy-legged. Maybe it's the humidity, too much water in the air, crowding out the oxygen. I'm used to breathing desert.
Three laps. I feel slow, but my time is right where it usually is.
The neighbors are starting to emerge. Men in pajama bottoms and slippers shuffle out to pick up their papers. A teenaged boy hidden under a hoodie heads towards the high school. At the far end of the park, I see a police car with flashing lights pull into the Old Chicago parking lot, hopefully just a traffic stop.
The sun is truly up now. The sky overhead is blue, though the horizon is still rimmed with clouds.
6:50.
Four laps. Done. Time to turn off the music and walk home listening to the birds.
Here are the actual Monitor & Merrimac buttes. For those not familiar- Monitor and Merrimac were two civil war ships (early "ironclads") that had a famous battle. The buttes are named for their similarity in silhouette.
After starting out we noticed a marked difference between the two maps we had looked at. Here Heather (our official navigator) checks references while Utah (our official motivator) checks to see what all the delay is about.
The trail has some very unusual angles of rock to ride on. Many of them we did, some we did not.
Fortunately we had some recent rain, which gave Utah lots of little swimming holes throughout the day.
All the trail signs are labeled "M&M" and coincidentally we packed new trail mix for everyone, including - you guessed it - M&M's. Cailan enjoyed them immensely.
