Racing in a blanket

Friday was hot and muggy. At 5:30pm, the thermometer read 88, but it was the 72% humidity that bumped the misery index up a quantum level. Still, that didn't stop 90 dedicated and insane runners from turning up at Haw Ridge fora 7 mile trail race.

I admit I was quite hesitant about entering this race: my training has lagged due to my relocation so my base was low, I prefer an AM run, and I knew the heat/humidity would be an ass kicker. I finally decided that I need to try and learn even if it meant a humiliating DNF. So, Friday was spent psyching up and downing a river of pre-race water. I counted at least 6 trips to the bathroom before 4pm so my inside was a soggy as I expected my outside to be.

I joined the mix of racers seeking shade while also going through pre-race rituals- a few quick jogs, stretches, and inwardly focused expressions-- all of which I shared in, as well. I exchanged some nods with other racers and spent a few minutes answering questions of a first-time trail racer about the course which I knew nothing about. "Do you need a map or do you think it's marked?", he asked. Oh assuredly its marked, I authoritatively said, having run across the remnants of a previous race while mountain biking a few weeks earlier along these trails. We discussed racing strategies: we both had concluded that our intent was to survive not place.

With little fanfare we began our run--one which I expected would take me 70+ minutes given the heat, humidity, and terrain. I latched on to one runner who carried a pace I wanted and began the process of tuning out the weak willed carrying-on of my unwilling partner: my brain. By 2 miles in I was completely soaked and well into my hydration bottle. Running under that forest canopy, I had expected it to be cooler. It wasn't. It was just muggier and more like running under a wet blanket. I silently plodded behind my pacer. By mile 4 the trail was beginning to turn up again and the heat misery was climbing. By mile 5, we reached a refreshment station where a cold cup of water gave momentary heat relief to my head and chest. My partner was beginning to fatigue as was I. By 5.5 I had assumed the lead and was working with my new friend to set marks where we would slow our pace while keeping up encouraging banter.

My brain which had so long fought me along the course now decided to take a "leadership role" and was now encouraging my tiring legs that this wasn't so hard, just keep on turning over at 90 paces per minute! It even had the gall to impel me to speak out to my pacing partner and offered up words of friendly advice! By mile 6, the trail had essentially topped out and I found myself turning up the pace as it now dropped down to the finish line. I let out the clutch and dropped the quarter mile to the flats below striving to keep up the pace for the final 3/4 mile. By now I had dropped my friend and overtaken several others. I crossed the line at 1:15:02, 38th overall, and 13th in the masters group. Satisfactory for a training run. Meanwhile, my brain thinks it is a stud.

State of Grace

Any parent will tell you that no moment is more perfect than the birth of their child. No lover will dispute the magical moment when attraction evolves into something deeper and more encompassing. All our lives, thereafter, we seek those moments that mimic but knowing they will never fully recapture that state of happiness. We relish those emotional glimpses.

Morning rides are my micro-fixes that rejuvenate, invigorate, and provide a state of grace. Add a warm but gentle Southern morning, green pastures dotted with painted horses, red roans, or lolling cattle, aging barns, and farmhouses, all nestled between dark green tree-filled hills, and the tonic goes even further. Throw in a soaring hawk, the “pretty-bird” call of the cardinal. Add a friend or riding companion, and well, you’re getting closer.

Green Ice

Deadly when wet. That’s what should be posted on TN trailheads.

I’ve posted three rides up on the Cumberland Plateau—Sewanee to be exact. One such train was an18 miler on Franklin Forest State Park’s sinewy, twisty, and oh so fun bluff edge trail. Time prevented me from doing the full loop, but the 9 mile segment I did hammer out was a fabulous mix of twists, swooping turns, quick climbs and speedy long descents. The trip back was a fine and complementary bookend to the ride out with easy climbs and a trail that seemed to go downhill both ways! Nature abhors a vacuum of course, so the greenbrier’s that edged the trail occasionally exacted its revenge with sharp punctures to exposed shins, forearms and hands.

The Sewanee Perimeter trail, however, dolled out a heaping portion of humility. I discovered that short climbs, twisty turns, and generally kind elevation changes that the map promised delivered the pop and sizzle that any mountain biker relishes. Tennessee’s forested country also assured me that like most of it’s trails, it would be filled with tight turns negotiated with encroaching saplings and mature hardwoods. And, of course that means roots and the stretches of battlefields where they tangle and fight limestone rock and boulder for trail dominance.

Sewanee added in a new wrinkle. It’s heavily forested canopy, frequent rains, and sun-sheltered coves produced the toughest challenge I’ve faced yet: green ice. This insidious natural villain turns exposed roots and rock faces along with wooden bridges into murderous inanimate objects. They seduce the rider to believe they can pass uncontested and then to instantly betray what appears to be an easy cut or track line . One minute you’re on a great tear, and then, you’re on your ass. Or elbow. Or, off the trail and wrapped up in the surrounding brush.

I have yet to figure out the right speed, positioning, or loading to get through these things. And, I fear them. I know those bastards will drop me on my ass. They appear innocuous, simple roots. These nearly symmetric rocks that in dry countries, such as Moab, would surely attract riders, here spell misery. Water, humidity, the ever present moisture, the angle of the sun, the cover of trees, all of these invites green and black algae to thinly glaze these objects and imbue them with a disguised malevolence. Those roots, those rocks, they want you to think that your line is tight, your angle perfect, your loading exact. Then they throw you on your mortgage-paying butt and lay innocently while you gather up your baggage, your wits, and scraps of flesh.

I hate green ice. It reduces me to a pedestrian pushing my bike across sections that were they dry would be workable if not fun. But, they reveal me to be just a hack; a poser who can’t manage a root or rock garden because of their deadly skin.

But, as Charlton Heston said in Planet of the Apes, “I swear to you , I will not be bowed!” Of course, he also said, as he came across the remains of NYC, “My God what have they done?!”

Los perros mexicanos

They like their Tennessee brethren also joyously give chase to itinerant fools that bike or run their way. This time I was on foot and running along the coastal highway with a steep drop to the Pacific below me and the autopista cuota (coastal toll road) above me. I was the original taco al carbon con gringo for these guys. Soft white meat encased in a nylon tortilla. Delicioso!

Fortunately, Mexican dogs are staked out on 50 lb test line or nylon braid-which ever is handiest-- and I got off with only a scare and a pant load of guacamole.

Not bad running though mostly out and backs. On one run I found a trail that dumped me down below on the beach. A low tide enabled some decent beach running and although I usually detest that venue (too monotonous), the experience was a worthy memory.

Maddog 3: Bitches 0

Two weekend rides. Crank burning rides. Dogs chase. Dogs lose. Bitches.

So dogs in Tennessee love to give chase. It's rather predictable, actually. Zoning laws in TN are rather arbitrary: in one locale, you can go from high end to trailer skirts in about 5 pedal strokes. But when you see a cluster of manufactured housing, you know there's a good chance a dog chase is imminent. One trailer cluster usually means dog tied to a rope to a tree. A cluster of trailers and the odds of at least 3 dogs off leash in one yard are pretty high.

The game works this way: at about 200 yards they pick up the whine of your chain or tires on the road. The littlest one's yap first. This gets the chaser dog's attention and they snub their smoke out and figure their angles to intercept. Now, fortunately, I've hit most of these cluster on a flat or slight downhill--the tension rises as the terrain climbs, but for some odd reason, uphill climbs have God's mercy. Downhill or flats is where the game is played.

If you spot a cluster of mobiles, there's only one thing to do: gear up, hammer down. If you can get at least 20mph 100 yards out the odds are even. Stroke it up to 23-25 and the god's begin to favor you. 50 yards is the usual site line for the bitches. They are prepped and ready, but need visual confirmation to classify chain whine before they can legally (dog coda) start the pursuit. They are fast, so by 49 yards out, they've snuffed out their cigarette and they engage the lycra clad prey.

25 yards out, they are a couple miles per hour slower, but are trying to figure the angle against yard debris, forever-parked-cars, and assorted outside storage detritus. For some unexplained reason, however, front yards are rather more pristine than expected and provide some favor-ability for the canine sprint.

At 5 yards, you're taking stock: is this going to end in a tie-goes-to-the-animal-with-the-most-teeth? Minor course and cadence corrections are needed. At one yard, you know you've won. So does the dog, but courtesy calls for at least 25 more yards of chase before the bitch throttles down and turns back for a well deserved smoke. I coast, savor the victory, but the barks alert the next pack of mongrels to my course.

D'em bitches! (By the way: I highly recommend "Raging Bitches"-- a great blend of belgian style and IPA beer.

Interstate Outlaw

Three rides, three days, and a mild case of illicitness.

After work mud ride at Haw Ridge. I'm getting used to de-ticking during and after a ride; I think it comes with TN riding. While one set of bugs were trying to eat me, I was ingesting about 5 lbs of flying protein-- the downside of being a mouth-breather during aerobic activities. So far, I haven't found the bugs here to be too un-tasty.

The trails on the other hand are some nice riding candy. Not a ton of work, but lot's of good pedal to fun ratio. The roots took a little getting used to and adjustments to tire pressure (learned quickly after the first few shock rebounds). Lots of twisty, rooty cuts where handlebars pass within inches of the trees. Occasional signs of poorly negotiated turns by others and--I would almost swear--face plants in scarred tree trunks.

Lunchtime ride. Within about a mile, I can be on back-country two lane roads where roll-y hills weave through dense forests or stretch along open pasture land. The strong sweet smell of honey-dew flowers perfume the ride. Dogs however, love a good bike chase which will benefit my sprinting skills and drills. So far, I'm still ahead.

Saturday morning. Ventured out along a potential work commute ride that was surprisingly not bad. A wide shoulder separated me from the busy 4 lane. Noise is the only downer here. Once downtown, I picked up the greenways that are growing within the city. They are pretty as they weave through forested sections of town; it's hard to even realize your in a busy area. They aren't fast though as they weave too much to allow you to open up. Still a good alternative to narrow surface streets that lack shoulders or bike lanes. I think the commute is feasable.

This ride took me to Harper's Bike Shop, where I hooked up with "Scapegoat" for a riding tour. He graciously (and briskly) took me on some stunning back roads along the Tennessee River that were virtually car free. The road swooped and climbed, twisted and rolled through some pretty country. Two good out-of-the saddle climbs--one lung burster and then we dropped in for the real test-- 3 miles down the Interstate (I-640)necessary for us to cross the river.

"Honestly, officer, it's the only way to get across" and "I'm new here, I had NO IDEA that riding on the interstate was illegal! " were my prepared responses. Fortunately, both are in storage for a future crossing (one I might add of necessity as the number of places to cross the river are really limited here). I have to say, though, interstate shoulders are wide, smooth, and fast while the road noise is quite low.

Now that I'm an interstate outlaw I feel somewhat... liberated. But, is this a slipper slope that may soon send me down a path of riding with other bicyclists wearing only a leather jacket? (ooo...wait, no. That sounds really uncomfortable. ) I don't know, but I fear for those poor auto-ists.

Something to Harper on

Bike shops are like hardware stores: eye candy everywhere, useful and useless accessories and tools hung from hooks or inside glass cases, wicked cool bikes, fat ass cycle seats, gizmos for every bike geek.

But, what makes them even more awesome is the pulsing blood beneath the surface. It's the mechanics and the clerks who know their shit, that bleed mineral oil, and wipe away tri-flo from their brow. They can tell a customer has a dragging brake--no matter how loose-- at 50 meters (and they know what that is), or that one missing chain link on your train is gonna bind up a big-high combo and do some damage even at big-mid range if you aren't careful. They know that the Turkey Warbble can be cured and that your caliper is a red hair off from scoring spokes. They can listen sympathetically while you lament your poor shifting problem and fix it with some lube better than a needless tuneup just by looking at your chain. They know if you suck or if you are prick just by your ride, but will still hear you out.

They are the vibe that makes the eye candy ring louder and makes you come back even if the shop is in a shit hole or out of your way.

I found one of those today. In 2 minutes, I knew I had a wrench that knew his shit and could educate me without making me to be the turd bowl. I finally get Mike.

Bike shops rocks. Harper's rules.

Little Bear

Today I saw my first black bear on a bike. Well, to be clear, I was the one riding. He was halfway across the road (insert chicken joke) and paused to watch me, a strange lycra clad animal that stank like a skunk, sucked air like a cow, and sweated like a pig.

My first full road ride and I went south of Knoxville to ride in the Great Smokies on a stretch of closed road called the Foothill Parkway. While not ideal for road riding, I had the place to myself except for said bear and later a "b'rer fox". My route took me up a 9 mile segment of rough road and a long set of climbs. The views were stunning vistas of lush green forested hills--that is when I had big vistas that could be seen through this lush forest. Lots of climbing. Perhaps my 12/25 rear cog is not enough, or perhaps my legs could use some conditioning. I found myself bottomed out for miles during the climbs but, in defense, the grades could be steep.

By mile 14, I had doubled back to a trail that took me off the closed parkway and on to a small country road. Smooth, fast, and largely unused. Good thing it was fast as I experienced the other Tennessee wildlife: the bike chasing dog. I had read of such a problem and I got to experience it first hand. Fortunately, the dogs spotted me late and I dropped one quickly as I rung it up in the flats to about 23. Dog 2 was faster and nearly caught me to take home as a chew toy. Lucky for me though, he had no stamina and I dropped him before the next rising hill.

The remainder of the 32 mile ride took me along a gorgeous mountain stream as the road descended along its fall line to the flats where my car was parked. I did meet up with one rider on a tri-bike in the last 5 miles. We traded off pulling each other as we leveled out from the river road ride and onto the country road that cut through farms. We kept a good pace so by the time I had reached my car, my legs were spent out from the climbs and the final sustaining pace. But, this was a gorgeous ride and I hope a taste of things to come!

So a quick synopsis of my initial lessons of TN riding: narrow roads, great flats, long rollers with steep grades, trees, green, and fabulous views. And, no lycra clad bear bikers.

The Insanity

Madman heads for Knoxville on temporary assignment. For the next 6-12 months (with possible time off for good behavior), I'll be working in a distant land: a beautiful one, no less, with lots of single track, scenic back-roads, and the nearby Appalachians and Great Smokies to provide adventure.

Today, the mountain bike was crated up--step one. Tonight, the gear gets boxed up Step two. The honey-do list is getting checked off-- step three. And now it's time to pack the personal items--step four. Weirdly, or accurately--your choice--, I have more gear to pack than working clothes: helmets, gloves, mtb shorts, road shorts, mtb shoes, road shoes, mtb helmet, road helmet, pump, tools, running shorts, trail shoes, PFD, riding lights. Damn! I think my gear is 2x more ...wait! make that 4x more, than my working clothes! Ahah!!! This proves it: my priorities are almost perfectly balanced between work and play! Step 5: the road bike awaits...the last minute addition, pending weather and a final ride with my road mates. Seven more steps and I could create a 12 step program for endurance athletes, but I fall short for now. Harmony across the 3 legs of the training priorities (Work. Play. Family.) is the continuing struggle.

The third leg, family will be balanced, as well. They will spend the summer there and in the fall, I will become the frequent flyer spanning the continent on every third or fourth weekend. I have no plans to be fit, tested, and single.

In the meantime, and for the short time, the training routine is interrupted. But, adventure awaits! And!... I'm geared up for it.

Pt. Reyes Ride!

So, it's the weekend after the Pt. Reyes run, and not coincidentally, my 49th birthday. Racer X and Yo-Yo decided to take me for a convivial tour of Marin a la the road bikes. Thus, a return to Pt. Reyes on two wheels this time. And Wow! what a ride.

Somehow, we hit the most perfect day of the spring. Not only were the hills an Irish green filled with wildflowers, but not a cloud, no marine layer, nada, along the coast.

We launched from San Anselmo at 0800 and picked up the bike route towards Olema. Coming up on many other bikers we learned the "toe tap" stop; a learned behavior due to law enforcement actions at the numerous (and somewhat trivial) stop signed intersections. The ride towards Olema was gorgeous, but we missed out turn and found ourselves weaving amongst the pot-holed, patchworked tarmac that wound it's way--shoulderless--through Samuel P. Taylor park. Fortunately, we were spared the anxiety of cars as we seemed to have timed our route perfectly from a traffic perspective. I did recognize the look of anxiousness in two other riders headed up Sir Frances Drake Drive reflected my own.

Reaching the coastal highway we turned south and rolled along towards Stenson Beach and Bolinas with no traffic in sight and only the occasional bike. Where are the people!?

Pausing at the beach, we learned from two other bike riders of alternative routes back to our car, now firmly halfway or 27 miles from our current location. We opted for the more scenic yet lung extracting climb up Panoramic Drive to the top of Mt. Tamalpais slowly overtaking one rider who incorrectly told us we were 1 mile from the top. Three miles and 14 cardiac edemas later we reached the fork that would climb us up even more along Mt. Tam. I will testify that this climb from Stenson to the Mt. Tam ridge is long and hard but worth every bead of sweat that clings to your nose or stings your eye. The sites of the ocean, Stinson below us, and Bolinas and Pt Reyes to the north or the view west towards the Farralon Islands, or the southern expanse of the Golden Gate, the San Francisco skyline and Bay were worth it. I wish that pain on any rider!

From Mt. Tam, we dropped down through towering redwoods towards Alpine Lake and climbed again towards Fairfax. We had been advised that "Gestauhlt Hause" for beer and brats was the bike riders destination. Man! were the right!! I highly recommend that any ride end here (I'd recommend start here too, but it makes for tougher riding.) While we stood out as roadies in a mud splattered crowd of mud riders, we soon became cyclo-bros despite our lycra with a group that had just returned from riding singletrack. After having displayed our fat-tire cred, we were warmly welcomed though the many rounds of beers didn't hurt. Soon we were trading ride suggestions, comparing bikes, and dissing and dishing dirt to tear-filled laughter.

Put this ride in your bucket list...the start, the middle, and the end were perfect. Lunch: $6.00. Beer: $20. Views and time with mates: Priceless

Pt. Reyes run

Madman's anniversary was this past weekend and after 15 years of his antics, incessant "training", and zen moron-like focus on finding any means available to go run, ride, or paddle no matter where he/they are. Fortunately, Mrs. Madman is a late sleeper and I am a stealthy exit artist.

Overcast skies greeted me, as I slipped out the back of the Point Reyes Seashore Inn, crossed the narrow creek that bordered it in back, and began my run up Rift trail to Big Bear Trail. A circling golden eagle kept a steady orbit over me as I covered the open and marshy ground towards Big Bear trailhead. Despite 4 days of road/mud riding my legs were feeling fresh, so I scouted the big trail map for a 1 hour loop. Having done the trail out to Arches, and wishing for something more than the widely hiked and run Big Bear, I selected Old Pine as a backcountry connector to other trails that would circle me back. The others however were steep, so I played it safe by electing Old Pine for slower ascent.

Running Pt. Reyes is a very unique run in coastal California. It's topography and fauna seem somehow different and other-worldly in contrast to Big Sur, Monterey, Aptos or other central CA runs I've done. There's something almost jurrasic about it as the trails meander through giant coastal redwoods, large swaths of fern and laurel. It's almost rain-forest like. 1.8 miles in the breaks out in another large meadow after a slow but steady climb from the start. I took a few minutes to take in the view as the marine layer's mist streamed through the pines surrounding the namesakes trail. Old Pine's trailhead advertised 1.8 miles to Skyline Trail. From there I intended to descend back on two other options. But, I also have never trusted NPS trail mileage, and, so I did a quick time calc of when I ought to see the trail's merge. Given the steepness of the trail, I guesstimated I should connect in 16-20 minutes. If I didn't, I'd turn back as I was without water and off a more widely used trail where help--should it be needed-- might be long in coming.

With a glance at the standard trail warning sign about the dangers of possible mountain lions, I rehit the start button and began my climb up. The trail pitched up steeper than the prior few miles, but the vegetation was lush and sometimes spooky, as it wound its way through dense laurel shrubs under towering pines. Horses had recently passed through, and though the trail was firm and relatively dry, it still provided a few things to watch, 'horse apples' being just one of them. As I approached my first time mark of +16 min I still hadn't summitted (I had assumed, of course that Skyline ran along the 1500 range top above me). In fairness to the NPS, the trail was steep, the occasional mud/bog holes slowed me up, and I had take a couple short walks to take in the view and yell "Hey Bear!" (that always throws off potential mountain lion attacks as I'm sure it gets them to look over their shoulder too!). By +20 I had summitted but still had no connector trail or signs. I cheated by walking a minute or two more to ease the heart rate, but still no trail.

Now this is a facet of trail running, I think many of us share. It is damn hard to mind turn-around times as you just KNOW the next trail/fork/descent/bar is 100 yards ahead/around the turn/past that bush). I am absolutely sure that had I gone just 10seconds further I'd have found the turn along with Swedish models cooling down for their run down the hill with me.

But alas, it became an out and back. A great out and back that gave me 7.5 miles of gorgeous running views and experiences and I'm sure that the Swedish models would have just giggled too much and drowned out all the cool bird calls.

The Wall

The normal route to work involves a long rid on Calavaras Road through the rolling hills and quiet backroads of the bay. In the am, siting a car is a rare thing. Seeing eagles, turkeys, deer, and of course, cows, is a very normal thing. Occasionally, we'll see a bobcat, coyote, Thule elk or, even more rarely, a wild pig. But our normal route is from east to west and includes a steep drop back down into civilization, we call "The Wall." It's a great and fast descent with twisty turns, sticky pavement, and the occasional turkey that crosses the road too soon and makes for a near-miss and early turkey feast and added bonus trip to the hospital.

Recently, we've begun to drive in to work, leave a vehicle and ride out. Racer X did it last week and I did it this week. The Wall sucks riding from west to east. It sucks big time. It is 2 miles of near constant climbing in a steep 6+ degree pitch. There are two short flat spots that allow you to get your heart back in range, before the final .5 mile climb that concludes with a 12+ degree 200 yard heart attack inducing, out of the seat, will power testing climb. No matter how good my physical condition, I hate that hill. I have a mantra that seems to get me through, however, and even allowed me to overtake and outclimb another rider which I repeat with every turn of the crank for those 2 long miles: "The road wants you to climb it; the bike wants you to roll."

I know it's a lie, but it helps. The Wall is only interested in your suffering.

Poopy Ride

Spring is making a brilliant appearance with a wider display of colorful flowers and varieties than I have seen in years. The trails along the Pleasanton Ridge are bursting with yellow, blue, purple, orange, and red wildflowers ranging from the usual California Poppy and Bush Lupine to some reds that I haven't yet seen before or yet identified. The great rains and regular storms I'm sure have helped bring out varieties or the intensities we're now enjoying. Rides this time of year are both eye-candy and filled with fast and grippy trails with a mix of wet-stream crossing and puddle hopping and splatter.

And while the fields are blossoming with flowers so to are they filling with critter crap. While not nearly as colorful as the vegetation, there certainly seems to be something bringing out the crappers! I don't know if it's approaching mating season or lots of border skirmishes taking place between rivals marking territory, but it makes for some shitty riding at times. A quick scan of scat pages leads me to believe most of it is bobcat and some coyote. (I almost linked in a pic, but prudence got the better of me.) Almost all the piles are in clusters and rather prominent compared to the past few weeks of riding. One location of many poops is an area that I've seen a large bobcat in previous rides. A few tracks in the mud confirmed that one was definitely a small bobcat.

Trails, despite the rains, are in great condition and a fun ride. More rain threatens today so flowers will linger and poop will amass.

Tour-a-runism in Lafayette

I've had several trips where turning a run into a way to tour the locale has been both fun and interesting. A recent trip to Lafayette, LA provided some more run based tourism opportunities.

My runs were a mix of meanderings through neighborhoods surrounding the University of Lousiana and a few forays into open fields that I chanced upon.

On one such run I encountered scores of crayfish Chimneys--interesting mud duabs built by crayfish extending the entrances of their tunnel by 6-12"

Through the neighborhoods I had a chance to take in an interesting collection of arcadian and southern style homes--from brick to cedar to plaster and mixes in between. Gardens and flora were rich and varied, as well, and were often fabulously canopied by massive live oak with their distinctive umbrella of giant limbs and thick trunks.

Running through the open spaces near the University of Louisiana afforded me the opportunity to stop and peak into the Horticulture departments demonstration gardens.

Along the way, I got to take in the man-made bayou swamps outside the US Fish and Wildlife field offices. Swamp boats on trailers in back and a beautiful collection of cypress and other swamp flora in front made for an interesting contrast.

Muddog's Sunshine

Over a week of nearly constant rain has enveloped the area. Not bad, we need it, but it makes for soggy runs. Today, Mad Dog and I set out under dark and low ceilings for a 1 hour trail run. Rain was threatening but I left the rain jacket behind. With temperatures in the upper 40's, I guessed I'd stay warm enough and the rain light enough to slog it through.

I let Mad Dog off leash at the trailhead and she left my side in a flash. She's a runner and a sprinter and the love for both she readily demonstrates. She made quick work of releasing the pent up energy of a week's indoor confinement . She tore down the trail, leaped off to chase birds, and whatever mysterious doggy motivating smells her nose picked up. The squish-squish-squish of my feet along the soggy trail played the base notes to accompany the staccato of her highspeed run-bys. Spray, splatter, wind, squish. As the rain began and steadily picked up, Mad Dog ran happy patterns around me and my steady yet increasingly soggy run. We were in heaven.