Italy, day one

It is currently 11 a.m. Sunday, September 11, in Courmayeur, Italy. Church bells are chiming in the square where I just watched three very nervous friends start the 200-mile epic that is the Tor des Geants. I found an internet cafe, a couple hits of espresso and a few quiet moments to upload some pictures to my blog.

Beat and I flew into Zurich on Wednesday afternoon and drove through the northern Alps to Chamonix, France, then through a tunnel that cuts through the heart of Mont Blanc to Courmayeur, Italy. Jet lag had us up at 4:30 a.m. after a fitful night of sleep, so we wandered the deserted streets of town as the first hints of dawn rose over the mountains. I was in a bit of a stupor, sleep-deprived and confused, struggling to read storefront signs before I remembered I can not read Italian, and gazing up at the jagged pinnacles of Mont Blanc that towered more than 11,000 feet over my head.

We crossed town and started up the trail that serves as the race course for the Tor des Geants. We passed a group of trail signs that listed destinations in terms of how hours and minutes of hiking time it would take to reach them. I asked Beat why they didn't list actual distances. "Because that doesn't matter," he said. Sure enough, the trail shot toward the sky. Everything is so steep here that distance has been rendered meaningless — climbing and descending endless mountains is all there is. I tried to comprehend what this meant for 200 real miles.

As we crawled up the trail, dripping sweat in the cool morning air, we passed a number of stone huts in various states of use and decay. Having become accustomed to undeveloped wilderness in Alaska and Montana, it was strange to see so much humanity sprinkled throughout these rugged mountains. "What did people do with all of these structures?" I wondered aloud. "Did they actually live up here?" A few cows sauntered past, ringing those famous Alps cow bells. "People probably still live up here," Beat said.

We tried to nap in the afternoon, unsuccessfully, and then walked out the front door of our rented apartment toward Mont Cormet, Courmayeur's "house mountain" (our term) because of its proximity to town.

We started at 4,000 feet elevation and climbed to 8,500 feet in what was likely less than three miles — again, a meaningless measure of distance here in the Alps. Our total climbing on the day was close to 6,000 feet, and we weren't even actively seeking out a tough effort. It was just an exploration day, a rest day, our first day in Italy.

It was difficult to take it all in, to comprehend the scale of these massive mountains and the depth of the history and culture steeped within. I was grateful that I had more than a week in this place to try.

courmayeur

I intended to write a blog post before I left,but time got away from me. now i am attempting to send a message from my kindle. beat and i are in italy, where he is gearing up to run 200 miles in the tor des geants and i plan to binge on hiking, espresso and photo taking. this is my first time outside north america and already a bit of a culture shock. hopefully i will eventually find internet so i can update m photo blog.

August gone

I've always been a bit superstitious about the month of August. I think it began when I was in early grade school and the month seemed to rush toward the end of freedom (and beginning of school) while at the same time lingering in hot, suffocating, too often boring days. I had this birthday that was too close to the end of summer (and mad rush of vacations) for anyone to remember, and the oppressive heat seemed to make the rest of the unremarkable month creep along like a river of lava. But for however superficial my reasons were, as I child I decided that August was a bad luck month, and that sentiment has weirdly stuck through too many years when I should have already known better.

And so it's been this August. Every time another little hit came down, I'd look at the calendar and think "six more days. I can deal for six more days." My August countdown came to a head on the 31st, when I was most sick with stomach flu and could do little more than stick close by the toilet and surf WebMD. I obsessed about minor health symptoms and convinced myself I had wound infection, gangrene, maybe the plague. I had to have Beat talk me down from placing a frantic hypochondriac call to my nurse sister in Utah or general practitioner at midnight. Then the calendar clicked over to September 1, and I fell asleep.

I woke up Thursday morning feeling remarkably better than I had the day before. I even attempted another run — well, four-mile jog. I was racked with stomach cramps and couldn't take in any water. My flu definitely already broke, but my stomach was still too raw from a couple days of purging, and my energy level was low. Smart, healthy people will tell me I'm trying too hard, and they would be right. I'm not even under the delusion that I'm holding onto fitness here. I've only been running slowly for three weeks now. Fitness has already slipped away. But I so miss that feeling, the feeling of being drenched in sweat and the warm sunset hues and blissfully tired, of just being healthy and alive in the outdoors. I continue to believe that I'm close enough to go after it. I'm not going to become more injured or more sick just by trying (unless, of course, I fall again.) If I was "actually" injured or "actually" sick, it might be different, and I'd just rest and not feel so compelled to go on "mental health" outings. I don't know. In my mind, I keep blaming August. A cop-out, I know. But it helps.

As for the arm, I am planning to attempt my first bike ride in more than three weeks this afternoon. Just a simple commuter ride on the bike path. I don't believe I have gangrene anymore, although I do still wonder if the continued pain indicates that I possibly nicked a tendon. But either way, it has improved a lot, and it's time to at least start rebuilding strength just above the pain threshold. I'm not gaining anything my holding my arm limply at my side. Onward and Forward, into September.