Seen on the Scene.

It's always good to get away--from the beaten path, the tired routine, the familiar slog of the daily grind. And so as another dark spring marathon season fades in the dry glow of a warming summer, I turn again to the slow solidarity of the canyon climbs and fire roads and single tracks.

The switch to the trail scene--which comes in part from the liberty inherent in public teaching--affords me the status of a lone warrior. I get out at my (somewhat later) hour, I go at my non-work pace, and I can generally exist in my own rite until the responsibilities of society and my family require my return. (And honestly, I'm quite happy to return.) The time remains solitary; the work meaningful.

Sunday I found myself the last to leave the portolet in the Spooner Summit parking lot and hit the trail for the annual TRT 100 training run. The low-key affair, worth my $40 and 5-hour round trip drive, offers a runner preview and multiple aid stations to participants (and non-participating willing customers like I've been) running the annual 55k, 50 mile, or 100k race this month. Other than crusty opportunists like myself, I figured I'd spend much of the day in my own element (read: alone).

What it looks like to be the only one out there, save the constant company of a professional photographer.

Being the last to shuffle off meant I jogged past the packs of slower-paced runners as I sussed out the other participants and looked for a place to settle in. Other than the aforementioned opportunists, I shared no exchange beyond an occasional "On your left."

Within ten minutes, though, I suffered something akin to the Facebook effect (you and _________ have ____ friends in common!). My verbal turn signal was returned with a, "Hey, you paced my last half marathon!" and then three miles of companionship.

Ultimately, after the pace bro and I split via our own decisions, I strode through no more than four turns before this exchange: "Kyle, like, Kyle Petty? You're taller in person, and you look different with the beard."

The subsequent conversation lasted the better part of 7 miles, and included shared backgrounds, at least four overlapping experiences, and ultimately one collapsed universe.

Let me be clear: This entry is not a complaint. I very much appreciated the company, and I'm certainly not shy for words or out to shed any drafters. But I feel compelled to note the antithetical nature of the day. This was not the rogue-running, independence-charged trainer I've experienced countless times and expected on this day.

Eleven miles into the morning, runners faced a choice: they could add a 7-mile loop to get a taste of the descent and return climb from Red House, or return via the Flume Trail upon which they made their initial journey. While I chose to head back and save the added miles for the week, my company pressed on, eager to get a handle on the intricacies of the race ahead. It was this stretch of the morning that I encountered the run I had expected. Yet along with the solitude and search for strength, I found myself grappled with fatigue, uncertainty, and boredom. I certainly credit the increased time on my feet, the inevitable rise in temperature, and the up-and-down thrashing of a long run at elevation. But I might also consider crediting the role a well-placed friend--formerly had or newly made--plays in enriching my dabbling in the trail scene.

Running away.

How my students shaped my training this week: The mysterious bodies in my future classes have me freaking out about my own ability to prepare for my classes. When I'm not running, these concerns likely feed my stress and fatigue and either compel my runs or trouble them in some way.

What my son taught me about running this week: I watched the Bub play with some Legos today. I built a nice landscape on the table while he sorted through pieces and built his own towers on the floor. When he realized what I was doing, he enthusiastically intervened and obliterated my creation so as to construct something more akin to his preferences and abilities.

I wanted to see this as a sarcastic metaphor for what kids do to our lives, but (today, at least) I'm better than that. I concluded that fresh eyes and unquestioned force might very well help me find new roads in otherwise established places.

The RD justified this recovery feature with, "I am done grilling. Forever." Jim Walmsley and I will both oblige with and indulge thanks to this decision.