Forget luck.

A few weeks from ultra running's Big Dance, I met and ran a bit with Jim Walmsley along the Tahoe Rim Trail. He was in the region coaching campers with Mountain Pulse Running Adventures. Despite having no one but a bicycling photographer to run with that day, he had no business "sitting" on my pace and chatting through the miles and aid stations.

But he did. After parting from the post-run taco truck, I chatted with my mates and ruminated on the guy's personality and undeniable talent. He's had an incredible streak this year. I wasn't really sure how to articulate my view of his chances heading into Western States. We were in Tahoe, after all, and he was not spending his days acclimating to the canyons and the heat and the region. While his shoestring travel plans might not have allowed for it, I imagined a choice between counseling and prepping must've emerged. Why this choice?

Well, if you missed the race's details, the dude's running wrote an incredible and absolutely maddening story. I remain flabbergasted by his performance throughout the day, and as much as I ache when I think about his final hours outside Auburn, I'm even more impressed by the way he finished his race and reflects on the experience.

I feel privileged to have spent actual time with someone that inspires through being, not just running. It's my hope that all run lovers find similar worthwhile moments in between the aches and pains.

And for a visual journey, the ongoing work of that bicycling photographer, Myke Hermsmeyer, comprises a fantastic photo essay in the new edition of Outside Magazine.

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.

Don't let down your guard.

Summer vacation has arrived, and with it I've lost all track of sense.

I tried--albeit unsuccessfully--to fit an iPhone into a Nathan handheld before a recent trail run. The freedom of summer surely must've taxed my ethical core, for had the bottle's pouch accommodated the device, I would have most certainly would've found a reason to tear into it, retrieve the phone, and capture a moment. Then, perhaps I'd share! share! share!

I see now I harbored some belief in a social (media) pressure, and amid the chaos of summer break, I damn-near found myself on a jog with my phone for the sole purpose of advertising my routine.

Thankfully, the belief that I'd need this kind of proof wore off around the same time I realized I couldn't complete the zipper track around corner of the phone case.

I love to run with company, and I know full-well the ways the pack can alleviate the training, inspire the vision, and counsel the weary. I know what my running does for others (mainly because it makes me tolerable), but I primarily run for me. I need no other evidence, nor validation, than what I collect between the first push and the final stutter.

How my students shaped my training this week: Well, now that we are on hiatus, my students have let me think about them again. I can dedicate the thinking during my non-running hours to the big ideas and developmental questions that will ultimately benefit their learning; I can dedicate the thinking during my running hours to fostering mental toughness.

What my son taught me about running this week: We entered a new phase this week, advancing from infant to toddler rooms at school. Given my freer mornings, I had the opportunity to perform drop-off duties and work with him through the transition. The ritual was a series of teary, shrieking episodes.

When the teachers tell me I can walk away, I'm not guilty or cold. I see that transitions are hard. And as I work more on trails, more on climbing, and more time on my feet, I see that it's harder because it's different, not because I can't do it. It doesn't mean I won't still do some crying, however.