I put two more marathons under my feet that fall. I’m stronger now than I was in the spring, but 4:15 remains my best time. That’s Michelle’s doing.
Michelle is a wise and angelically beautiful woman who would sock me in the shoulder if I presumed to call her my girlfriend. Maybe some day, if I’m very lucky. She’s also a devoted trail runner and all-season outdoorswoman, and her enthusiasm rubs off in all the right ways.

For my second marathon, Michelle suggested a trail race around Mount Greylock, out in western Massachusetts. It would be my first trail race, and I agreed without having a clue what she was getting us into. Even after studying the elevation chart, which showed five sharp climbs of 1,000 feet or more, I thought to myself, ‘How hard can it be?’
I was going to find out.
For fun and training’s sake, we fast-packed the Presidential Range up in the White Mountains one long day in August. That was my first time up any of those 11 peaks, and after trekking 22 miles in 14 hours, I thought we’d acquitted ourselves impressively. Greylock would be harder, Michelle said.
I didn’t believe her.
The weather for Greylock was perfect. The skies were cool, and never really made good on the threat of rain. I ran a terrific 12-mile race. We started near the back of the pack, and I had a great time passing my way up the line. Somewhere along the 13th mile, the third major climb started to get to me. I knew that the mountain would slow me down, but I never imagined that I’d have trouble walking. I bonked, and hard. I could still jog when the trails were flat, or downhill, but they kept turning back up the mountain. At first, it was a struggle to keep moving. Then it got really bad. I could take eight to ten steps at a time, tops. Then I’d stop and pant, hands on my knees, my heart thundering. My legs quivered from lactic acid cramps. Once I fell and tried to crawl a bit, but that was even harder. I came almost to tears in frustration. What the hell was wrong with me? Any thoughts I’d had of a good time evaporated. I just wanted to finish, even if it took all day.
It damn near did.
I kept slogging, blessedly alone most of the time, cursing my legs and stopping often. I tried to eat more goo, and drink more water, and eventually I started to feel a little better. Then, while struggling to stay with a much older, heavier guy chugging up yet another climb, I heard a high, sweet voice behind me, singing snatches of something sprightly. Michelle!
I was powerfully happy to see her. She was bopping along, iPod attached. There is nothing like a gorgeous woman to inspire a man, especially when you aspire to her affections. My legs got religion, and brothers and sisters, they were born again. Halleluiah!
Michelle and I stuck together for the next six miles or so, and then she suggested I should go ahead and pick up the pace.  I thought about the three-hour drive home and how tired I’d be. Then I thought about how I’d feel if I didn’t try my hardest. We’re never far from Dunkin’ Donuts in New England, and anything’s possible with enough coffee. I kicked it up, and ran full tilt boogie until I started to bonk again, about a mile from the finish. Then I just ran as best I could.
We both finished in the neighborhood of seven hours. The fellow who won it barely broke four. The top time in Burlington – with a field of 2,500 runners – was a blazing 2:24:27! Only 76 runners tackled Greylock. The race hadn’t been run since 1998, and it isn’t on the calendar this year. I can’t decide whether I’m disappointed or relieved. I would like another shot at it, some day.
A week after Greylock, Michelle and I and a few thousand other people ran the Hollis Applefest half marathon, a road race considered by local runners to be a very hilly course. It was a breeze. I used my newfound strategy of starting near the back, and passing everyone I could. One young fellow asked just before I dropped him, “Are you a trail runner?” He’d noticed I ran mostly on the shoulder. “Yeah,” I told him. “I am.”
Michelle had converted me.
I’d always liked to run through the woods, but I had slacker’s bias for convenience. Why drive some place to go run? It seemed a poor use of time and gasoline.
Now I’ve changed, and I’ll tell you why: Pavement blows. Unless you are lucky enough to live way out in the sticks or beside a large park, the scenery on your street sucks, and the next block isn’t any better. This earth is a whole lot prettier when we leave it be. Sunlight dances on a pond. Pavement just gets hot and dull, and builders flatten all the lumps and fill the valleys as they sow suburbs. Also, it’s just too damn hard. Even dirt roads get packed pretty solid, but trails are gentle on the feet. You pick your way through the rocks and roots. You have to watch where you step, but there’s always a way. It’s like a dance, almost, synching your stride with the trail.
I never feel lonesome when I run alone through in the woods. The birds and squirrels may be shy, but there are always the trees, the sky and the occasional brook to keep me company. I’ve always felt close to them, like old friends. Steve and Michelle are often in my thoughts, especially when I cover ground that we’ve trod together.
I’ve occasionally felt lost. A dubious sense of direction not withstanding, I’ve always been good at spotting trails. I can pick out and follow a game trail, and read blazes or cairns like highway signs. I’m so sharp, sometimes I see trails that aren’t really there at all.
Steve and I were going to run a few weeks back, but he had to blow it off.
I miss our regular training runs, but I was looking forward to getting out and staying a while.  The sun was melting off a thin coat of snow, and I planned to head into the woods, run until I felt like stopping, and then run just a little longer.

If you missed parts one and two…