Ruth Stodghill, Peak to Peak.   Runners are everywhere these days. You can find us scurrying along the pre-dawn streets of major cities, or lumbering along in sweat pants and jackets down back-country roads on mid-winter evenings.

With runners being especially prevalent in Colorado, we have developed our own unique sub-species of athlete - the trail runner.

Trail runners are lithe and nimble. They wear shorty-shorts and tank tops, and can sprint fifty miles through the Rockies eating nothing but a blueberry and a gulp of water from a mountain stream for sustenance.

They deftly leap from boulder to boulder, careening down mountainsides at top speeds, all without breaking a sweat or an ankle. They are the golden ones, the gods of the sport. And they make it look so easy.

I am not a trail runner.

I am not graceful. I hate wearing shorty-shorts whilst running - they display my cellulite in a most unattractive way, and despite slathering my inner thighs in Vaseline, when I go run, I always end up with “chub rub.” When I run a marathon in the mountains, I need real food - sandwiches and lemonade and M&M’s and yes, sometimes steak. I can’t leap over boulders - I will slip and fall and bust open a knee or break my nose on a rock the size of a pea. When I drag myself across the finish line at a trail race, I will be hot, sweaty, and encrusted in a deep layer of salt mixed with dirt and desperation. And I will probably be crying. Or throwing up. Or both.

There’s just one problem. I live in Colorado. And all the cool kids in Colorado run trail races. So occasionally, I have to prove to the cool kids - and myself - that I, too, am cool. So I don my best trail shoes and most flattering shorty-shorts, fill my running pack with steak wraps and Coca-cola, and head to the mountain peaks in an effort to scale their majestic heights and maintain my reputation as being at least a demi-god of trail running.

This summer, there’s only been one trail race that has mattered for me - The Pikes Peak Ascent. If you’ve read my running stories before, you already know - I first signed up to run Pikes Peak in the summer of 2017. The race course starts in Manitou Springs; from there, runners climb almost 8,000 feet along various trails to reach the 14,110 foot summit of the mountain.

But as I stood in the starting line last August, I looked around me, noting the intense level of athleticism of my fellow runners and the glorious, imposing monster that is Pikes Peak - and like Zebulon Pike before me, I knew that on this day, for me, this mountain was unclimbable. I waddled away from the starting line, doing my best to maintain my composure while crying tears of embarrassment and burping regret.

As I drove away from Manitou Springs that day, I looked back at the peak and I muttered, just loud enough for her to hear me, “You. Me. Next year. I challenge you to a rematch.”

I heard a chuckle rise from deep within the mountain’s throat. “Sure, little running pipsqueak. You’re on. If you reach my summit next year, you win. But if I force you to run away from the starting line weeping like an over-cooked meringue, I win. Winner gets all bragging rights.”

“Deal,” I spit the words out through my clenched teeth.

In the year since I challenged the mountain, I have done my best to prepare for our rematch. I lost weight so my chub rub isn’t as distracting when I gallop. I trained my stomach to glean nourishment from blueberries and lichen and organic wheat grass. I learned jujitsu to defend myself from ravenous biting insects of all kinds. And I huffed and puffed my way up and down the hills and mountain passes of Las Animas and Huerfano counties.

While gamboling over their heights, I spoke with these summits about their mean sister to the north.

They cautioned: “Patsy (that’s their nickname for Pikes Peak) is a mean old hag. She once unleashed a blizzard on Zebulon Pike in July just to watch him cry. She will be surprised that you have returned to try to run up her flanks again - so watch out! Who knows what dastardly tricks she will try to throw your way.”

On August 18, 2018, I filled my running pack with healthy non-GMO snack foods, slathered my thighs in anti-chafing lube, donned my shorty-shorts and clunky trail-running shoes, and along with running buddy Giena, I headed to the base of Pikes Peak for our epic rematch. The day before, Manitou Springs had been hit hard by a nasty thunderstorm, complete with flash floods, a sinkhole, and quarter-sized hail. As we gazed up at the old mountain, we wondered what shenanigans she had waiting up her sleeves for us today.

As if on cue, the race announcer’s voice boomed over the sound system:

“Runners, may I have your attention, please. Due to the high likelihood of severe thunderstorms today, especially lightning and hail along the race course above treeline, the El Paso County Search and Rescue has made the decision that runners will not be allowed to ascend to the top of Pikes Peak during today’s event. Instead, athletes will run the first 7.5 miles of the course, up to Barr Camp. Your official time will be recorded there. Runners must then walk or slowly jog back to the base of the mountain. We know this is disappointing, but athlete safety is our first priority.”

Dang-it, Patsy!

Just like that, she’d snatched away my victory. I wouldn’t be able to reach the summit of Pikes Peak today.

I heard her laughter - a distant peeling roll like thunder.

Giena and I, and every runner there, had a choice to make - ascend half way? Or turn around, go home, lick our wounds, and drown our sorrows in cheetos and stiff drinks?

“We’re already here,” said Giena. “Let’s do this.”

And just like that, it hit me - I may not be able to reach the summit today.

But the mountain couldn’t make me turn away from the starting line in tears, either. I may not be able to win - but I also didn’t have to lose.

So, I ran. In 7.6 miles, I climbed 4,000 feet from Manitou’s Memorial Park, up past Ruxton Creek, and along the Barr Trail past the Incline, No-Name Creek, Bob’s Road, and up to Barr Camp. And then I slipped and slid my way back down the mountainside. I won’t regale you with the hazards and feats of glory I witnessed along the way - those are stories to tell another year, once I manage to reach the summit. What I will tell you is this - I took every step up the mountain that the Search and Rescue folks would allow. I didn’t run away crying. I think I even laughed once or twice.

In the end, I didn’t win this year. But neither did the mountain. This particular battle in our ongoing war was a draw - and that still feels pretty good. Patsy wasn’t laughing at me as I drove away this summer. And she knows - I’ll be back. Hopefully, the third time will be the charm - and I will stand on top of Pikes Peak in 2019. And enjoy the view.