Scott, Bill, Brian and I are entering into negotiations for a ski trip along the famous Haute Route from Chamonix to Zermatt. At this point it looks like I’ll be spending the last week of March crossing the Alps with my friends; it doesn’t get much better than that.
The Ironman gig has satiated my desire to see just how far I can go physically, but I miss waking up in the mountains, breathing the cold thin air, the feeling of good snow beneath my skis. Bill and I skied the Haute Route back in 1999, and I’m looking forward to returning to the “civilized” world of backcountry huts, stinky cheese and myriad choices of dried meats.
I find that I continually have to have some goal, something on the horizon to prepare for. At forty three I’ve learned that life quietly slips by if I don’t continually strive to reset the clock. Going from one adventure to the next, always having that next race, trip or voyage to look forward to, to train for, slows down that relentless and pitiless clock.