What is it about places and times you want to be so close to you that makes them much farther than normal places and much, much farther than foreboding places and times? This was one of those times and the summit was one of those places, and I wanted it to be so close but it was so so far away. I looked back down at the granite gravel. Then I looked back up at the peak. I could still hear the man. And then I could hear the whistle of the Cog as it left. Or came. I had no sense of time becuase I was so focused on lifting one foot off the ground and putting it farther on the ground then doing the same thing with the other foot, inclining all the while. My toes hurt.

I am moving faster than I usually do. And I've been moving faster all the while. I turned a sharp switchback and a mountain sized gust of wind bombarded me in the face, making my weak little limbs wave like the aspens below. Tears sprang to the corner of my eyes, precious water leaking out of an unsuspecting portal.

The Cirque, a girormous valley on the side of the mountain, plummeted to my left as I made another turn, but I had no desire to go stand on its edge. None of the other Ascent runners did either.

"Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!" A portly man next to a middle-aged woman in a blue zip-up jacket on the side of the trail sang out the happy tune. Was that really happening? Or was I that delusional?

The very tip-top far edge corner of the summit house came into view as I approached the 16 Golden Stairs, and I winked at it (perhaps subconciously) before starting the serious ascent. The 16 steps straight up the mountain formed from jumbled piles of granite toppled on top of one another ate weakling's quads for breakfast. But it was lunch time, and I was hungrier than a pile of rocks. I pushed the stream of people ahead of me as I rocketed up the stairs--or rocketed as best a mini spaceship runner can after shooting 13,000 feet into the air with only the sheer power of her legs. My legs hurt.

I straightened my back ad took a deep breath. It smelt like rocks, the good, solid, earthy kind you can smell when you go to the gardening section of Wal-Mart. And it smelt like sweat. My own. The man's in front of me. Maybe eve the finisher's wafting from above.

"Come on, Kris. You can do it." The solid words came from my own mouth, slipping past my chapped lips with a little effort. And once they were out, they bounded past my face and into my mind, motivating my muscles to move more.

Three more turns. Just like at Barr Camp, but I knew it was real this time. Three more turns. Between the temporary shade of the rocks piled on top of each other.