Thursday, January 5, 2017

An Act of Faith

The Bear's Ears Monument. A testimony to Utah's
unique place as a home for us in the past, present and future.
The quote in the header of this blog was chosen based on my deep belief that nature and wilderness are more than hobbies for me, they are existential elements of my being. In light of recent events surrounding southeastern Utah, the quote also holds some topical relevance. Another treasured corner of my state has been designated as a National Monument and an examination of why this is so important to me and many others seems necessary as many on the opposing side, some local, some national, question whether anyone in Utah wants this. My answer is an emphatic, "YES!"

When I arrived in the west nearly 18 years ago, my scope of wilderness was defined by very contrived experiences in confined spaces. I may feel some kinship with nature in a state park carved out of the Door County Peninsula, or I might feel a measure of vulnerability spending a few days skiing in the savage winters along the shores of Lake Superior. That was my experience with "wild" and "untamed".

Idaho's Sawtooth Wilderness.
Then I arrived in Idaho. I witnessed a wilderness gospel that transcended anything preached in the confines of Wisconsin's Nicolet National Forest or the backroads of New York's Finger Lake Region. I absorbed the testament of the Sawtooth Mountains and Frank Church River of No Return Wildernesses, the latter of which, when viewed in terms of area, encompasses the most remote territory in the U.S. outside of Alaska. To travel the 80 some river miles on the Salmon through the heart of this wilderness, you would have to circumnavigate about 370 miles by car. My proximity to these cathedrals of nature made me a true wilderness acolyte.

Enjoying happy hour in the legacy left
by Frank Church.
With my move to Utah just over 10 years ago, I joined a new parish with different, but equally powerful examples of nature's glory. While Idaho's vast central region was a blockade of mountains and rivers that had been interrupting passage to the Pacific since Lewis and Clark, Utah presented an inverse, but no less difficult geography. Deep meandering canyons divide the Colorado Plateau's desert into large isolated chunks of desert. Crossing to the other side of the Colorado River south of Moab requires long pilgrimages to the remote missions in Hite or Bullfrog. And witnessing the filigreed intricacy of The Wave just south of the border in Arizona demands patience and dedication, not just in the procession through an unforgiving desert on foot, but also in the faith that a permit to see this wonder would be granted.

With President Obama's executive action to create the Bear's Ears National Monument, another corner of our state has been sanctified. In the eyes of us wilderness disciples, this decision validates our faith. Many opponents question the designation. They feel it ignored the rights of those who call the region containing Bear's Ears home. Certainly I can't pretend to call Bear's Ears home, but do the residents of nearby Bluff and Blanding have any more right to call it home?

I'll return to the quote at the top of this page. Yes, nature is home-- our home. Snyder didn't envision nature as parceled off plots for our personal refuge. There is no boundary on nature where one person's opinion ceases to matter and another's begins. Nature belongs to us all and it provides a home that stretches beyond the Wasatch Front, Colorado Plateau, Intermountain West, Continental US and on and on.

The Wave exemplifies just how amazing a seemingly
mundane desert can be.
Xenophobia is not exclusive to the right. On both sides of our polarized spectrum, we often see outsiders and visitors as threatening our home. I feel this anxiety every time I go to Alta. Out-of-staters clog the canyon, greenhorns stop in the middle of a traverse, and I once nearly lost it when I overheard a stranger wish that Alta would grade out the High Traverse for easier access and protection of his skis. As someone who routinely hits the Lift House for extensive base welds, I can say, with great conviction, I have never wished for the High T to be manicured.

Many of us Altaholics get possessive of our "home", so I can appreciate what some anti-monument activists feel. But what matters most to me is that special places like Alta, Bear's Ears, or the Jumbo Valley in British Columbia [watch Jumbo Wild on Netflix if you haven't] are viewed not as local treasures, or regional treasures, or even national treasures, but world treasures. That sentiment understandably upsets those who see President Obama's choice as a threat to their livelihood. Not only that, but I will recognize the action as a stinging contradiction of their ideas of how nature should be managed, but using your proximity to an area as an entitlement for environmental molestation seems self-centered.

Introspectively, I have tried to find a point of understanding, a parallel in my own life, that matches the anger fomenting from the other side of the debate. I don't have to look very far. It's on the calendar as January 20th.

That may seem drastic, but I have thought long and hard about the compromises I might make for the preservation of the wild. For example, would I trade Alta's snowboard ban for the preservation of Grizzly Gulch and Flagstaff Mountain? Would I trade mountain biking in Fisher Creek to ensure wilderness protections in the Sawtooth and White Cloud ranges of Idaho?

Who are any of us to say that responsibility towards natures starts and stops on a property line. It surrounds us all. Gary Snyder didn't want us to see nature as our home in the possessive sense. The environment is not a plot in which we establish our dominion. He wants us to see the entire system of nature as a gift that surrounds us every moment of our life. We have all been given a home.

Friday, December 9, 2016

Winter Demands Acceptance

Seeing Supreme with Snow from "Kitty".
Makes everything seem all right.
Winter buries ambition. It forces hibernation. Winter leads to introspection. Victims of the seasonal shift complain about light's brevity while shivering and relenting to the grips of winter's harsh and icy fingers. It's not hard to view ourselves as victims to this tilt of the axis. Without the comforts of warmth and light, many fail to overcome the cold and bleakness of these long months. People begin to fool themselves about the spring when the blanket is ripped from their curled and fetus like bodies and they can feel the warmth dance across their naked skin and open their bodies to the sky.

Spring never comes like that. The snatching of the covers from your body doesn't feel pleasant. It's severe and stark. Which is why I don't cling to any misconceptions on the joy of spring. To me, spring is just the decent neighborhood in a strange city that in a few blocks transforms into the "put your wallet in your front pocket" skid row of triple digit summer. Winter is my time.

My goals come into sharp focus. Against the greyscale existence, my desires stand out. Instead of misplacing hope on an oncoming summer where ample margins around the workday allow for pleasant evening and morning recreation, I have to commit to making the most of the day.

No season demands acceptance of things outside of your control more than winter. And more so than cycling, skiing requires acceptance of things outside your control: conditions, time of day, shortness of the day, cost of a pass, weather and the limits of the body. To perform on skis, you should be on a level that matches the terrain and the equipment. At least that is how I feel skiing. I can't tolerate backing off and stemming a turn when I know that a lifetime on skis has given me the tools to do it. My standards are higher. Cycling forgives and meets me halfway. It works with me; allowing the alteration of my performance to meet the challenges in front of me. On my bike, I can find a gear, alter the pace, or take a rest. However, the mountain doesn't change for a skier. I always try to meet on its terms.
Jared Hargrave of utahoutside.com gets his
first Wildcat laps of the season.

Last weekend as I started my winter, I could feel the threshold to injury diminishing as the clock approached 3pm. Day two on the boards and I had been searching for places to cram turns all day. Alta's snow, some of the best we've seen in an opening weekend, was slashed powder and starchy grooves. Good snow, but not something I was ready for; most opening weekends are a few hours on corduroy just to get my ski legs back. But the 2016-17 season rewarded me with a better than normal preamble. Thanks to skiing two straight days right off the bat, I was crossing tips and throwing my weight back and forth like a roller coaster starting its departure. The turns strayed further across the slope as I looked for any mogul to leverage. With each pole plant, I'd shift and feel my uphill ski struggle to fall in line. Knowing how this scenario ended on Christmas Eve a few years ago—ACL torn and a season lost, I surrendered to winter. All this in spite of the physical progress I have made in the last few months: more cycling miles than I have had in a few years, riding a 24-hour mountain bike race, building more muscle. Those things didn't matter to the mountain.

Jared felt it as well and on his penultimate run, he got sucked into the very trees he was trying to avoid lower down on Collins face. He bit it and called it a day after a run through Race Course.

While Jared made his final run, I went to the season pass office to see about my bus privileges and then finish the last half of my turkey sandwich. A self-supported Sunday in which I rode the bus up in my ski boots and essentially skied non-stop. The rewards of a winter day like that are hard to verbalize and innumerable.

We are all entering a winter. A season where the things we feel comfortable with will be torn from us. Left shivering and shriveled, naked and unprotected, we will see exactly what is of value. We'll face the reality that those values could be taken from us. Winter holds no contempt for us. This isn't personal. Winter has been doing this all along. Winter's forces of nature will demand more of us than summer's glow ever will. But winter will also reward us with riches far greater than anything summer has ever offered.

Afterward

When life is full of shit, put on a
corduroy hat and grill some brats. 
I've been pretty silent since 25 Hours in Frog Hollow. "Ride, rest, repeat," was my mantra and riding without the luxury of light illuminated some philosophical thoughts in a sort of nocturnal satori. I planned to draw on that experience with some blog posts but, the withdrawal from that crank-arm induced high and the national events that shortly followed left me overwhelmed. I didn't know what I should write about, nor was I certain if my writing would reflect a rational and objective response to the reality I was facing. Never in my life have I seen a better example of how emotions can retard critical thought. I didn't feel safe writing under the duress of those emotions. Now, with some distance from those fateful fall days, I draw the line of seasonal demarcation with my first days of skiing last weekend. Winter begins.

Monday, October 24, 2016

Early to Rise, Early to Post Ride Beers

The rewards of an early start. Sunrise over Zion.
"Anytime now," I kept saying in an agitated voice, looking to the east waiting for a glow to halo the Wasatch. Now that the brutality of Utah's summer had subsided, I flipped the weather-hypocrisy switch and now eagerly awaited the sun warming up my pre-work ride. That was last Tuesday morning, when I shimmed a 25-mile, pre-work, road ride in for the first time in nearly a month. In the span of that month, the oncoming winter solstice transformed my glorious sunrise ritual into a defiant battle against the chill and darkness. Normally on these rides, I'm done with my headlight by Wasatch Blvd and I'm basking in the sunrise. But on this morning, I needed the light well into Draper and was reminded of summer's fleeting life expectancy.

It really didn't seem that long ago that I teamed up with my friends to start our summer training rides for the 25 Hours in Frog Hollow Race. I got more mountain biking in this summer than years past, but with less than three weeks to the race, I have a hard time feeling prepared. Adjusting to the darkness was a major part of our preparation. Sunset rides at Corner Canyon, pitch black excursions at Snowbird and pre-dawn starts at Deer Valley constituted a majority of my miles on the mountain bike. But conditioning for laps sans light wasn't all these nocturnal rides are about. There is a subconscious element in my desire to ride before sunrise. I'm looking for an "early start".

My bike is mumbling, "Just 10 more minutes
of sleep, then we can ride."
My wife reminds me that not having a plan is sometimes necessary for our personal sanity, yet those views are not intrinsic to my being. Instead, I find comfort in plans and staying on top of things as an overriding philosophy, and nowhere is that more evident than my belief that everything is better with an "early start".

The seeds of this devotion to an early start began with skiing in the midwest. It seems like chairs at some resorts would start loading at 8am and my dad would wake my brother and me up before dawn to get up to Ski Brule for an early start. It seems crazy when I think of how eager we were to get on that frozen anthill. But the snow was never going to soften anyway, so you might as well make the most of your lift ticket.

Making the most of our limited time motivates a lot of us to make an early start, but I think there is another factor. It's solitude and silence. Once again, I go back to my dad, up before dawn, working on estimates, without the interruption of appointments or phone calls. That lack of distraction is appreciated in cycling. I'm pretty clumsy on a mountain bike to begin with, and navigating a trail in the dark without an audience can be calming despite the limited visibility. Although navigating switchbacks in the dark has the same effect as light saber training with the blast shield down. I have asked myself, "Why again am I on this trail?" Thankfully, no switchbacks have blasted me in the ass yet.

The mental fatigue of riding in the dark is something I hadn't quite considered. Yes, physical fatigue will be the bigger hurdle in this race, but I'm noticing that the brain works so much harder in the dark. In the daylight, you take for granted how unencumbered vision helps us make split-second decisions. In the dark, when you vision is tunneled by a headlamp, you don't get the luxury of peripheral vision. So when your front wheel careens off a rock and aims your light into a moose's living room, your adrenaline spikes as you try to remember the obstacles your light illuminated 2 seconds prior.


If you are patient, the sun will eventually illuminate the Wasatch.
Courtesy Jared Hargrave
Fatigue and chill aside, there is a self-satisfying feeling I get when I'm done with a ride and drinking a beer on the tailgate while people are just starting out for their rides. What's that old army saying, "We do more before 9am than most people do in a whole day". Early starters are a pretty smug bunch. Probably why I enjoy an early start.

Early to Rise, Early to Post Ride Beers

The rewards of an early start. Sunrise over Zion.
"Anytime now," I kept saying in an agitated voice, looking to the east waiting for a glow to halo the Wasatch. Now that the brutality of Utah's summer had subsided, I flipped the weather-hypocrisy switch and now eagerly awaited the sun warming up my pre-work ride. That was last Tuesday morning, when I shimmed a 25-mile, pre-work, road ride in for the first time in nearly a month. In the span of that month, the oncoming winter solstice transformed my glorious sunrise ritual into a defiant battle against the chill and darkness. Normally on these rides, I'm done with my headlight by Wasatch Blvd and I'm basking in the sunrise. But on this morning, I needed the light well into Draper and was reminded of summer's fleeting life expectancy.

It really didn't seem that long ago that I teamed up with my friends to start our summer training rides for the 25 Hours in Frog Hollow Race. I got more mountain biking in this summer than years past, but with less than three weeks to the race, I have a hard time feeling prepared. Adjusting to the darkness was a major part of our preparation. Sunset rides at Corner Canyon, pitch black excursions at Snowbird and pre-dawn starts at Deer Valley constituted a majority of my miles on the mountain bike. But conditioning for laps sans light wasn't all these nocturnal rides are about. There is a subconscious element in my desire to ride before sunrise. I'm looking for an "early start".

My bike is mumbling, "Just 10 more minutes
of sleep, then we can ride."
My wife reminds me that not having a plan is sometimes necessary for our personal sanity, yet those views are not intrinsic to my being. Instead, I find comfort in plans and staying on top of things as an overriding philosophy, and nowhere is that more evident than my belief that everything is better with an "early start".

The seeds of this devotion to an early start began with skiing in the midwest. It seems like chairs at some resorts would start loading at 8am and my dad would wake my brother and me up before dawn to get up to Ski Brule for an early start. It seems crazy when I think of how eager we were to get on that frozen anthill. But the snow was never going to soften anyway, so you might as well make the most of your lift ticket.

Making the most of our limited time motivates a lot of us to make an early start, but I think there is another factor. It's solitude and silence. Once again, I go back to my dad, up before dawn, working on estimates, without the interruption of appointments or phone calls. That lack of distraction is appreciated in cycling. I'm pretty clumsy on a mountain bike to begin with, and navigating a trail in the dark without an audience can be calming despite the limited visibility. Although navigating switchbacks in the dark has the same effect as light saber training with the blast shield down. I have asked myself, "Why again am I on this trail?" Thankfully, no switchbacks have blasted me in the ass yet.

The mental fatigue of riding in the dark is something I hadn't quite considered. Yes, physical fatigue will be the bigger hurdle in this race, but I'm noticing that the brain works so much harder in the dark. In the daylight, you take for granted how unencumbered vision helps us make split-second decisions. In the dark, when you vision is tunneled by a headlamp, you don't get the luxury of peripheral vision. So when your front wheel careens off a rock and aims your light into a moose's living room, your adrenaline spikes as you try to remember the obstacles your light illuminated 2 seconds prior.


If you are patient, the sun will eventually illuminate the Wasatch.
Courtesy Jared Hargrave
Fatigue and chill aside, there is a self-satisfying feeling I get when I'm done with a ride and drinking a beer on the tailgate while people are just starting out for their rides. What's that old army saying, "We do more before 9am than most people do in a whole day". Early starters are a pretty smug bunch. Probably why I enjoy an early start.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

"Never Gonna Give You Up", or "The Ups and Downs of Goals"

A small spot of respite on the Clark's trail climb. 
Jared wanted a goal to motivate him to ride this summer. My friend, like me, loves to ride, but work, family, home improvement projects and drinking beer tend to get in the way of riding as much as we'd like. And because neither of us like Ikea and herring enough to move to Sweden where they are considering a 6 hour workday, a target like a mountain bike race seemed like a good way for us to reset our priorities.

Before I knew what he had in mind, I had already planned to agree. As men with our fittest days in the rearview mirror, we were very prone to falling into the mid-life motivational trap that triggers 50% of all marathon, tri and LOTOJA registrations.   Setting goals requires a balance between challenging yourself while also protecting yourself from disappointment if (and in all likelihood "when") you fall short of your goals. That's why I tend to keep goals to myself. When they are "on the record", goals can be like singing Rick Astley at karaoke, some people may have respected me for trying it, but ultimately, everyone at Bar Deluxe saw it as a fail.

Big goals are achieved with smaller goals, or as I call them, "one little victory". I'm going to share a little victory from last week when I dropped the hammer mountain biking at Corner Canyon and recorded my personal best on the Clark's trail climb. Now, before I start belting out, "Never gonna give you up," bear in mind that at 40 years old, I agreed to Jared's preposterous idea to ride 25 Hours in Frog Hollow, a one-day race near Hurricane. 10 years ago, this would have been very feasible considering my fitness, but now I have to admit, at this point in my life, it seems a little questionable. As a member of a four-man team, I'll likely ride at least four, maybe five, 13 mile laps over a 25 hour period. In recent years, that could have equaled my entire annual mountain biking output. So you might understand why I'm trying to cling to little victories in the saddle of my Scott 29er.

So last week on Monday's I beat my best recorded time on Clark's by 2 minutes and had a little victory. A jump even I didn't expect. Most of my climbs to that point were between 22 and 24 minutes, so breaking 22 was really all I was looking for. With my buddy Jared and his uncle, (lean riders built for climbing) breathing down my neck, I kept cranking that middle ring with all the energy I could muster from my power plant legs. I rarely let up until the last third of a mile and somehow kept my chest from exploding. Say what you will about my body, but after years of hauling me across this earth on two wheels, my legs found a way to keep turning that middle ring. I got me to the top in 20 minutes and 4 seconds, still nearly 8 minutes off the time of some carbon fiber asshole... meaning his mountain bike is carbon fiber, not an actual asshole made of carbon fiber, (although I'm sure someone's looking into that. After all, carbon fiber makes everything better.) 

Yet this was a cause for excitement. I told myself the night before that I wanted to crack 22 minutes, and I did much better than that. "So what will happen on the next ride," I started wondering. "Could I make another 2 minute jump? What if I slid backwards? I can't regress!" Just like beer leads to more beer, goals lead to more goals. Regardless of whether the 20 minute time signaled me entering a new level of fitness or just had a day where everything came together, improvement should not be assessed and analyzed, it should be appreciated. So even though on my next rides out, I wasn't any faster, they were still fun because I know what I can do. Frankly, I'm certain that regardless of how I ride at Frog Hollow, it really won't change my life. Saying I did it is really only of value to me and maybe my wife who won't have to listen to me bitch about it. And if for some reason I don't do it, no one is really going to give a shit. They'll just leave thinking, "Damn that dude really likes Rick Astley."

"Never Gonna Give You Up", or "The Ups and Downs of Goals"

A small spot of respite on the Clark's trail climb. 
Jared wanted a goal to motivate him to ride this summer. My friend, like me, loves to ride, but work, family, home improvement projects and drinking beer tend to get in the way of riding as much as we'd like. And because neither of us like Ikea and herring enough to move to Sweden where they are considering a 6 hour workday, a target like a mountain bike race seemed like a good way for us to reset our priorities.

Before I knew what he had in mind, I had already planned to agree. As men with our fittest days in the rearview mirror, we were very prone to falling into the mid-life motivational trap that triggers 50% of all marathon, tri and LOTOJA registrations.   Setting goals requires a balance between challenging yourself while also protecting yourself from disappointment if (and in all likelihood "when") you fall short of your goals. That's why I tend to keep goals to myself. When they are "on the record", goals can be like singing Rick Astley at karaoke, some people may have respected me for trying it, but ultimately, everyone at Bar Deluxe saw it as a fail.

Big goals are achieved with smaller goals, or as I call them, "one little victory". I'm going to share a little victory from last week when I dropped the hammer mountain biking at Corner Canyon and recorded my personal best on the Clark's trail climb. Now, before I start belting out, "Never gonna give you up," bear in mind that at 40 years old, I agreed to Jared's preposterous idea to ride 25 Hours in Frog Hollow, a one-day race near Hurricane. 10 years ago, this would have been very feasible considering my fitness, but now I have to admit, at this point in my life, it seems a little questionable. As a member of a four-man team, I'll likely ride at least four, maybe five, 13 mile laps over a 25 hour period. In recent years, that could have equaled my entire annual mountain biking output. So you might understand why I'm trying to cling to little victories in the saddle of my Scott 29er.

So last week on Monday's I beat my best recorded time on Clark's by 2 minutes and had a little victory. A jump even I didn't expect. Most of my climbs to that point were between 22 and 24 minutes, so breaking 22 was really all I was looking for. With my buddy Jared and his uncle, (lean riders built for climbing) breathing down my neck, I kept cranking that middle ring with all the energy I could muster from my power plant legs. I rarely let up until the last third of a mile and somehow kept my chest from exploding. Say what you will about my body, but after years of hauling me across this earth on two wheels, my legs found a way to keep turning that middle ring. I got me to the top in 20 minutes and 4 seconds, still nearly 8 minutes off the time of some carbon fiber asshole... meaning his mountain bike is carbon fiber, not an actual asshole made of carbon fiber, (although I'm sure someone's looking into that. After all, carbon fiber makes everything better.) 

Yet this was a cause for excitement. I told myself the night before that I wanted to crack 22 minutes, and I did much better than that. "So what will happen on the next ride," I started wondering. "Could I make another 2 minute jump? What if I slid backwards? I can't regress!" Just like beer leads to more beer, goals lead to more goals. Regardless of whether the 20 minute time signaled me entering a new level of fitness or just had a day where everything came together, improvement should not be assessed and analyzed, it should be appreciated. So even though on my next rides out, I wasn't any faster, they were still fun because I know what I can do. Frankly, I'm certain that regardless of how I ride at Frog Hollow, it really won't change my life. Saying I did it is really only of value to me and maybe my wife who won't have to listen to me bitch about it. And if for some reason I don't do it, no one is really going to give a shit. They'll just leave thinking, "Damn that dude really likes Rick Astley."

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

You're Not My Pal

"Sure am glad I walked the stairs.
Now I can enjoy a tablespoon of soy sauce."
Gadgets and data often motivate me to workout. Suffering up Little Cottonwood is a little more tolerable when my toys tell me that I should rejoice at a grade under double digits and I burned more calories than the entire Cheesecake Factory menu. I track my miles on my Garmin, sync the data to my phone and view my activity history online... it's a database geeks wet dream. I live at a time when I can tell exactly what temperature it was when I reached the top of Emigration Saturday. My first bike computer, a hot pink Avocet bought in 1992, told me speed, max speed, distance and hours. Even with the sparse amount of data on that two button device, I was still so enamored with it that I hit the back of a parked car on my first ride using it.

Activity data may not be necessary to enjoy cycling, or skiing for that matter, but it is part of my routine. There is another piece of data gathering technology, however, that I have to say goodbye to, for my own sanity. MyFitnessPal is a great app that is used to track caloric intake. The database in terms of foods is extensive and that they have with a pretty robust feature set for a free version of the app, but I feel like the time has come to uninstall. When I discovered it a few years ago, it seemed like a great way for me to keep my calories inline. Then I discovered I could sync it with my Garmin Connect data and it was even better. Nothing looks as good as finishing a killer ride up Little and realizing you have like 4,000 calories you can blow on beer and chicken wings.

Alas, like all powerful tools of analysis, MyFitnessPal, for all its good, drained the pleasure from something I've loved ever since my mom first drenched broccoli in Velveeta-- eating. Instead of savoring my lunch while reading the latest issue of Backcountry Magazine, I logged my meal. And god help me if I went out to eat and couldn't find an accurate equivalent to my meal. What exactly should I enter for that Lonestar Taqueria fish burrito? At moments like that, I felt like not knowing the calories was probably better than knowing.

I've always been skeptical of the fad diets, the fad workouts, the fad weight-loss programs, but as I reached middle age and transitioned to a job where I sit at a desk all day, I swallowed fad gadgets-- smartphone apps, Vivofit and all. How we stay healthy is as unique to our bodies as what beer we like or our religion. It's great that there are people and widgets out there to help us achieve our goals, but I need to return to a Zen approach to getting into shape. I need to look for answers inside, not outside. For someone who catalogs and documents everything from baseball cards to concert setlists to camping supplies, the last thing I needed was a database of my caloric consumption for the final 40 years of my life. I'm going to try and avoid getting romantic about our ­"big data" world, but I love how somewhere in the Nevada desert is a server that could tell me how many Dove bars were consumed by left-handed women aged 25-34 and weighing less than 150lbs. Forget the landfills, we've got a pile of 1s and 0s that documents every aspect of our lives. What an age. Now excuse me while I add to my 1s and 0s with the exact time it takes me to climb Clark's at Corner Canyon after 5pm in my middle ring while wearing baggy shorts and socks with some sort of beer logo.