I’m living my dream.

Perched on the 19th floor of the Grand Hyatt in downtown Denver, peering out over the city, watching it wake up from this sleek desk nestled right against a massive wall of windows, the urge to write is percolating through my soul as I sip expensive coffee.

First of all, I should thank my brother, an occasional Seder-Skier.com visitor, for the gift of this hotel room. He needed to use up his reward points and we were looking to get out of the smoke in Leadville as the forest fires raged on. We weren’t evacuated, but Christie’s month-long cough spiked up in the smoke. Thus, after I took Ajee for a morning run, we loaded up the truck and zoomed down to lower elevation.

Actually, we took a pit stop in Idaho Springs so I could chase higher elevation first. I rode my bike up Mt. Blue Sky on Tuesday afternoon, notching my first 14er of the year. I guess that sort of thing also falls under the “living my dream” idea, even though my sporting side quest hasn’t been particularly dreamy lately.

I’ve missed races. Not being able to run like I’m used to has made figuring out workouts a chore and fitting them harder than normal. Recovery has been slow; on the other hand, it’s also been steady, I suppose. And so, I’m still lightly holding onto hope for a strong Pikes Peak Ascent/Marathon in September.

That might seem like a long ways out, but preparing for something so specific (and monumental) requires a methodical build up. As the date inches closer, I’ve decided it’s time to get serious about plan B instead of remaining in this weird limbo state of quasi-recovery as I wait for my achilles tendon to miraculously reach a critical mass of normalcy. (My recovery has been about as concise and straightforward as that last sentence). Thus, I’ve been devising creative, healthy ways to get above tree line. Thankfully, I live close to a paved road switchbacking up a 14,000-foot mountain.

I rode in the Bob Cook Memorial Hill Climb way back in 2017, I think (You don’t have to look up results…trust me). Then I ran in the Mt. Blue Sky Ascent in 2024. I remember suffering tremendously in both events; I was particularly humbled by the shocking uphill right after that brief downhill rest you get coming into Summit Lake (about 9 miles into the 14.4-mile stretch from Echo Lake Campground). I also — both on the bike and foot — practically keeled over again navigating those switchbacks between mile 12 and 13 or so (i.e., right when you hit the turn where a group of 47,034 mountain goats tend to stand in the middle of the road).

So I was pretty shocked to find myself in complete control as I cruised confidently into the wind for most of the ascent. I never mentally or physically broke and felt like I could have sprinted the last mile (and maybe even done it again!). I didn’t officially record my ride, though I loosely tracked the segment via timestamps within the book on tape I was listening to the whole time.

For those who come to my blog for analytical insights and route reviews, this road is quite a bit more tame than the Pikes Peak Highway — both in steepness and scariness. The top actually mellows out and lacks significant cliffs. The scariest part of the ride is probably coming down between mile markers 6 and 8. It’s a long stretch, you’re on the outside, and cross winds can make you feel a little unstable. I opted to keep my speed very low and I actually just hugged the mountain in the left lane until cars started to come towards me (and, one advantage on this ride — especially on a late Monday afternoon — is you can see cars from a long ways out.).

It’s weird, but once you swerve over to the wrong lane, the looming drop off makes it really hard to pull yourself back towards the right side. I don’t know if there’s metaphor there, but there’s plenty of space on this blog to preserve it in case I want to workshop it a few decades from now (when I start writing my book of course).

Anyway.

I had guzzled roughly 40 ounces of a protein shake after my run on the drive over, plus another 20 ounces of Body Armour. On the ride down, I had another protein bar…so, up to this point — 4:09 p.m. — my body was basically surviving off of the chocolate whey concoction slowly sifting through my gut. Thriving, I know. I returned to the car in tact, no blown tires or bleeding elbows, swapped out some fresh clothes and hopped back in the cockpit to drive us all to the hotel.

After arriving, I watched my children dance around this ridiculously amazing two-room suite. It was so satisfying to see their joy, but I selfishly couldn’t help but dwell on the fact my only chance to properly occupy the desk view in our room — with a writing utensil in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other — would probably be the following morning. What’s wrong with that?

Well, my wife would be trying to sleep in and any type of finger-hammering or keyboard pecking could jolt our baby son awake. Not to mention this entire setup isn’t exactly the ideal space for entering any sort of writing flow state. I mean, I think there’s a reason authors retreat to small cottages in the French countryside (instead of opting for, say, a church nursery ) to pen biographies, but what do I know…I’ve never written a book — though it remains a secret ambition.

After burning approximately 4 precious whey chocolate protein shake calories to silently shrug my shoulders, shake my head and optimistically accept my lot in life, I told Christie I could take the girls to the pool so she could rest with Hugo in the room. And all the nursing moms out there laughed at the usage of the word, ‘rest.’

First, I needed to take care of dinner.

I ordered Domino’s pizza from said desk, all the while thinking, ‘Oh God, please make sure this is not the only time I use this desk at this hotel over the next 24 hours!’ I had actually packed a gourmet lunch for the kids (which consisted of substances other than whey protein and chocolate, I promise) and while the usually frugal side of my prefrontal cortex typically would have forced everyone to indulge in my famous SederSkier/pre-Alley Loop $1 whole wheat loaves from Walmart for dinner, on this night, I channeled my inner Anchorman and muttered to all the people listening (no one, expect maybe my deceased dog, Jake, from doggy heaven):

“When in Rome.”

Amazingly, Novi and Ella, who, like most 4 1/2 and 3-year-olds, still struggle with first-time obedience and aren’t exactly the quickest at getting dressed, were in their suits approximately 1.3 seconds after I said, “OK, you change into your suits while I order the pizza.”

Even with both daughters pressuring me like Ron Artest defending Ray Allen in the 2008 NBA Finals, I somehow managed to construct the single greatest order in the history of Domino’s “best deal ever” (up to 7 toppings on any pizza): chicken and steak with Alfredo sauce, mushrooms, onions, green peppers, spinach and black olives on parmesan stuffed crust. (And all the nursing moms out there laughed at the phrase, ‘take care of dinner’). Then we were off to the pool, where pure joy and happiness reigned for all.

We swam for about 40 minutes before I got the text from Dominos alerting me to the proximity of our deliver guy. Quickly, we dried off and scampered down from the fourth floor to the first, where lots of nicely-dressed adults stared at the water dripping off my daughters’ floaties, and judged their dad — donning a 2014 Concordia track singlet — for towing them through the lobby. I smiled.

By 6:35, we were all sitting around our table devouring the feast.

By 8:55, we were all in bed.

Even though I was utterly spent, I glanced over at the desk one more time. An internal debate raged on.

‘When will you ever get to sit in a building like this again and live out your dream of being an anonymous little speck in a big city, carrying big thoughts around in your head, desperate to be poured out onto pages the way Garrison Keillor did when he left Minnesota to become a writer in New York?’

But I was so tired….

I pulled open my laptop only to plug it in and close it back up.

“Do you want me to sleep here?” I asked my wife, pointing to the side of the king-sized bed closest to the window.

“Do you want to sleep here?” she replied, obviously knowing the answer before I gave it.

Christie knows a lot about me — more than anyone else — but she’s only somewhat familiar with my fascination with big cities. As my wife of 12 years faded away into a deep sleep, I looked down at the cars moving, wondering where they were headed. I peered up at the endless rows of windows lining the neighboring skyscrapers, wondering who was in them and what they were doing. The vastness of the grid below mysteriously made this room above even more cozy. The fact I could see everything somehow made my thoughts up here seem more private and profound. The hustle and bustle, the city never sleeping, somehow coaxed me asleep.

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE my small, mountain-town existence, for many reasons. The ability to get to the grocery store — or a trailhead — in less than 60 seconds would be sufficient explanations, and the ability to rollerski with my dog off-leash from my doorstep is an added bonus.

But, there is a part of me — like, in a secret life I know now I’ll never live — that yearns to be some yuppie wearing a suit, flying from big city to big city to stay in hotels like this. To walk across skywalks with my leather briefcase and attend meetings with other people wearing suits to talk about nothing, and then, sit in corner cafes to sip a latte and order a $19 Reuben (and I HATE lunch!) while I digest the New York Times or something. I don’t know why that simultaneously sounds romantic and awful, but it does.

Ironically, I read the following verse in my devotional before beginning to play make-believe business professional the following morning:

“…in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” – Psalm 139:16

In my last blog post, I described my inner dialogue as I crested the top of the 2023 Vail Hill Climb in first place. Coming from Minnesota with a music degree in hand a decade prior, only to now reside in Leadville, working as a sports reporter covering a race I was about to win, I wrote something like ‘who could have predicted I’d be here, in this place, at this moment, doing this!’ Perhaps you feel the same way.

You probably can also look back at some specific moments in time which, in hindsight, now seem incredibly unlikely. There’s that random conversation, obscure friendship, lucky accomplishment or job opportunity — none of which wouldn’t fit into whatever frame your 13-year-old self originally pictured for the future. The more I write about people in the Vail Daily, the more I realize almost everyone’s life has a few serendipitous side stories. And deep down, I’m sure we all have a few roads not taken, too.

Earlier in the same Psalm, I read, “…you discern my thoughts from afar.” (Psalm 139:2).

Suddenly, it occurred to me:

God knows our secret ambitions.

For most of my life, my major goals have either been unspoken but obvious (i.e., try to make the team or make it to state, get good grades or get a job) — or been spoken (frequently, and with great detail) and thereby obvious (i.e. win the Birkie or run 14:58 in the 5K, buy a sprinter van or write the Next Great American Novel). But one simultaneously depressing and comforting reality with all of our pursuits — particularly hobby-related athletic ones, and especially through adulthood — is your ambitions end up really just being between you and …. well, God.

Depressing because glory-seeking moments are hardwired into our human nature. But comforting because a burden has been lifted. I don’t need to worry whether eschewing the $19 Reuben life is a mistake. I don’t need to feel guilty for wanting to break 15 in the 5K, either. I can just be raw and real with my Maker, tell him how I feel, and leave it there.

About a week ago, I stayed up late to address my growing achilles-injury anxiety in the best way possible: by munching on snacks while watching Youtube videos of old Pikes Peak Marathons.
A post-race interview with Linda Quinlisk after she won the second of her four titles in 1989 popped up. Her short response to a question quietly slammed me in the face. I haven’t been able to forget it since.

“It’s something between me and the Lord,” she said, humbly expressing her conservative values in a soft-spoken, slightly Southern accent. Quinlisk won in 1980 and ’85, then had a kid, came back, and won it again in ’88 and ’89 (after finishing second in ’87). At first, I found her answer simplistic. Theologically acceptable, sure, but too cliche. It was a too Tim Tebow, ‘give-God-the-glory’ kind of quote. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realized just how uniquely profound it was — and relatable to my present situation.

One ‘struggle’ — if you can even call it that — I’ve had throughout my running, music and writing careers has been the isolated feeling of never really being understood. It’s probably mostly my fault, too. Deep down, I was always a little envious of the child prodigies. I imagined I would have thrived on the clarity that comes with being some 5-year-old violinist on the Juilliard track. Life would have been easier if I had been one of those 10-year-old shooting guards whose talent trickles so obviously through his veins that blue-blood college coaches can’t help salivate over the skillset. I was jealous of the ‘theatre kids’ and the ‘brainiacs’ and the hockey players (hold on, maybe edit that out).

For me, It’s never really been about the activity as much as it’s been about having ‘my thing.’

That’s probably why, while I’ve always been an ‘all-in’ kind of person, I’ve been able to, on a whim, shift my commitment towards dramatically different pursuits.

It seemed like as long as I was full-throttle, my journey was somehow more special. Like possessing a superior work ethic elevated my value as a person. Like having bigger goals meant I was headed for a greater destiny. In the end, those wrong inward thoughts left me isolated from other people — and reality in general.

I think, while high achievers naturally separate themselves from society, purposefully pulling away from norms so as to stand out, they, like everyone else, still possess an innate desire to be understood. Yeah, they want to be set apart. They yearn for a special solo adventure. But they also want someone to ‘get them.’ The problem is, no friend, sibling, parent, coach or teammate will ever be good enough at fulfilling such an impossible role.

But God is.

He sees you. He gets you. He knows your wildest thoughts. He sees your biggest dreams — even the details you haven’t fleshed out yet. The ideas you can’t even express, he understands. Even more, he created you and loves you, which means he knows your true capacity and He wants you to find your limit and reach your potential — for your good and His glory.

When you look at it that way, Quinlisk’s comment hits differently. This whole thing — whether it’s a side-hustle sporting career, a dream to write novels on the 19th floor of a building or make music in the basement of a record studio — really is between you and God. He’s the one who is your biggest cheerleader, your smartest (and toughest) coach, your good, good Father.

He’s the source of wisdom and discernment. He’ll plant an idea or thought in your heart to set you back on the right path. He’ll nudge you forward when you’re being lackadaisical. He’ll send something hard when you’re being soft. Most importantly, God shapes you through every victory and loss. This truth has come back time and again for me, serving as a constant reassurance that this whole sports journey — no matter where it ends up — is actually a worthwhile enterprise in the first place.

When you’re not sure if the juice is worth the squeeze, ask God. If you need to recalibrate your strategy or the destination entirely, pray. It’s funny, but I think if I’d watched the interview with Quinlisk even five years ago, it wouldn’t have resonated very deeply. Why?

Kids.

Young people: you’d be correct to think it’s hard to keep plodding away at your project in the years after a college class or scholastic team hold you accountable. Also, you also don’t know the half of it. At least in your early 20s you have this little thing called time. Oh yeah, and freedom.

Once kids enter the picture, your own childhood dreams immediately begin to exist on borrowed time. Even if you’re kind of good.

I recently spoke with a new dad — who also happened to be another four-time Pikes Peak Marathon champion — and he said something that should resonate with all runner dads:

“I’m figuring out the new balance,” he stated while rocking a 9-month old in his sweaty arms after finishing the GoPro Mountain Games 10K trail race in Vail. Then, he poignantly added: “And mentally, a lot trying to justify it.”

I did a Google search on Quinlisk after watching her interview, because, quite frankly, I’d never heard of her (probably another blog post right there….). I hardly found anything. Except this old archived Denver Post photo of her wearing a heavy stocking cap and a retro windbreaker suit, jogging with a stroller out on a snowy Manitou Springs road. That, combined with her post-race interview, sort of told me everything I needed to know.

She really did it, man. Momming. Marathoning. Winning. What a life.

Back then, for the kid in the stroller, it was a secret life. Today, for everyone else (even Pikes Peak dorks like me), it still is. If you ran into her at City Market tomorrow, you wouldn’t stop and nudge the guy grabbing whey protein powder next to you and say, “Holy crap, look! That’s Linda Quinlisk — you know, the four-time champion of the Pikes Peak Marathon!”

In the end, no matter how good you are, there’s certainly an element where our secret ambitions have a secret value, too. But I still think they matter, which is why it can be hard to keep the dream alive when you’re in the toddler trenches. When your body starts to break down. When you start recording more PWs than PBs.

Here’s the thing, when you’re a prodigy, the promise of potential validates your singular focus and hyper-competitive mentality. When you’re a professional, the paycheck provides justification for the daily sacrifices you make. And if you’re an influencer, your thousands of followers validate your sporting passion. But for the rest of us — the regular moms and dads who live complicated lives with multi-faceted responsibilities, who are lucky to snag a $25 DQ gift card for winning our age group, and who might record 11 likes per social media post — we’re left wondering why we should keep running. Why we should write another blog. Why we should wrestle to get better at the thing we’ve always really loved to do more than anything else.

Hear this: You only really ever needed an audience of one. If it’s the right person, that makes all the difference, regardless of how far down the road less traveled you go.

I can’t say if your goal of making the Olympic Trials in the marathon or landing a book contract or becoming a state senator is a realistic and worthwhile one. I can’t say if you should pivot and try to go up to the 19th floor right now. Everyone’s talent and life circumstances are different. We all have to take inventory and run the cost-benefit analysis. Whether or not you keep striving (and keep skiing!), however, I can guarantee a couple things.

There are going to be moments where you inch closer to your desired destination. Where the stoke is high, the vibes are good and the momentum is moving your forward. And there will be dark times where all hope seems lost. There will be mid-race epiphanies where you say, as an aging Frank Shorter remarked to himself during a 10K road race in the 80s, “this is a lot harder than it should be” and then debate internally while you walk through the dark, quiet bowels of the stadium circling the finish line — ‘Maybe…maybe I am over the hill.’

There are going to be existential crises where it doesn’t seem worth it. And maybe it’s not.

But maybe it still is.

Those are going to be the moments where you have to find comfort leaning into this truth: your secret ambitions’ only real value and security rest in the fact that they’re ‘just between me and God.’

I can honestly say that ever since I started really trying to be good at sports (probably a few hours after my infant baptism) the heart beat — even before I knew it — was found in my constant communication with God. The pulse of my passions has circulated through my soul from little conversations with him. When I’m on a run, having my daily devotions, listening to a good sermon, sharing thoughts with my wife or reading the Bible. Looking back, it’s too bad I didn’t create a really detailed journal from the start, because it would be fascinating to see the evolution of my spiritual growth and how that’s coincided with my overarching philosophy of sport. Nonetheless, my training diaries provide clues.

Of course, they’re clues that only me — and God — can really understand.

Countless entries filled with extensive details like ’70-minutes RUN’ or ‘1H 45 min Ski w/Ajee’ catalogue thousands of hours spent hashing away, hoping the next big breakthrough was coming right around the next bend. God saw it all. He saw the heartbreak. He saw the over confidence. He saw the mistakes. He saw the secret talent. He knows.

He knows some of those workouts felt like 15 minutes even though they were 3 hours of bliss. He knows others almost stopped 15 minutes in because of overwhelming discouragement or worry over whether the blood, sweat, tears — and time — couldn’t be justified. Over whether or not I should chase something else or settle for a different lot. Try a different floor.

I’m presently putting the final touches on this piece (sorry for the standard typos) … a week later, back at my house, back at my life…

back on the first floor.

My kids just woke up, and although they’ve invaded the quiet, I’m looking forward to making them some hot cocoa and sitting on the couch to hear about whatever it is they want to talk about. It wasn’t how I originally imagined my secret ambition.

It’s better.

I’m living my dream.