Grass, We'll See You in June

Now, I'm no mathematician, but that looks like somewhere between three to four feet of snow between now and Monday night. And this on top of the ten inches we picked up last night. The skiing was fantastic this morning, and yet I imagine it may well be the worst day for a long, long time.

Late Afternoon: Snow and areas of blowing snow. High near 29. Windy, with a southwest wind around 30 mph, with gusts as high as 60 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. Total daytime snow accumulation of 3 to 5 inches possible.

Tonight: Snow and areas of blowing snow. The snow could be heavy at times. Low around 1. Wind chill values as low as -20. Windy, with a west southwest wind between 25 and 30 mph, with gusts as high as 60 mph. Chance of precipitation is 100%. New snow accumulation of 16 to 22 inches possible.

Sunday: Snow and areas of blowing snow. High near 14. Wind chill values as low as -20. Breezy, with a west wind between 15 and 25 mph, with gusts as high as 40 mph. Chance of precipitation is 90%. New snow accumulation of 6 to 10 inches possible.

Sunday Night: Snow likely. Cloudy, with a low around -9. Wind chill values as low as -30. West southwest wind between 10 and 15 mph. Chance of precipitation is 60%. New snow accumulation of 2 to 4 inches possible.

The Weather Was Changing; Snow Began Falling

Aside from representing lyrics from my sister Karen's favorite Breathe song (free tube of partially used toothpaste to whoever knows the song title. You pay S&H!), the title pretty much explains what's been going on in Aspen since the last post. The snow has begun to fall with earnest, and with it the quality of the skiing has improved exponentially. I got the opportunity to poke around in the backcountry off Richmond Ridge last Monday, but alas, no camera.

With the avalanche conditions getting a little hairy in the backcountry due to the mounting snowfall, Maci and I opted instead for a jaunt up Buttermilk resort, still a week away from its opening day. Here we are at the summit, where a kind gentleman had just finished his own climb and was willing to snap a quick photo.

A view of ominous skies and Highland ski resort falling away from Highlands Ridge. That's the Maroon valley to the right, the gateway to the Maroon Bells (America's most photographed mountains) and Pyramid Peak (world's tallest mountain*), none of which were visible on this day. That's also the route we took last fall on our hike from Aspen over Maroon Pass to the neighboring ski town of Crested Butte, chronicled in great detail here.

After a disjointed climb through some difficult snow conditions and a miserable descent, dog and owner needed some recovery time. Lauren walked downstairs to find this scene unfolding on the couch and was kind enough to grab the camera. Do I smell a Christmas card?

Currently, the Nitti family is making final preparations for their annual trip back to NJ for Christmas. I had suggested simply celebrating the holidays with our family via Facebook, but Lauren shouted down the idea.

Eh, maybe next year.

* May not be accurate

Ski Season #3 Begins

People who live in the mountains tend to say -- ad nauseam, if I might add -- "If you don't like the weather, wait thirty minutes -- it'll change." This weekend we witnessed that phenomenon firsthand.

Thanksgiving morning dawned sunny and bright, so while the calendar dictated that it was the beginning of Aspen's ski season, it sure didn't feel like it around town.

Undaunted by the green landscape, I decided to head up to town and make some turns on Ajax. A quick shot of the current year's quiver. Each ski, like the clubs in a golf bag , serves a specific and vital purpose, with no overlap or redundancy.

Here's a quick view of the Little Nell from the gondola. As you can see, snowfall has been a rarity in the early season.

At the top of Aspen Mountain (Ajax) a ceremonial pre-first run photo. Behind my head and just to the right is Highlands Bowl, perhaps the best inbounds skiing in the continental US, with consistent 40 degree pitches for 1500 vertical feet. Just to the left of my head are the Five Fingers, backcounty pitches accessible from the top of Highlands Peak.

The skiing, as you might imagine, was awful. Only a few runs were open, and with hundreds of people eager to start their season scraping away the snow with every turn, it wasn't long before the conditions became downright scary. After about an hour of getting my legs under me, I made a hasty retreat to the safety of my couch.

As we settled in for dinner later that evening, storm clouds rolled in from the west, and before the last of the apple pie was consumed we had already accumulated nearly a foot of new snow in Aspen. This gave me all the motivation I needed to wake up early the next morning and take Maci for a climb and ski.

Applying skins to the bottom of my boards for the first time since April. For those of you unfamiliar with ski-mountaineering, skins -- when combined with a releasable heel on your binding -- allow you to climb on your skis without sliding.

I took the dynafits out for two simple reasons: they're really light and I'm woefully out of shape.

While there wasn't much new snow at our starting elevation of 8,000 feet, by the time we had ascended to 9,000 or so, Maci was up to her shoulders.

It was snowing heavily during the climb, and with visibility limited, most people chose to stick to the resort and Maci and I had this peak to ourselves.

Throughout the climb, Maci is free to roam ahead, frolicking and digging where she may. But when I call, she comes a-running.



Once we hit the ridge, the combination of cold and wind became too much for both of us so we decided it was time to do some skiing. As you can see, Maci gets a touch excited when we make the preparations to start heading downhill.

Once we start skiing, my main concern is keeping Maci from darting in front of me. Many a dog has been sliced open by a ski edge when they got a little too close. With the snow as deep as it was, this wasn't a huge concern as Maci is working so hard just to keep moving downhill, she doesn't have any energy to waste attacking my ski tips.

The dog and I made it downhill in one piece, even enjoying about 18 inches of powder for the first 900 vertical feet or so. All in all, not a bad start to the season.

Giving Thanks

Three weeks ago, Aspen held its annual ski swap at Lauren's school. The swap is a rite of passage for valley residents, as it offers an abundance of discounted gear just in time for the upcoming season.

Lauren, being the person she is, always volunteers to work the swap, while I, being the person I am, volunteer to use my spousal privliges in order to get in early and horde the best deals. We work well togther that way.

The swap started at seven, so Lauren hung around after school to work in her classroom. Meanwhile, I grabbed dinner with a friend downtown, with eyes on swinging over to the school right when the doors opened for the special "friends and family" shopping period.

Dinner ran a bit late, however, so I didn't make it to the swap until nearly 7:30. By then, shoppers were everywhere, and my wife was buried deep within their midst. I hadn't called her to tell her I'd be late, but rather than use my cell phone to track her down, I figured I'd start perusing the goods and when I ran into her, I ran into her.

As I turned down an aisle of clothing, I spotted Lauren about 30 feet away, near the end of the row. She was in mid-conversation, and hadn't yet noticed my arrival.

As I worked my way down the aisle, Lauren finished her conversation and turned towards me. She took a couple of steps, looked up, and our eyes met; and when they did, her face lit up with a look of excitement that's burned into my memory.

And that, in this year of so many miracles, both minor and major, is what I am most thankful for. That my wife, after all we've been through, after all she's endured, still looks at me the same way she did that first summer down the beach. Nothing has changed.

To be strong for your husband when he needs you is one thing; to not over time let that pressure and burden taint or diminsh the way you love him is another thing altogether.

Oh, and my dog likes to wear a wool hat with a brim when we're waiting for Lauren in the school parking lot. I'm pretty thankful for that as well.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Looking Back

Six months.

It doesn't seem possible that its already been half a year since the surgeon opened up my head and clipped an aneurysm that was ready to rupture. But the calendar doesn't lie. Just look at all that's happened since May: the economy has collapsed, the once-promising Christian Slater sitcom has come and gone, and in a landmark, world-changing moment many skeptics believed wouldn't happen in our lifetime, the Phillies won the World Series. Oh, and we elected the country's first black president.

When you look at it like that, six months seems like plenty of time to recover from a little brain surgery. So now seems like as good a time as any to reflect on all that's happened.

First and foremost, it's awful nice to be alive. As Lauren and I look back on some of the things I was doing over those last few months prior to the diagnosis, it's a miracle the aneurysm didn't give out. From the 15,000 feet of climbing at the 24 Hours of Sunlight, to the climb and descent of Hayden Peak just 10 days prior to the discovery, to my run up the Arbonny Kittle trail the day BEFORE the diagnosis, the thing sure had ample opportunity to rupture, and if it had, there's a 70% chance I'd be gone.

So there's that. It's something I think about quite a bit because sadly, most aneurysm stories don't end so well. I was one of the lucky few that had advance warning, in my case in the form of a wicked migraine while out climbing with my dog one afternoon.

Then there was the surgery. We were given all the standard warnings and statistics regarding the potential for problems; including but not limited to disability and death. But my surgeon, as he's known to do, pulled through with a kick-ass job.

Two days after the procedure, as I lay in the hospital running though my own self-imposed, informal neurological testing, I realized that everything was still there. From my childhood phone number to the 1991 Final Four participants to Homer's alias while he's temporarily crashing at the retirement home (Cornelius Talmidge), it was all there, and for that I was grateful. My biggest fear going into the surgery was that I would come out and not recognize my wife, or even worse, recognize her but not be able to communicate. But fortunately -- very fortunately -- that wasn't the case.

Since the surgery, I have slowly progressed to my pre-operative state, but not in anything resembling a linear or predictable manner.

Three months after the operation, as Lauren and I returned to Aspen and the physical pain had finally diminished, I considered myself "healed." I was back at work full time, I was running every other day, I could even enjoy a cold beer or three if I so desired. By any clinical definition, I imagine I was indeed healed.

And that's precisely when the trouble started. Not in any tangible physical sense, but in a mental and emotional sense. In retrospect, I never really processed all that happened until the recovery was "complete," and when it hit me, it hit me hard.

I'd always fancied that if tragedy or adversity did find its way into my life, I'd handle it admirably. I was wrong. I let the fear of a recurrence take over my life for much of the fall, and the pain from the intense emotional overload -- both physically and psychologically -- was in many ways worse than the surgical pain.

But time heals all things. Well, time and a wife with infinite patience. Lauren, god bless her, has bore the brunt of all my weakness over the past few months, and she's carried me through this.

It's an interesting thing, love. On the one hand, if it weren't for Lauren, I probably would have spent the better part of the past few months curled up in the fetal position and sucking my thumb like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber.

On the other hand, one could make the argument that it was the way I feel about Lauren that made the recovery so difficult. Before I met her, what did I have to lose? As I rejoined reality back in Aspen, the fear of a foreshortened future dominated my thoughts. And it had nothing to do with the fear of dying and death's effect on ME, but rather the effect it would have on Lauren and the sadness I would leave behind. There are few things in life as depressing as waking up in the middle of the night, looking over to the other side of the bed at the person you love with all your heart, and fearing that you won't be around to grow old with them.

But that's the price you pay, isn't it?

As the six month mark rolled around, Lauren and I reached the conclusion that the best way to put these fears to bed was to take some more diagnostic tests and prove to myself that this aneurysm was what the doctors said it was: a one-time, freak occurrence that while life threatening, had a permanent fix.

So last week, I walked into Aspen Valley Hospital, where this all began, and took an MRI and an MRA to test for any new aneurysms and make sure the healing was going according to plan. I was fully aware that the brain takes a long time to completely recover, and that as much as I felt "healed" in September, it will be a full year before I am truly back to my pre-operative state. Nonetheless, we thought a six-month check-up was warranted.

The results are in, and the news is happy. No new aneurysms, and my brain looks healthy and ripe with useless knowledge. The MRI did reveal two tiny areas of dead brain tissue, but I am expecting to hear from my doc that this is the inevitable by-product of the surgery. Plus, as the radiologist reading the MRI pointed out, I have no neurological deficit, so the dead tissue likely isn't impacting me in any way. Although come to think of it, I have been having some trouble with names lately. Oh, and I forgot to wear pants to work today. Boy was that embarrassing. But I'm sure it's a coincidence.

So while I don't consider this chapter of my life closed, we're definitely getting near the bottom of the page. I still get some pain on the surgery side, and it seems to be exacerbated by intense exercise. Not a great thing when the snow should start falling any day now and there's roughly 100 ski days in my immediate future.

Those are little things, however, and with these new test results the fear should soon start fading, and perhaps now I can fully appreciate the simple joy of being alive. That'll be nice.

I Love Legitimate Theater!

Big things happening in Aspen Thursday night, as Lauren and I got dressed up all nice-like (read: I took off my hat) to attend the community theater's performance of Chicago.



I was a tad skeptical at first, as I had some other appealing entertainment options in the Jets-Patriots game and the Roaring Fork Avalanche Center's annual fundraiser. But love won out, as it tends to do.



All in all, I was more than a little impressed that a mountain town of 6,000 people was able to muster such a talented collection of actors, singers, and sexually confused teenagers. The show was a hit, and Lauren greatly enjoyed it.



But at the end of the day, I'm a simple man. I like my beer cold, my TV loud, and my musicals to feature apes run amok in a post-apocalyptic world.

The Nitti's Arrive in Aspen

Lauren and I took a brief hiatus from the demands of our amateur dog-fighting ring to welcome the Nitti parents to Aspen, Colorado. It was the first visit for Mary and Angelo, confirming my long-held hypothesis that if you want people over 60 to trust their lives to air travel, you'd better a) have grandkids to dangle as bait, or b) have recently undergone some form of major surgery, the recovery from which can be utilized as a guilting tool.

After a rather long travel day, the folks and I met Lauren in Aspen for some fine dining at Jimmy's. Here's my wife and Mary shortly after agreeing to share their entrees, providing immense relief to my mother, who had spent several agonizing minutes torn between the wild game and the chicken parm. Here's Mary and Angelo posing in front of the Maroon Bells on another cloudless autumn day in Aspen, looking respendent in the very attire they wore to their failed 1997 audition for the Blue Man Group.

A quick shot of a boy and his dog. Maci's proudly sporting her new harness, a gift from a local pet shop owner after our return this fall. As you may or may not have noticed, it's PINK.

/Looks over at dog. Shakes head in disgust. Dog appears indifferent.

The better part of the next two days were spent watching the Phils and putting my parents to work on various odd jobs around the house. By the time Tuesday morning rolled around, they couldn't wait to leave and get back to their minimum-wage gig as indentured servants to my sister. After dropping them off at the airport in Denver, I picked up my brother Mike, which as you know by now, led to this...

I returned home well after midnight Wednesday night, nearly two full days after leaving Aspen. As you might imagine, priority number one was to reconnect with my #1 girl.

Friday was the Phils' championship parade, an event 25 years in the making for one star-crossed city. The parade gave us two diametrically opposed -- yet equally enjoyable and memorable -- manners of celebration.

Which kind of person are you?

Are you a "baby commanding legion of fans=adorable" person?

Or a "me likey gratuitous use of the F-word" kind of person?

God bless Chase Utley. I'm fairly confident members of this 2008 team can legally kill people in Philly now.

Life and Baseball

In October, 2007, I had this to say about the Phillies:

As anyone who knows me well can attest, I'm a huge sports fan, but not a HUGE SPORTS FAN. I don't don jerseys or scream at the TV in sports bars, and my email address isn't 'COWBOYFAN1@hotmail.com. Then there's the Phillies. Try as I might, I just can't shake them. For as long as I can remember, a day hasn't ended between April and October when I haven't had to find the answer to the question, "Did the Phils win tonight?" More often that not, the answer has been no. As I'm sure you're aware, the Phillies recently lost their 10,000th game, the first professional franchise to do so. They've won ONE World Series in their 120-year existence. Then again, all that losing has made it easy to love the Phils. You can't get disappointed when you always expect the worst.

Jayson Stark, baseball writer extraordinaire, had this to say about the Phillies on Wednesday night.

"That's what baseball does. There are going to be people today, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year saying, 'I was blank-blank-blank when the Phillies won the World Series.' And that's pretty cool, to have a story of wherever they were when the Phillies won the World Series: 'I was in the parking lot. I was in the stands. I was at a bar. I was having dinner. I was coming back from a trip and I couldn't see it so I listened to it in the car.' And to me, that's kind of cool, because that's what baseball does for people. I just think that's why it's so special."

Agreed.

Wednesday night, I watched on as nearly three decades of futility and frustration culminated in a moment I'll never forget, as the losingest professional sports franchise in history shook off its "chronic disappointment" tag and won the 2008 World Series.

And as Mr. Stark points out, it's the manner in which I celebrated that long-awaited moment, even more than the victory itself, that will always hold a place in my memory.

I've always idolized my older brother Mike. That's just what younger brothers do. And growing up, Mike was about as big a Phillies fan as one could be. He collected their baseball cards, sported player cut-outs on the wall of his bedroom, and fostered an unhealthy obsession with Von Hayes.

So it was only natural that at the age of eight, I would declare my life-long allegiance to the Fightins', and out of that grew a bond that Mike and I have shared ever since. We've experienced a lot since then: some great seasons, some historically awful ones, signs of promise, and of course, the back-breaking 1993 Joe Carter moment that brought the two of us to tears. The one thing we hadn't seen, of course, was a world championship.

Neither Mike nor I are the most gifted "talkers." We both prefer to keep things bottled up, and as our lives have taken various twists and turns over the decades, the "heart to heart" conversations one would expect between siblings have never really materialized. But one thing we've always been more than happy to discuss is our beloved Phils.

During the season, we talk pretty much every day; always about the Phils. This year, I think I made my first "maybe next year" call to Mike a whopping THREE games into the season, but in my defense, the Phils had dropped two straight to bottom-feeding Washington and were trailing 6-1 in the sixth inning. They would bounce back and win that game, and our confidence followed suit.

I often feel sad for Mike. It can't be easy to be the eldest of three brothers, only to watch your two younger siblings and best friends move off and start life elsewhere. Our lives have changed so dramatically since we first became mesmerized by the sound of Harry Kalas' voice. But through it all, the moves, the distance, the marraiges, the children, the medical emergencies, we've always had the Phillies to keep us close when the distractions and demands of life threatened to pull us apart. Some of my fondest memories of this summer were those nights when Mike would stop by, as I struggled with my recovery from brain surgery, and watch a couple innings of the game with me. Sure, there were other things we could, and given the circumstances, probably should have talked about. But it was always the Phils, and we were both just fine with that. It's as if we knew that some day our dedication would be rewarded, and we'd have those shared moments to look back at and cherish.

So it came to be that Wednesday night, with the Phillies poised to win the first world championship I would ever witness, I shared a table in a crowded restaurant in Denver, Colorado with none other than my brother Mike. And together we watched history.

Amazingly, this wasn't some planned encounter with the hopes of sharing the Phillies' coronation. In fact, the string of odd coincidences that had to play out in order for the two of us to make it to that table border on the unbelievable.

My brother's never been to Colorado. He'll probably never come again. The guy avoids cities like Howard Hughes avoided Port-A-Potties. But this year, this month, he had the opportunity to attend a conference in Denver for two days, Tuesday and Wednesday of this week. At the time he booked it, the idea that the Phils would be one of the last two teams standing was laughable.

Even as the Phils continued to rack up wins and advance, the odds didn't look good that we'd be able to share that final pitch. First and foremost, the Phils opened the world series as heavy underdogs to the Tampa Bay Rays, a dynamic young team that had just disposed of the defending champion Red Sox. With Game 6 originally scheduled for Wednesday night, Mike and I started the series hopeful that the Phils could find a way to muster at least two wins, so we could watch them play as the series moved back to Tampa.

But then a funny thing happened. The Phils, after splitting the first two games in Tampa, ripped off two straight wins at home. And with their best pitcher on the mound on Monday night with a chance to end 28 years of misery and avoid the return trip to Tampa for Games 6 and 7, Mike and I agreed via telephone that we would happily sacrifice a chance to watch a game together to have the Phillies end this thing in five, and at home. As the Phillies proved in the NLDS and NLCS, there is something lost in clinching a series on the road. The celebration is muted and seemingly held in a vacuum, 25 men rejoicing as 55,000 shuffle out of a quiet stadium.

So as Game 5 began on a cold and wet Monday night in Philly, that was the situation Mike and I faced. Either win tonight, and watch the city of Philadelphia explode in a fit of unfettered glee, or lose, and gain the chance to watch a Game 6 on the road together.

The rest, as you know, is history. Game 5 was suspended in the sixth inning -- the first time a World Series game had ever been suspended -- and suddenly Mike and I were in the midst of a perfect storm. He was on his way to Denver, I was going to make the 3-hour drive from Aspen, and together we would watch the Phillies improbably attempt to close this thing out at home.

As Brad Lidge's final slider of a perfect season cleanly evaded the bat of Eric Hinske, two lifetimes of blind devotion were rewarded. As I reached across the table and hugged my brother Mike, I thought of all the reasons I had to be happy: starting with the simple yet undeniable fact that after what happened six months ago, I was lucky to be alive to witness it.

To see the Phillies players laughing and crying and doing the things newly crowned champions do, and to have intimate knowledge of what an unlikely occurrence it was to have this group of guys earn this moment, was also extremely gratifying.

But as I looked at my older brother, and thought back to all we've shared because of a baseball team of all things, I quickly realized that it wasn't the Phillies winning I was grateful for, it was that this team, ALL of these Phillies teams, have given me something wonderful I could share with him.

And that is what Jayson Stark meant. The Phillies could win it all again next year -- hell, for the next fifty years -- and it will never matter quite like it did on Wednesday night. Because it won't be with Mike.

Whouda Thunk It?

You know, this is turning out to be a pretty great year after all.

/takes swig from flowing Champagne bottle.

//dumps remainder of bottle on wife's head in celebration.

///gets smacked in back of head

The Fightins' will be one of the last two teams standing this year, something I've only witnessed twice prior in my 33 years (I'm not counting 1980, since I was five).

Even better, I'll be able to watch Games 3, 4, and 5 (if there is one) with my folks, who are coming out for a visit next weekend. And if a Game 6 is in the cards, I'll be sharing that one with my brother Mike -- the very reason I'm a Phils fan in the first place -- when he comes out to Denver in 10 days for a conference.

By not rooting for the Phillies, and indirectly my happiness, you are implicitly supporting brain aneurysms. That makes you an awful, awful human. Go Phils!

What Happiness Looks Like

And with that swing, 3-1 Phillies.

Reality Check

So I had this dream the other night. Like most of my dreams since the surgery, it was incredibly detailed, life-like, and completely unsettling. Unlike the other dreams, however, I don't think I need a PHD in psychology to interpret this one.

Back to my dream. I had entered a race comprised of the bike and run portions of a half-Ironman: 56 miles on the bike followed by a half-marathon. Just as in real life, I was only several months from my aneurysm clipping, and fully aware that I wasn't ready for this level of physical exertion.

So I came up with a plan: I would ride and run very, very slowly, even if it meant finishing dead last, as a way to keep from harming myself.

The bike course was made up of 5 repeats of a 5-mile out-and-back (I know the math doesn't work, but it was a dream, after all!) As the race started, I stuck to my plan, and let everyone fly by as I slowly plodded towards the first turn around. Making matters worse, the "out" section of the course was steep; absurdly steep in that unrealistic yet realistic manner that dreams allow.

As I stood out of the saddle and applied as much pressure to the pedals as I could, I became acutely aware that I had bit off way more than I could chew, and was in very real danger of hurting or even killing myself if I kept up this level of intensity so soon after my surgery.

But I kept pedaling, because in my mind, the most important thing wasn't how I raced, but that I finished. Because it was only at the finish, at least in my dream, that the rest of the racers and spectators would learn that I was only five months removed from aneurysm surgery. I became more exhausted and certain I was doing irreparable harm to myself, yet I kept going and going simply because I wanted to make it to the end for the satisfaction of being recognized as having "overcome" the aneurysm. Once I finished, everyone in attendance would know it was possible to ride 56 miles and run a half-marathon five months after brain surgery.

And this was the only thought repeating in my brain as I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. When I had finished the first 10 miles of the ride, I found I had gone so slowly that other racers were already out on the run portion. But it didn't matter: I had to keep going no matter how long it took, to prove to everyone -- to prove to myself -- that it could be done.

When I woke, I was covered in sweat and breathing heavily, a position I have found myself in far too often in the middle of the night recently.

Why I am I writing this? Because a few months ago, I wrote the following:

To be able to process hearing a surgeon tell us three weeks ago that everything is fine and I can return to a normal life, after everything we've been through, takes an element of faith. Faith that this was the end of something, rather than the beginning. And in my mind, in order to procure that faith, I need to look forward rather than back. I need to accept this aneurysm for what it was: a medical condition that, while terrifying and potentially life-threatening, has been properly treated. Only then can I stop defining myself by what I've been through, and start living again like I did four months ago: excited for every day to come rather than apprehensive of what may go wrong.

I'd like to believe that at the time, I genuinely believed that this was how I'd approach my recovery. But four months later, nothing could be farther from the truth.

This has been, to say the least, an emotional ass-kicking. There's not a day that goes by in which I'm not paralyzed by fear that this will all happen to me again. As illogical and nonsensical as it is, every little pain in my head makes me want to run and have a test done to prove there's nothing there.

Even worse, I've gotten into a vicious battle with myself. In an effort to prove to myself that life will return to normal, that I can be just as I was prior to May 9th, I've really pushed the recovery. I've run almost every other day since the 8-week mark, I've been swimming since July, and I recently tried to re-introduce weight lifting.

Each workout is met with fear that I'm doing too much, that I should be taking it easy until at least the six month mark, but each day I go out there and do it. Because I feel I have to. I have to prove to myself that I will do these things again, and the simplest way to do that is go out there, do it, and see what happens.

And that is what led me to run a 5K last Saturday. And to lift weights harder on Sunday. And, of course, to the inevitable bad headache on Sunday night, the first real "headache" I've had since the surgery, and one that led me into a week-long emotional tailspin of convincing myself I had done significant damage.

My dream followed on Tuesday night, and I can't help but think my subconscious was doing everything in its power to send me a message. Maybe it's time to back off, and stop feeling like I have something to prove. Perhaps taking that pressure off will make this time easier.

Big Happenings from Coast to Coast

There's a-doings a-transpiring these days.

Let's start in New Jersey, where a hearty congratulations is in order for two of our favorite people. Dean Gray, simply the best guy I know, and his lovely wife Erica (who also doubles as my most consistent and appreciated blog commenter) welcomed to the world their second little girl, Naomi June.

Naomi came in at a robust 8 lbs 10 ounces, and while that's quite impressive, it's not quite big enough to fend off the inevitable rough-housing to come from big sister Nadia over the coming years.

When Dean originally texted me the information, he introduced his daughter as "Nadia June" which prompted me to ask when Dean had turned into George Foreman and started naming all of his kids the same thing. Turns out it was a typo, the result of a fried brain from dealing with the numerous responsibilities of an impending dad. Fatherhood isn't easy you know...unlike motherhood.

Here in Aspen this week has basically consisted of watching my beloved Phillies in the postseason, broken up by periods where I nervously wait to watch my beloved Phillies in the postseason. Tough to concentrate on much else, particularly when you consider the Fightins' haven't won a playoff game since I was eighteen.

At the time, I was a freshman riding the bench for the Trenton State Men's Soccer Team, feigning interest in the action on the field as I waited breathlessly for the PA announcer to give the update on the NLCS and World Series.

Last year, I threw up a celebratory post when the Phils clinched the division on the final day of the regular season, but since that was promptly followed by a three-game bludgeoning at the hands of the buzzsaw that was the 2007 Colorado Rockies, I figured I'd wait a bit this year to avoid any potential jinxing. Now that I think about it, maybe I'll just ignore what happened today and move on with this post.

Saturday morning was a big day on the aneurysm front. I decided it was time to test myself a bit, more mentally than physically, and race in a local 5K. When I arrived at the start, I was surpised to learn that instead of a flat road race, this was a cross-country style event with over 350 feet of climbing. Nonetheless, I had a great time getting out there and running again, simultaneously completing the slowest yet most rewarding 5K of my life.

Here's local legend Terry Schaefer in the finishing chute, completing his second straight championship in the 60-65 year old age group of the Aspen Race Series, a three-stage event that covers the entire summer.

Terry was kind enough to return the favor and shoot a pic of a clearly distracted me.

After the race, I wanted to take a minute and send a message back to everyone that made it possible for me to get back to where I am today. I have a full appreciation for how fortunate I am; how easily things could have ended for me last spring, or how many things could have gone wrong with the surgery, leaving the idea of even running a 5K an impossibility.

So to my wife Lauren, my loving family, and all my friends and co-workers that sent me kind words either before the surgery or during the recovery, this is for you. Oh, and let's not forget my wonderful surgeon and the hopsital staff at Thomas Jefferson who performed the clipping, because let's face it...my wife and friends and family were great and all, but they have neither the skill nor the steady hand to pull off a procedure like that.

In case you can't read it, it says THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To Hell You Ride

You wanna' know the single coolest piece of trivia about Telluride, Colorado?

/waits breathlessly for response

Forget it, I'm telling you anyway. Positioned in the middle of a box canyon, there are three ways into Telluride, but only two ways out. Two of the ways in require drives over steep mountain passes, and one of the entries is so foreboding,it can only safely be climbed INTO Telluride, and not out.

Feel free to impress your friends at your next dinner party with that little nugget of info.

Anyhoo, Lauren and I packed up the Outback Saturday morning for what was supposed to be an overnight excursion to Telluride for the Blues and Brews festival and celebration of our good pal Lori's 40th birthday. Did I write 40th? I meant thirtieth. Yeah, that'll do.

Some would say it's a waste of time for me to attend a Blues and Brews festival, since I'm already clinically depressed and currently unable to imbibe alcohol, but what do they know?

On our way out of town, Lauren took a good shot of Mt. Sopris, in all its downvalley glory. Enjoy.

The idea of the festival was to pitch a tent in the campground adjacent to the festival, so you could convene with friends and fellow party goers well into the night after the bands stopped. Here I am setting up the trusty BD tent and enjoying my last few moments of lucidity before suffering a nervous breakdown.

Why did I snap? Look, I've come a long way since this surgery, and I'm capable of doing nearly everything I could prior to May 9th. But one thing I am NOT ready for, it quickly dawned on me, was to surround myself with 3,000 sweaty hippies on the wrong side of a 72-hour bender when I'm stone sober. I'm still at the point in my recovery where sleep is invaluable, and it quickly became apparent that rest would not be readily available in our intended setting.

So Lauren and I decided to bag the campout, but enjoy the festival regardless and head back to Aspen when the night wore down. Here's a view of Telluride on the way into town. It's a beautiful town, as you can see, but it has a way of making one feel a touch claustrophobic.

Here's Lauren grooving to the sounds of G Love and Special Sauce. We've traveled 2,400 miles, only to hear a guy from Philly play in Telluride. Go figure.

A shot of the festival. You couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting some dreadlocked, patchoulie scented thirty-something deeply immersed in a game of hackey sack.

With the night winding down, Lauren and I had the brilliant idea of driving an hour east and grabbing a hotel in Ouray, Colorado. I drive through Ouray all the time on the way to ski at Silverton, and it's generally considered one of the most idyllically-set towns in the US.

When we arrived it was dark, so no pictures until the morning. Lauren and I grabbed a quick bite to eat, then returned to our hotel room a bit despondent that we weren't spenidng the night in the tent.

One quick trip to the car remedied that up quick.

I'll confess, while it didn't quite provide the feeling of freedom that only a night out under the stars can provide, it did cut down our chances of being ravaged by a bear in our sleep dramatically.

The next morning we were greeted by bluebird skies and a sleepy town. We grabbed a bagel, shot some pictures encompassing the entire town of Ouray, and were on our way back to Aspen.

Besides, the Mexican Food Sucks North of There Anyway

Big happenings here in the valley since I last posted, but sadly, my laptop was on the fritz so I couldn't upload any pictures. Until now, that is. But you probably already figured that out.

Ahhh, Texas. There's so much more to the Lonestar State than the Dallas Cowboys, oppressive humidity, and frequent executions of the mentally retarded. It's also the home state of our good friends Brianna and Ryan Smith, who decided to take a break from their twice-weekly hurricane evacuations and spend Labor Day weekend in lovely Aspen, Colorado.

Bri holds a special place in my heart, as we ran our first marathon together back in 2001, and she was the first to encourage me that I had some potential as an endurance athlete. Ryan is a fantastic guy, LSU grad, and the current pilot of my old Cervelo P2K triathlon bike.


Early Saturday morning, we headed out to hike to Cathedral Lake, a 2,000 foot climb and 3.5 mile round trip. Here's the happy Texans' at the beginning of the climb, which started at an elevation of 9,800 feet.

The views, while not painted in their fall colors just yet, were still beautiful. A waterfall here, river there, valley bottom here, towering peaks there...

As we started to ascend above tree line, the surrounding valley opened up. I believe this is a view of one of our Elk Mountain 14ers, Castle Peak, which I skied back in June 2006. I could be mistaken, however.

There's one last steep climb before the trail flattens out and offers hikers a choice of heading to either Cathedral Lake or Electric Pass, named for its frequent and violent lightning storms. * Since the forecast was calling for storms after noon and the skies were already growing ominous, we decided Cathedral Lake was the better play.

Here's the happy couple posing before our well-earned destination, Cathedral Lake. Set in the shadow of Cathedral Peak at 11,800 feet, the water is clear as the Caribbean. Soon after this tranquil photo was taken, Ryan causally tossed several sticks of lit TNT into the lake, blew it to all hell, and harvested the now dead, floating fish from the surface one by one. He referred to it as fishing, "Texas Style." Good times.

With the water temp hovering around the mid-fifties, only one in our group was willing to make the leap.
After a rapid descent, we headed up Independence Pass for a quick tour of the Grottos, seen here in the first week after Lauren and I moved to the valley. A quick stop at the Devil's Punchbowl, a popular Aspen cliff-diving area, and we were on our way back downvalley for some well-deserved rest.

Saturday evening we had a delightful dinner at the Riverside Grill, which as I explained to Bri, was founded by James Riverside in 1971, and has nothing to do with its location adjacent to the Fryingpan River. **

Sunday morning, we took the bus up to the Maroon Bells, the most photographed mountains in the United States. The morning was hazy and overcast, so we decided to get a closer look and go for a hike.

Here's my lovely bride and I enjoying a Sunday morning atop Maroon Lake.

After about an hour of hiking and with a steady rain developing, we reached our destination, Crater Lake, which was discovered by old man Crater in 1945.*** No pictures, sadly, as the weather quickly grew worse and we had to hightail it back to Maroon Lake.

Monday morning, Bri and Ryan left us, and the Nitti family looked to catch up on some much-needed rest. I hopped on the couch, and Maci, as she'll do from time to time, climbed up as well. Only this time, she decided to make her bed in a rather, uh...uncomfortable manner.

* may not be accurate

** most definitely not accurate

*** absolutely, without question not accurate

Back in Aspen

It's been a hectic two weeks in the Nitti family, as this post finds us 2,000 miles away from the previous.

On August 8th, Lauren and I loaded up the trusty Subaru Outback (side note: Please buy all of your Subarus at Nitti's Subaru, so my family can eat again. Now with two convenient locations!!) and started the 30-hour trek back to Aspen, Colorado.

The trickiest part of the packing process was convincing Maci to leave her comfy new digs atop her grandparent's front porch. She spent the better part of the summer surveying the world from this vantage point, and she was in no hurry to abandon it.

As you can probably imagine, saying goodbye proved a bit more difficult this summer than in years past. I never thought my parents would be called upon to care for me in this manner again, but they sure haven't lost their touch. They literally nursed me back to health, and I am forever in their debt. Lauren and I discussed it, and we've decided that if they should ever need us to return the favor and care for them in their advancing years, we'll gladly discuss possibly putting the deposit down on a nice full-care facility somewhere.

Shortly before our departure, in an elaborate ceremony befitting the Beijing games, I awarded Angelo and Mary their well-deserved "Parents of the Year" medals. Sadly, my father had to return his a week later when he failed the mandatory drug test.

Thirty hours of driving and seventeen McDonalds' Chipotle wraps later, we pulled into our home in Aspen completely spent. Upon arriving, we noticed that for the first time since last Thanksgiving, the entire valley wasn't under 30 feet of snow. So there's that.

Here's two exhausted members of the Nitti family, trying to adjust after not getting our requisite 17 hours of sleep per day we'd averaged over the summer.


Our first week back was spent reacclimating, both physically and mentally. I returned to full-time work for the first time since surgery, which wasn't nearly as bad as it sounds. Lauren took care of some workshops, prepped her classroom, and caught up with some old friends. Together we kept up our every-other-day running schedule, and slowly got used to the 8,000 foot altitude difference between Aspen and Long Beach Island.

This past weekend, we let our proverbial hair down a bit and reminded ourselves why we live in a place where gas is five bucks a gallon. Saturday morning, we hiked the Ute Trail, which while gaining only 1,050 feet of elevation, involved roughly 1,050 feet more climbing than we'd done all summer. So needless to say, we suffered a bit. But as usual, the views were expansive and beautiful. Here's a view of Mt. Sopris, still holding some snow, but not nearly as much as it was on this day.

Lauren and Maci at the top of the Ute Trail. It's hard to imagine that I was skiing this route just five months ago. Maci, as you can see, was finally asked to pull her weight. With her dad still recovering, she's going to have the play the role of Sherpa this fall.

Lauren atop Ute Rock. Previous photos of this same location can be found here and here.

Once we'd descended the Ute, we decided it was only fair to allow our porter some recreation time. So we headed over to the fountain on the Mill Street pedestrian mall, and let Maci loose to do her thing.

That evening, we scrapped some camping plans due to ominous weather and opted instead for a block party at my buddy Jeff's house, complete with bad cover band, moon bounce, badminton, and numerous sporadically-manned barbecues. A good time was had by all, though I'm fairly sure more than a few people went home with a food borne illness. Word of advice? Pork loin at a block party is never a good idea.

Midway trough the evening, the skies opening up with a brief storm, but as the weather passed, the colors came out to play.
It's good to be back.

The Dog Days of Summer, Indeed

We sure are fond of our Maci around these parts. With the first Nitti baby still but a twinkle in my eye, Lauren and I have been able to lavish an awful lot of attention on our one-and-a-half year old yellow lab pup.

This summer, with my own athletic activity brought abruptly to a standstill, I've been forced to live vicariously through my dog. Which, I must say, has been rather entertaining.

As proof, behold the Top 5 Maci pictures of the Summer of 2008:

5. My sister Karen and her husband Rob are proud owners of Zoe, a beautiful 7 year old chocolate lab. Zoe, for all her strengths, is a tad overweight; ironic since her parents are both lean exercise junkies. I guess when you've got three little girls in the house dropping food all day long, you tend to pack on some extra pounds.

Anyhoo, Maci and Zoe became good pals this summer, and their play sessions in Barnegat Bay are responsible for shaving a good 5-10 pounds off Zoe.

4. Every day Maci has spent on LBI this summer has essentially followed the same format: wake up, follow me around the house until I take her to the bay, swim until exhaustion, then sleep all day. Here she is after my nieces got a hold of her during some REM sleep.

3. See my vest, see my vest... While not made of real gorilla's chest, Maci has fallen in love with her new Ruff Wear life vest. The vest serves three purposes: it allows Maci to swim alongside Lauren and I when we kayak without us having to worry about her, it allows her to swim with me when I swim in the bay, and it allows us to pick her up onto the dock at 9th street without having to get in the water.



2. I've gotta say, Maci has certainly won over the grandparents this summer. They've got an unspoken mutual agreement: Maci doesn't poop in the house, and in exchange she gets a piece of my mom's bagel every mornning. But the first day Maci doesn't get that bagel, look out...

1. The picture of the summer. For full effect, click on it to enlarge. It took Maci and I most of the summer to work out the toss so that it matched her considerable pace when hitting the bulkhead. The video below gives the full speed look.

Summer's just about over for Lauren and I here in New Jersey. Lauren celebrated her 31st birthday on Saturday, August 2nd, and after spending the next few days tying up some loose ends, we're heading back to Aspen next Saturday morning.

It's been an interesting summer to say the least, and while I'm very grateful to have spent it back in New Jersey with friends and family, it's about time we headed home and got busy living.