Dateline, Tucson

“Why don’t you find yourself a life that’s real/Too lazy to work/Too nervous to steal.” BR5-49

The seasons have reversed.

It’s in the mid-60s here in Southern Arizona, with bright sun and a stiff west wind. Some days, that’s a beautiful summer day in Wyoming. But it’s February 11, not August 11. Either place, six months apart, would be the perfect place to train.

Thus, I’ve fled my frigid home for the sun and warmth of Tucson, the self-described winter training capital of the world. And train I do. I brought my bike, my running shoes, my red mesh swimsuit, and nine days’ worth of workout clothes. I crash at the elegant bi-level condo of Gail and Kevin, my friends for life for nothing more than putting sheets on the futon in their guest room and laying out a comforter and a pillow. The debt of gratitude for this respite is infinite.

In the pre-dawn chill and darkness, I swam at the Tucson Jewish Community Center, where steam rises from the water surface when some swimmers churn things up. After the sun comes up (more on this later), I have breakfast, change clothes, air my tires, and put rubber to the road. Other days (or sometimes on the same day) I lace up the running shoes and put EVA midsole to the road.

Regardless, I’ve taken a week to clear my head of some bullshit and just train. Chop wood, carry water. Swim, bike, run. It’s all the same. I swam with some faster people, rode with a faster person, and have taken initiative in crushing myself on my own in the run. In between I’ve hung out with a Ph.D. student in archaeology, road tripped to Tombstone and Bisbee with same, dined well, laughed a lot, drank a bit.

It hasn’t been all warmth, though. It’s been all sunshine, but the warmth takes its time about showing up each day. Hours after my arrival, Gail sent me off to the trails around Mount Lemmon with her coworkers Eric and Crystal. I wondered just how cold it would be at 9 a.m., so I went in shorts, long sleeves, a ball cap, and gloves. Eric wore an ear warmer and wind pants, while Crystal (native to the area) donned two pairs of tights, gloves, a base layer, t-shirt and jacket, and stocking cap. I ditched the gloves halfway through the grueling 9-mile run on steep grades and shifting ground.

The next morning, I dutifully woke up at 6 a.m. (vacation notwithstanding), dressed (if you must know, shorts, leg warmers, cycling jersey, jacket, full-finger gloves, synthetic beanie, helmet, socks, shoes), and headed out on my bike by 6:20. Within five minutes I was chilled. Another five minutes passed before my hands and feet went numb. And my concern was the lack of light, so I stood at an intersection waiting for the sun. My hands and feet lost feeling, so I went back to a Circle K and warmed up inside for about 15 minutes. Then I headed back out on my bike toward Oracle.

I turned back at Stone Loop. Fuck this, I thought, it’s too fucking cold. I’m going to Tucson, Arizona, I thought the week before, why would I need bigger gloves and shoe coverings? I forgot about the 30-degree turnaround between night and day in the desert. Gail and Kevin gave me some shit when I got back, but I headed back out in the afternoon, still somewhat bundled up and far more comfortable.

No vacation I’ve taken has been more necessary or more beneficial than this one. While I’m obviously on my computer and checking in at work, I don’t feel affected by anything in Laramie. I’ll return refreshed and ready to tackle the aforementioned work bullshit and hopefully save my job in the process.

More importantly to me, though, I’ll have a stronger training base established. The lower altitude here has allowed me to push harder than I can in oxygen-poor Wyoming, and the warmth lets me peel away some clothing layers for the sake of body movement. A five-mile run in tights, base layer, jacket, gloves, and a beanie feels a hell of a lot different than the same run in shorts, t-shirt, and ball cap. Hint: not better.

The toughest thing, aside from letting go of work, has been letting go of the Tucson summers. It’s brutally cold in Wyoming as I write this — single digits temperatures, double-digit-below-zero wind chill, stiff westerly winds blowing snow across any smooth surface — so it’s easy to embrace the warm, sunny days here in the desert. The vegetation is different, thinner than the thick evergreens that surround my office. The greens of the prickly pear and cypress trees have faded in the sun, and the red rocks stand out against the brown mountains. All those things remind me that it’s brutally hot in the summer, and that I would want to kill someone after about the third week of 110-plus degrees in May or June.

But this is a cool place. All the main roads have bike lanes, and all the bike lanes get used every day. Whole Foods is around the corner from Gail and Kevin’s; eclectic local restaurants line the strip two blocks west of the University of Arizona campus; the mountains linger to the north, east, and west; saguaro cacti seem to stretch their arms to the perpetually blue sky; palm trees (!) sway in the breezes and stiffen when the wind kicks up.

Yeah, it might be the coolest place I could never live. Because there’s no work for me here.