Jimmy Olsen

Like all good KU Journalism graduates, I own a bunch of cameras.

My 35mm film camera rots in the closet -- a sad victim of the inexorable march of digital technology. The same goes for my VHS-C camcorder and its dozens of obsolete tape cassettes. My very first digital photo camera, a Kodak clunker with a laughable few hundred pixels of resolution, avoids the landfill because of its value as a historical curiosity, but has no expectations of resurrection.

With the exception of the Pentax that turned out to not be waterproof if you didn't close the battery door, the others are all in perfect working order, with batteries fully charged. Even my crummy cell phone takes reasonably good pictures.

You would think, then, that my C.B. deBodine instincts would couple with my Boy Scout training to ensure that I'd always have some sort of device available to capture the little daily moments that deserve preservation. You'd expect me to be prepared to take pictures of the wonders of nature, document the thrill of victory, and archive the significant events that shape my life. Wouldn't you?

Sigh.

Alas, the photo above is not mine. Nor do I have any photographic support for the other tales I wanted to share with you today. I am not Peter Parker, Karl Kolchak, nor even Jimmy Olsen. I wasn't carrying a camera with me on my adventurous runs in the snow and muck of Springtime in the Rockies.

[Interlude: Was Jimmy Olsen supposed to be a photographer? Or was he a "cub reporter," whatever that is? And if that's what he was, then what does it take to graduate to "webelo reporter"? All I know is that Jimmy seemed like a swell kid (if a bit dim), and probably would've been more fun to hang around with than either Mr. Kent or Miss Lane.]

[OK, so that brings up this question: When was the last time you heard anyone addressed as "Mr. Whatever," rather than their first name? It would seem jarring for Jimmy to call Clark by his first name, but Clark never ever referred to Jimmy as "Mr. Olsen." What was the magic maturity age number that made a person deserve misterhood?]

[Is there one single person anywhere in the world who thinks of Phyllis Coates when somebody says "Lois Lane?" I doubt it. Teri Hatcher, maybe, and I'm sure Margot Kidder is the default Lois among heroin addicts. But for most of us normal people, the ideal of Lois Lane will always be Noel (pronounced No Ell, same as Santa season) Neill. I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but Ms. Neill was an accomplished singer, and the number 2 most popular pinup girl after Betty Grable. To me, Grable wouldn't have been in the top 10, ever...but if I were born in the 30s or 40s, I could see having a Noel Neill poster on my dorm room wall to keep me company until Cybil Sheppard and Farrah Fawcett became available.]

Anyway, the point is that I wish I'd have had a camera along for last week's snow runs. They were definitely worth documenting.

On Thursday evening, I ran with the Revolution Running group on the Highline Canal trail. The weather fluctuated between all-out blizzard, puffy-flaked snow painting, and chilly spring rainstorm...but the entire 6-mile run was a wet muddy mess.

We were supposed to go easy, then pick up the pace, then pick it up again...until our last 5 minutes was at 5K race speed. While I was able to pick up the pace from the starting tempo, I was not successful in achieving my anticipated race pace by the end. I'll blame it on the slippery trail, the weight of the mud stuck to the treads of my shoes, and the general motivational effect of being in a blizzard a couple of days after being in shorts.

The snow was pretty, though. And so were the various spontaneous streams that sprang up to channel the runoff waters into the canal. I wish I'd have had a camera.

I had the same thought during Saturday's run in Waterton Canyon. It wasn't snowing; in fact, most of the snow had melted off the road. But the moisture and temperature fluctuations had taken their toll on the canyon walls. Rocks had fallen.

I saw a half-dozen spots where rockslides had strewn debris across the road. Some of the fallen stones were nearly the size of Kenny Baker, which would squish you as flat as my son's bank balance if they hit you. I made sure to keep to the river side of the trail, and to listen for cracking and crunching sounds from above.

Sure enough, at about the 5-mile mark, I heard the sound of rock hitting rock somewhere up the mountainside. I looked overhead as my adrenaline prepared me to leap aside if I saw a granite volkswagon careening toward me. But t'was just a baseball-sized chip, accompanied by a few additional pepples. It could still have damaged me had I been beneath it, but it was small enough to come to rest pretty much where it hit the road. It did not roll across the street to chase me Indy-style, and I survived.

At this point, I have to acknowledge the efficiency and thoroughness of the Denver Water Department. I ran up past the dam to the Colorado Trail access point (where the snow was slushy and a couple of inches deep -- not exactly conducive to smooth, fast running), and by the time I came back down the canyon, every single one of the rockslides had been cleaned up and removed from the road. I was tired and slow during the descent, but no longer needed to navigate around rockslide debris fields. In fact, by that time, a good portion of the roadway mud had dried into a reasonably decent running surface.

I was slow, but at least I was able to finish my long run without hurting myself. As for my pre-existing injuries (shoulder strain and skin biopsy stitches), I'll save that discussion for tomorrow. As for Tuesday's run, well, we're scheduled to do our team workout in Bear Creek Lake park. I'll try to remember to tote along a camera, so I can document anything interesting that happens. (I just hope it isn't more snow.)

Thanks for dropping by. Have a great day!