Iceland (credit: Brad Weber)

I’ve got just 21 days, three weeks, to get ready to go to Iceland where we’ll be hiking fifteen hours up the highest mountain there. I’d spell the name of it, but it has too many consonants to be a real word.

Coming off of the winter months here in Colorado, I’m just now getting in twenty miles a week, with my longest run at five miles. My goal is to do at least one ten mile run prior to leaving and a few sevens. I know I can do the hike. But I don’t want to hold up any of the guys in our group, who are all editors from uber-sports mags.

Ah, yes, the vanity. I’ve gotten used to being passed on the trails by the Olympians who live in Boulder (and more than a few soccer moms pushing twins in strollers). I go my own pace. Convince myself that they didn’t start as far back as I did or will be turning around before I do. I don’t race anymore. This is supposed to be fun.

So why is it we still get that little spark of competitiveness? And, is it a good thing if it gets you up the mountain? I’m all ears…