THE day that will live in infamy...

One 20-something sojourns to Italy...

Rome has everything to offer a nerdy college student. Savory dishes, world-famous couture, and vivacious natives don’t even begin to satisfy the thirst for centuries-old sculptures and crumbling cathedrals that I possess. The city that smells of sawdust and cappuccinos by morn is a labyrinth of mystery and delight by sunset. Marble colonnades stem from St. Peter’s facade, reaching out their arms as if to say Bienvenuto, mi bambino. The baker, the landlord, the men selling fish from a greasy cart: so many hands are being used to talk the city could pass for a deaf community—but the cacophony of ciaos, bella, and taxi! quickly prove this incorrect. Without any premeditated effort I can catch a cab to tremble under the visage of Il Coluseo or weep at the beauty of a Caravaggio hanging in Vatican City. I can do all this, of course, if I’m not waiting in the U.S. Embassy to Rome.

Which I am.

And I can do this, obviously, if I still know the current location of my passport.

Which I don’t.

Ah vita.

I mouth the words in practice as I step off Flight United 966 to Rome. Bon Giorno, signore. Dove e il museo? Grazie! Spending four days in Rome with my friend and her parents has me giddy with anticipation. The art, the food, the language: all at my disposal to satisfy the yearnings of an art history fiend and cultural lover. I spot the driver who will take us from the airport to our little piazza apartment. But with my hand extended and the grazie barely formed on my tongue, he tosses our overstuffed wheelies into the trunk and hits the gas. Taken aback, and slightly disappointed, I scramble into my seat. I thought he’d be so excited to help me try Italian… I click the belt together nervously; maybe I can try ciao when we leave. I hum “Hey Mambo,” trying to ease the quiet somberness; this is looking more like a scene from the Italian Job than an Italian cab ride. But he flips his cell open and is already yelling—as anyone who has heard an Italian speak knows, this merely denotes conversation—into the mouthpiece and revving the van. I realize we are zipping alongside grassy fields of green and orange that are peppered with large white political posters; the smiling figures on a shiny plastic board are stark beacons amid the muted greens of the grass; I find them to be a rather ironic placement that suits Italy—a country that produces both Renaissance masterpieces and Vespas. As Giovanni (I’ve nicknamed him this) dodges slow traffic—‘slow’ defined as going under mach 5—I steady my breaths. City cab drivers should operate those teacup rides at carnivals. Foreign city cab drivers should train astronauts for motion sickness. Holy crap. If patience is a virtue, Rome never got the memo. Or maybe it doesn’t care. I suspect a little bit of both.

Suddenly, the view opens up into plaza after plaza, the colors of the tanned stucco so crisp against a cloudless royal blue sky they look like cardboard cut-outs. I rack my brain to name each landmark as we pass. Trajan’s forum! I spot the thousands of figures etched onto a marble pillar and blurt to the car: “The emperor Trajan was known for his diplomacy and vast extension of the Roman empire. You may recall Trajan’s column…” knowing full well they care less about Trajan and even less about his columns. But Bernini statues line secret alcoves, Michelangelo domes smile above, and we are in Roma. I suspect I drooled. And just as quickly as he ushers us in, Giovanni is now slapping our luggage onto a cobbled street, and—alas!—speaking.

Piazza Biscone, no?

Dave, our patriarch, replies in gruff English it is after checking the reservations he’s printed. A lot of this goes on during our trips: Dave hailing the cab, Dave sitting in the front to direct the driver, Dave haggling over which room we get, Dave creating/distributing/enforcing the itinerary. And while the control occasionally borders on militant, I welcome the preparations and traveling expertise with open, responsibility-free arms. Traveling with Dave means no thinking, bargaining, or carrying very important do-not-lose-or-you-will-be-stuck-in-a-foreign-country-indefinietely documents. Traveling with Dave means visiting an unknown world without the unknown part mattering. The man knows how to travel.

I grab the itinerary from my purse, already crumpled and ripped (I’m serious, you cannot trust me to take care of anything) and read our location. We appear to be stationed around Pee-ats-uh Na-von-ah—I delight in sounding out the words— five blocks shy from the Pantheon. While the two men negotiate a taxi price, more interesting things can be seen. I heave my luggage up the street to our apartment door, memorizing the view: quaint stone streets, a pescaria across the way, bell towers that chime just slightly off the hour. Ever the American tourist, I can’t help be reminded of the charming hotels of Vegas. But I shake my head to dispel the image; this is real.

As Dave pushes open the heavy wooden door at our stoop, I turn around once more. A seagull has perched itself on the fishery’s canopy, and I think to smell the air: the fish wafts strongly. But beyond that, a hint of gasoline from the van, a wee whiff of bread and the scent of my own sweat all accumulate to what I can only label ‘Italian town.’ I cross the threshold into the apartment and collapse on our bed. Bella Roma.

“So we take a…left here. And then a right and then…” Dave is navigating through the town as our happily delegated GPS. He finds a nook where we can grab some crispy bruschetta later; he points out a bell tower that was used during World War II for snipers; he also scares away the pesky vendors who are trying to take advantage of a young American girl who wasn’t that interested in the paintings—she was just trying to be nice.

But that’s all hypothetical. So he’s guiding this group of American ladies on a twilight tour through the mysterious alleys of Rome. Unbeknownst to me, we stumble upon Piazza Navarro. I jump with delight and rush to the Fontana Dei Quattro Fiumi, immediately recognizing the emotional expressions and fluidity of the structure as a Bernini. Okay, my knowledge of the location’s significance stems not from study, but Angels and Demons. Either way, I squeeze behind my traveling family, all of whom are published photographers, and shamelessly steal their shots. Rome by day is fun, crazy, a little smelly. But Rome by night is breathtaking.

“Look, I got a great photo!” I show him my picture of the fountain, its ivory curves tinted blue by the darkening sky, with a whiskey-yellow sun setting behind it.

“Good photographers take images, not photos,” Dave’s harsh voice has a hint of playfulness as he glances at my viewfinder.

“Did you see the one I got?” He teases me with his camera. It’s the same picture, but somehow he captures the purest blue in the sky, the shiniest marble on the statue, and an aura in his sunset that somehow escapes my notice until then. This is not his first photograph. Excuse me, image.

He unzips the bag, the trusty black sack that holds our dear passports, visas, boarding passes and such and tucks in his camera so gently I expect it gets a bedtime story. The evening adventures come to close as we happily return to our beds.

“So, Miss Art History. Tomorrow is your day. You tell us which galleries we’ve got to see, and where they are.” Dave hands me the map and a pen before heading off to bed, and I put off nine-hours of jetlag to create a perfectly crafted schedule for Rome, the humanities major Mecca. As I fall asleep, I picture Teresa in Ecstasy and The Calling of Matthew, the figures turning their faces out of the paintings and greeting me in my sleep. My dreams of tomorrow are nowhere close to the nightmare it becomes.

The morning finds me refreshed and talking to Dave’s back.

“Wait, why can’t we go?” I’m dressed in a red blouse and khakis, square glasses frame my face and my hair is pulled back in a bun: what I call my “art history” outfit. Half of the day has already passed and my helium-filled happiness is slowly leeching out of my system as I enter the living room. Dave is still wearing pajamas and rummaging through piles.

“Well, unless you know where our passports are, we’re not going anywhere but the embassy.” My secret hopes of this being a rather unfunny prank have disappeared as I see the black backpack: empty. As Dave looks up from his search, I see another empty space right where his left front tooth belongs. He notices my stare.

“And we’re also making a stop to the dentist. My tooth cracked off from the bread last night.”

It’s almost funny. I laugh. It is funny. Here is Dave, traveler-extraordinaire, and my 6-month-old nephew has more front teeth than him. Not to mention after four decades of assuming traveling responsibility he finally tastes that unfortunate dish of “I have to tell them I lost it.” I realize my reluctance to take responsibilities has cost me my favorite statue of all time. But I summon pity for the man; after all, a demi-god has fallen.

We start the day’s excursion by seeking a dentist, our fractured Italian barely getting us past “mouth” and “where.” But Dave spots a farmacia, marked by a green neon sign shaped like a plus, and we rush to its counter. The cracked tooth problem is apparently common here, because with little gesturing the cashier figures it out and rings up some denture cement. Dave presses the tooth into place and mumbles thanks. I turn to shout a grazie but the automatic glass door is already zooming shut. Damn. I still haven’t gotten to talk.

By mid-afternoon we arrive at the U.S. Embassy; its white columns and broad pediment look like something official and impressive you’d see in D.C., but amidst the pinnacle works of Western civilization, it stands out no more than a McDonalds in Tulsa. We have to enter in groups of two, so as I wait outside, I snap an image of the Italian guard (not sure it’s allowed, but he was cute). As tourists attempt to enter the embassy and are denied, I begin to realize the value of our situation. How many people get to see inside this building? We may be the unfortunate ones, but at least our trip is unique!

Once inside, we go up a set of spiral staircases into a small lobby, taking a number even as the only occupants. I use a piece of my green gum to stick the number in my journal—proof this is seriously happening. On the wall I notice posters of baseball fields and jazz singers and a picture frame for both the current president and secretary of state. I wonder who assembled the decorations: an American or an Italian? I suppose if it was the latter, there’d be more KFC posters, monster trucks, and cowboys. But as I approach the counter to turn in my paperwork (why do they have to know when grandma was born?) I am served by a young woman with—oh, thank the lord—an American accent. I have to admit, after the day’s dental detour, I am worn out and unwilling to decipher yet another Italian accent. As I check my watch while she stamps the forms, it dawns on me: today’s art extravaganza will not happen at all; the churches with the Lindsay Talbot canon of greatest works of art close in 30 minutes. Still sleepy and filled with resignation, I manage a weak smile as she takes a replacement photo. Sorry, image.

Four hours later, we have temporary passports and are eating dinner at the HardRock Café, a traveling tradition with our group. As we munch on cheddar cheese burgers and fries, I start a new mantra in my head: Vatican City tomorrow! Vatican City tomorrow! Dave reassures us that everything is still set in place, and our booked tour of the world’s finest collection of art remains intact. Teresa in Ecstasy removed firmly from my mind, I now envision the rich blues and reds of Raphael beaming from within St. Peter’s walls, the scala regia beckoning me down its divinely-lit steps, and the Sistine Chapel. Oh how could I even imagine being sad today! In 24 hours I will have seen Pope Sixtus’ namesake glowing from the ceiling, and Adam’s outstretched hand grasping for his Creator in what has to be the most graceful reach I’ve ever imagined. Sigh. Despite the day’s setbacks, Rome has not been lost on me.

I sit back in my squeaking patio chair and inhale the city air as it slowly chills for evening, laughing with my friend and enjoying the filling meal. I know that today has cost me dearly; trips across 5,000 miles don’t happen too frequently for most and when they do occur, there are no do-overs for a bad day. But the glass of ice water feels good in my hands, the café down the street serves excellent, meaty cannelloni, and Rome still has everything to offer. As our waiter returns to bring us coffee, I sense a change in the wind; perhaps now someone will speak with me. I catch his attention.

“Grazie.” He smiles and responds.

“Prego.”

Ah vita.

My first...

...very first reporting assignment. Aw.

Fresh face for CU journalism students

Most classes don’t begin with the students grilling the professor or posing personal questions like her age or where she lives. But unlike most classes, that is precisely what happened to a University of Colorado professor on one late August afternoon.

Maria Cote, the newly appointed Public Affairs Reporting instructor to 20 young, eager journalism students at the University of Colorado at Boulder, boldly began her first class with a barrage of questions posed by her reporters-in-the-making.

And what was the result?

A light-hearted, and yet instructive experience for both professor and pupil alike.

Cote, or Maria to her students, let them take the reign on the interviewing exercise, revealing both a trust in their abilities to question while also encouraging involvement and self-motivation.

“You can be a really lazy writer,” she said to the class, and yet her impressive list of work in print lends to the belief she is anything but.

Along with working for the Daily Camera for four years, Cote’s areas of both reporting and editing have also included music, food, fashion (“Though not very well,” she confesses), fitness, health, and her most recent work, home and garden. Current projects include being a special projects coordinator, with a newsletter at Colorado State University. However, even a commodity as valuable as information isn’t safe from hard economic times. The recent failure of many newspapers was not lost on Cote, nor was she unaffected. Cote’s seven year stint as ‘Lifestyles’ editor for the Rocky Mountain News came to end when the paper published its final edition this February and thus ended its 150 years of publication. This was quite a disappointment since the Rocky was beloved by so many, as Cote’s stories brought up throughout the day would reveal. For instance, when she’d first gotten the interview for the Rocky position, Cote related how in her immense excitement, she’d unknowingly imbibed an entire bottle of wine. But upon seriously discussing the future of newspapers, she recalls, “I regret the struggles that newspapers are going through and I deeply regret losing my job, but after doing something for 20 years...I got a little worn out on managing people.” And with this attitude, she has embarked on her newest adventure: teaching.

Though an experienced scholar herself, (Cote graduated third in her class at Ankara High School in Ankara, Turkey and received a bachelor’s degree in english-psychology with a minor in Biology), she fits in better with a bunch of teenagers than an editing room full of middle-aged writers.

“I’m really am about 18, 19 years old,” she jokes. Her easy-going attitude and tendency to swear (“I’m a journalist; it’s habit”) allow her to blend in perfectly with her young crowd. This is an ability commonly lost on professionals unfortunately, and particularly those in education. Yet Cote is not afraid to use this close relationship to depart some well-earned wisdom on her students, including the importance of integrity, accuracy, and compassion.

“You work with people and you have to make sure the job gets done, but you have to have compassion. You have to make sure their family life comes first.” Although it seems obvious, this attitude can sometimes be hard to find in the world of journalism, and that includes its classrooms. However, Cote’s way of answering straight questions with amusing anecdotes or emotional detail bring to her story these mentioned values as well as a memorable story.

A mother of three, a wife to one, a journalist for two decades, and now a teacher to 20. What other roles does the future hold for Maria Cote?

To the C.U. students that will have the opportunity to partake in her reporting class this fall, it will hopefully be both a mentor and a friend. Until then, one can find her running, digging, and, when the occasion calls for it, drinking red wine.

A reporter in the making (no, not me)

The reporter waits to ask her questions. Pen is posed. Notebook flipped open and secured. And the eyes say it all: I’m ready to interview.

Kelsi Cooke, a junior in Maria Cote’s reporting class, may look like a typical 20-something student, but beneath that backpack-wearing, ponytailed exterior lives a true journalist. She gets the facts right, she gets the right facts, and in Tuesday’s class, she interviewed me with precision and ease that can only come from a future reporter.

Cooke, a graduate from Highlands Ranch High School and current student at the University of Colorado at Boulder, has always had her eye on journalism. Her current work in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication brings her closer to her dream:

“I see myself being a social media manager… or writing for an online publication.”

But not every part of this fantasy has come true. Cooke aspired to attend the University of Missouri for the well-known School of Journalism. But being a Buffalo isn’t too bad.

“My experience at CU has been mostly a positive one…and if I have friends that move across the country, they’re going to get letters from me no matter what!” It’s this persistence that highlights Cooke’s aptitude for the field. When playing interviewer, Cooke didn’t shirk the hard stuff, catching me off guard with her first questions and reeling me in with her follow-ups.

“What is your greatest ambition?”

“What matters most to you?”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”, seeking information from me that, before I could stop myself, became interesting. But being tough on information, and in general, comes naturally to Cooke.

“If I were an animal I’d be a turtle,” she says, “they have the hard shell, but on the inside, there’s compassion. I have that outside, but on the inside I do care.” Not a bad characteristic, especially for someone pursuing a profession known for its startling details, be them bodily or ethically. Cooke recognizes this facet of her future profession. But her experience as a resident advisor in Sewall Hall definitely helps stem the shock from such encounters.

Her position can include handling issues such as alcohol poisoning, theft, unplanned media coverage, physical brawls and more. It’s no surprise then, when she says this experience has made her “grow so much as a person,” and perhaps more importantly for Cooke, as a future professional journalist.

On answering her own question, Cooke says, “My greatest ambition is to be successful. I'm not sure what that means really. But I think I’ll know it when it happens.” If this report is any indication, she’s well on her way.

If you had to write an obit...

...this would be one:

"Adam was like a penguin ," Vinnie Archuletta, a University of Northern Colorado sophomore tells me over the phone.

"Adam was like a penguin," he says, "He was very mysterious... but he was very good at teamwork, and he had a great personality. He was always fun to be around." Adam, a University of Colorado Boulder student and friend of Archuletta, died Sunday at Boulder Hospital of heart complications, according to medical records. Only 20 years old, Adam Scurto still found time in his two decades to serve as a leader in his church, succeed in school, and when a friend needed it, act like a penguin.

Scurto, also called "Adam-Wadam" in high school, left the serious stuff to someone else. Fellow CU student and friend Weston Eggett tells me how they used to try to start trends in high school, so Adam once wore his polo backwards.

"He always tried to do things that were fun. He never tried to take himself incredibly seriously." While attending Rock Canyon High school in Highlands Ranch, Scurto also played trumpet in the marching band and was active in his school's newspaper, The Rock. His participation at St. Francis of Assisi, the Quill and Scroll Society, and Tri-M also created many lasting friendships.

"I knew from a very young age that he was the kind of person people would want to be around," father Christopher Scurto tells me. "He was not a surface friend, he was an all-in friend." After considering the many different clubs and organizations Adam joined, it's easy to see why. Adam graduated with a letter in band, honorable mention in a national journalism competition, and a 3.47 G.P.A. His work ethic might have had something to do with it.

"No matter how many times he had to try, he just kept on trying," says Archuletta. Along with trumpet, Adam also played piano, which according to his father, he "pretty much taught himself to play.

“He commits himself to it, there's no halfway or anything," he adds. Scurto carried over this passion to CU Boulder, where he began studying in the fall of 2007.

A junior in the university’s well-known Leeds School of Business, Adam also worked as a Resident Advisor and frequently helped with retreats at St. Thomas Aquinas in Boulder. But in between skiing black diamonds or dabbling on the piano keys, he still found time to keep up his friendships from before college, something not lost on Archuletta, who's known Adam for 6 years.

"Adam kept very close friends. He was very loyal."

Chris Scurto was proud of the friends that Adam brought home too.

"As a parent you sometimes look at friends and think, ‘I don’t really want them hanging out with my kid,’ and I guess I never really though that about his." Eggett sums up how his friends felt about Adam when he describes friends in middle school as usually changing or becoming "corrupted."

"Adam was always one of those kids that never changed. Overall he was a great guy. I will always cherish him as one of my best friends."

A service will be held for Adam in his hometown of Castlerock at St. Francis of Assisi. Date and time will be later determined.

Nepali Speaker Brings Cures for Sickness and Sadness

Sept. 23 2009-The auditorium was heated, there were free pizzas and drinks, and 82 Boulder residents were asked the question “What are you doing for someone else?” Seemed like a pretty basic question, and University of Colorado at Boulder professor Dr. Jim Lopresti gave a pretty basic answer: “I was doing nothing.”

Lopresti, who spoke on behalf of taking your profit to the next step, was introducing social entrepreneur and Nepali medic Anil Parajuli, who spoke at the University of Colorado at Boulder campus Sept 23 to a crowd of students, parents, and Boulder locals trying to make a difference. Lopresti’s introduction paved the way for esteemed Ashoka fellow and Nepali native Parajuli to give an 80-minute presentation on the current healthcare situation of Nepal, what efforts he was taking to improve them, and what the Boulder community could do to help.

The end of the speech had moved the audience to a standing ovation and stimulated many private conversations with Parajuli after.

“I am haunted by this face,” he began, describing a story about one of his medical treks. “I’d thought he was a pile of rags at first, lying down by the fire.” The pile, as it turned out, was a young boy who had a spinal infection that developed into three types of tuberculosis. Parajuli had him stabilized with available medicine, but the meager hospital in the next village could not treat him properly; he died there.

Parajuli cited many other instances in which the Nepali hospitals failed the poverty-stricken people of rural Nepal. In one case, a mother literally had to choose which child to save. Her baby was sick and needed to be taken to a distant hospital, but if she left her other children alone, their cows would die.

“I could not imagine making such a choice,” Parajuli said. Luckily, a neighbor agreed to watch over the house and the infant was saved. Others have not been as fortunate.

“Nepal is one of the least developed countries in the world and suffers from extreme levels of poverty, particularly in rural regions,” Parajuli cited in a PowerPoint presentation.

He spoke to Boulder on behalf of Himalayan HealthCare, a non-profit group that trains local health providers in Nepal in order to provide proper healthcare. Parajuli emphasized the role natives play in the program. They can serve as midwives, auxiliary health workers, or traveling medics. “[Himalayan HealthCare] encourages local participation and involvement in all of its programs to ensure sustainability of benefits,” Parajuli stated from the Himalayan HealthCare Web site.

He spoke of the flexibility in the program, and adapting to Nepali lifestyles as well.

“Black smiths are the dentists now,” he said, showing paradoxical pictures of patients sitting in a room akin to a barn with modern dental drills in their mouths, while cattle strolled in and out of the “facility.”

Parajuli used pictures throughout the presentation, many of which provided insight into his stories. He was talking about children who were dying outside health posts and then showing photographs of their helpless mothers. Though he provided information on the current efforts of the Nepali government to address this dire situation, he stated that more could be done. Currently, access to medical care has been extended to 13,000 people in Nepal via Himalayan HealthCare, a small success when there is an entire country to improve.

One step has been partnering with the Boulder chapter of GlobeMed, an organization dedicated to strengthening the movement for global health equity, and the one responsible for bringing Parajuli to Boulder. Both groups aim to increase available healthcare in Nepal, and Parajuli ended his speech by encouraging locals to get involved with this group. GlobeMed member William Narracci attended the presentation and helped sell Nepali handicrafts to the audience afterward.

Parajuli’s presentation can best be summed up by a photo from the Godak Village medical camp: a Nepali woman treats an infant with big brown eyes and no shirt while her sister and mother, both with collarbones sticking out, wait. The mother holds her baby with wrists like twigs, her daughter staring at the stethoscope with curiosity. Help is on the way, and it is very much needed.

More than empathy for local non-profit

At first, the shoes pose unassuming questions. Whose are they? Which brand? What size?

Yet as you walk around the display, a nauseating feeling starts to sink in your gut.

Who did this to her? How old was she? Can we make it go away?

The items of contemplation are two pink rubber sandals, the bottoms a little worn, the buckles sagging a bit, and made for what looks like a young girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old.

And they were taken from a victim of child sex-trafficking.

The display, set up by Boulder non-profit iEmpathize, reveals information about the $32 billion sex-trafficking industry, which currently employs 2 children every minute.

And the shoes are only the beginning.

Visit its Web site (iEmpathize.org) and you’ll receive a barrage of photos and accompanying information.

“Children as young as 6 years old were victimized on this bed,” one caption reads. The “bed” consists of 30 wooden slats cornered between two pale concrete walls.

Another photo depicts plastic chips with numbers. Prostitutes must wear them so that brothel managers can make arrangements for “clients.”

It’s tempting to click away from the painful images, but iEmpathize executive administrator Christy Pennick insists.

“We endeavor to bring the reality of these issues and the true stories of vulnerable and victimized children to the mainstream public,” Pennick says.

The organization aims to increase public awareness of child sex-trafficking in Thailand, Cambodia, and the Philippines. Through its efforts Pennick and founder Brad Riley hope to free and protect the victims of the industry. However, Pennick cites the unwillingness of many to listen, simply because of the nature of their opponent.

“The major obstacle that we face is the depth and the heaviness of the issue that is in front of us—child-sex trafficking. Many people do not want to talk about or even listen to information because it's such a dark issue. We are working on creative ways that we can communicate so that it's not as overwhelming for people who are hearing about it for the first time” she says.

Brad Riley created iEmpathize after a startling trip to Cambodia in 2006. During the visit he was solicited for sexual favors by a young boy. By 2008 he had launched the first iEmpathize visit to Asia. But physically shutting down brothels isn’t the only agenda item.

As stated on their Web site, some local efforts also include monthly justice forums, campus visits across the nation, vigils, and the mentioned art exhibit. Even so, the task at hand is great.

Google “sex-trafficking” and you get hits from all over the world: Cambodia, the United States, Costa Rica, and more. The results are so numerous it suggests you narrow your search.

Tackling the world’s second-most profitable crime can be overwhelming. Yet iEmpathize courageously steps up.

“Those that have not yet been rescued or received restoration are in great need for our help,” Pennick states. “There are not many options for those that are victimized unless people like you and I come to their rescue.”

iEmpathize has taken the first step, but the rest is up to you.

For more information, visit www.iEmpathize .org

This Thanksgiving, Thighs Get a Workout

Everybody remembers their first.

I was 19 at the time, older than most. I remember my stomach twisting with nerves and my hair sticking to my sweaty forehead. I worried about wearing the right thing, and tugged a hat on my head last minute. But it did a poor job of keeping my bangs at bay.

I remember ditching my dad about 10 minutes back and berating myself: if you give up now, you will never finish this. And then I remember the feeling of pure bliss when I finished, my heart racing and the arteries pounding so much blood to my head I couldn’t hear the music through my headphones anymore. I remember letting the air whoosh back into my lungs when I thrust my fists into the air, shouting an ecstatic, “Yes!” I remember realizing it wasn’t so painful after all. I did it.

I had run my first 5K.

“I ran it in 18:50. Something really bad for me,” says Adam Coy, a CU senior and veteran runner. Coy had run the 12^th Annual Briargate Family YMCA Turkey Trot, a 3.1-mile (5 km) trail that meanders through the asphalt of a Colorado Springs neighborhood.

And while Coy was doubling back to finish the race again with his father, I was puffing through the chilled November air at a nice pace of 10 minutes per mile. I’ll do the math for you: that’s a 30 minute 5k.

Which for me was quite an accomplishment.

“On your first time, have fun,” Coy says. “Don’t have expectations.” Amen to that.

If I did have expectations, I certainly surpassed them. Training for my first run consisted of one haphazard jog on the treadmill the previous night and the foresight not to drink milk that morning. But that’s not to say I had a perfect run. Every mile or so consisted of a nice stop to “check-my-i-Pod-I-promise-I’m-not-taking-a-walking break” (I totally was). I suspect my side trips to the water tables and burning desire to pass all of the smug 8-year-olds running beside me might have worn me out as well.

Mere yards from the finish, my stomach was churning and my calves felt like lead baseball bats. I didn’t care that I was running a charity event or “helping to build strong kids, strong families, strong communities;” I wanted my throat to stop tasting like copper pennies. Now that I think about it, maybe I was trying to meet some expectations. Coy tells me (too late) of my mistake.

“If you go too hard, you’re just dead at the end.”

Something similar happened to another trotter during her first time. I tried not to smirk as I passed my sister heaving air into her lungs, but you can’t ignore sibling rivalry. Four years my senior and modeled after a svelte gazelle, she seemed built to breeze through the race. So imagine my surprise when I rounded the loop with two miles to go, and there she was, puffing that same “I think I can” rhythm I’d done my first time. “My music wasn’t fast enough,” she tells me. Again, I tried not to smirk.

But as I ran my second trot this Thanksgiving, I had to swallow my pride (and phlegm) while pushing myself mercilessly; even a second time around can leave you breathless and aching.

Coy learned a similar lesson when he stepped up the challenge to run the Pikes Peak Ascent. A grueling trail that scales 13 miles and an elevation increase of 7,000 feet, the ascent can only by tackled by the best and, well, the fastest.

“It killed me; it was the hardest thing I’ve even done” Coy admits. “It was a bad race for me; I felt like I was going to puke.”

Luckily for Coy—and I suppose whoever cleans the track after the trot—this is not the case with the little 5k , a breezy jog that many do with the entire family.

“It is a great way to start your Thanksgiving,” says Tina Simpson, the wellness coordinator for the YMCA’s Pikes Peak region. “Everyone is welcome and included,” she says.

The event aims to garner attendance from all types of runners, from the Coys to the mildly athletic college student keeping her Freshman 15 at bay.

“The great thing about the Turkey Trot is that it is designed for all ages and abilities, from the competitive runner to the family that walks the course together,” says Joe Driskell, the associate executive director of the Briargate branch.

Much of the reason for the mass appeal, and why I didn’t collapse while running, stems from the inspiration of the event. Part of the Annual Partner’s Campaign, the trot raises money to fund membership fees for low-income families in the area.

The region holds a few other 5k races to aid the campaign. But the run hosted during Thanksgiving, a time when all must be reminded of what they have (and what others don’t), works as a great motivator. Especially when you’re tired and hot and can’t entirely breathe. Trust me.

Add in some warm sunshine and a growing epidemic of obesity, and you’ve got the record breaking attendance of more than 2,000 people to this year’s trot.

Driskell hopes to see a trend in this spike.

“The amount of participation and local support from sponsors continues to grow each year which in turn increases the amount of assistance that we can provide families in our community.”

After Coy states that he raced every weekend at one point, I think to ask him how many times he’s graced the trot. A smile crosses his face:

“Never. This was my first time.”