Lately, my reporting and research has taken me places I never imagined I would go as a sports writer. Like into the mind of a streaker and inside the research of a group of quantum physicists.

For a story on blacklisted fans and the heads of stadium who chase them (out in our List Issue in two weeks!), I've spent hours learning the ins and outs of streaking (at a baseball game, sit on the first baseline, in one of the first two rows ... carry a spare pair of shorts ... make sure you're okay with that being the last game you ever attend), stadium ops and what motivates people to act in a way they would never dream of acting in the real world once they are inside their favorite team's home. It's been an informative and comical few weeks and I think this will be a fun read for anyone, even if you don't give a hoot about sports.

For a story on the placebo effect in sports and the power of belief, I've spent countless hours twisting my brain around concepts like cell biology and quantum physics and how our thoughts affect our bodies. I've spoken to neuroscientists, neurophysicists, energy healers, psychologists, biomedical engineers, quantum physicists, cell biologists and physical therapists. I leave every conversation feeling a little bit smarter and a little closer to my story, but with a list of questions I'm not sure I'll ever be able to answer. Soon, I need to be able to explain to readers in clear, concise language why a neuroscientist and a quantum physicist might have more knowledge about how to make an athlete jump higher, run farther and pitch better than the best illegal PED manufacturers in the business.

If I only had six words, I'd write this: "Simple: It's all in your mind."

When I sit down to begin writing a story about someone, I often think to myself, "If I were writing a story about me, would that story be the truth about me by the time it went to print?" The answer, inevitably, is, "No." Sure, the general story would be the same. My back story wouldn't change, nor would the details of my life over the past 33 years. But I would have changed. We change every day. Our story changes every day. Something I think today, I might not think tomorrow. I might change my mind about an opinion I was certain I had yesterday. Something might happen in my life to alter its course, and my story, drastically. So no, no story is ever the full and complete truth. I don't think writing such a story is possible.

So, knowing that, I sit down at my computer--after talking to as many people as I can and doing as much research I can--with hopes of honoring the person I am writing about by getting as close to his or her current truth, as seen through my eyes, as possible. And then I write the best story I possibly can.

This week, my story on Alabama running back Mark Ingram is in the magazine, as part of our 2010 college football preview issue. (The issue with the cute model baby on the cover. And no, no one punted him.) The story went to print last Wednesday. Two days before that, on Monday afternoon, I got word that Mark's grandfather, Art Johnson (Grandpa Art to Mark), died of a heart attack over the weekend.

Grandpa Art was a huge part of Mark's life, and of his story. When Mark's dad went to prison, Grandpa Art was there. He was there for every middle and high school football and basketball practice, sitting in the stands or watching from the sidelines. He was there for every college game, and he was there, in NYC, when his grandson became the first player from the University of Alabama to win the Heisman. Grandpa Art was who Mark called when he needed advice or who he went to see when he wanted to escape from it all and when he wanted to hear a good story. Mark visited him at home in Flint, Michigan, the day before he died. He was a huge part of Mark's life. But he was only a small part of my story.

And that needed to change.

So, on Monday night, I re-wrote my story. Mark's story changed, so mine needed to change, too. When I met Mark, I was overwhelmed by the importance family plays in his life and in protecting him from the pressures he faces on a daily basis. Family is a huge character in the stories of a lot of the guys I've written about, but with Ingram, it felt even more central. Because of that, the thread was already there. I just needed to spend more time weaving it around the loom. When I was in Tuscaloosa this summer, I asked Mark to talk about his grandfather and he did, at length, so I had great material to pull from. I also had the privilege of speaking with Grandpa Art and Grandma Barbara this summer, so I had lots of material from them, as well.

On the day the story closed, Mark's aunt Monica and mom, Shonda, returned my calls and provided me with wonderful detail and thoughts about their dad. Those calls started out tough. I was encroaching on a very personal time. But each call ended with both of us laughing at a funny story about their dad. I was so looking forward to meeting Grandpa Art at a game this year. He sure sounded like a real character and a wonderful man. I am sure it will be hard for Mark and his family to look into the stands and not see him sitting in his seat this year.

Although it's a small thing, I hope I (and my editors) was able to honor Grandpa Art, and Mark's story, by staying up a few hours, making a few tough calls and re-writing a story that is now hopefully more honest and closer to Mark Ingram's truth, this week.

The most impressive thing about climbing Mt. Whitney wasn't that I climbed Mt. Whitney. It was that, 15 minutes after arriving back at our hotel in Lone Pine, swollen and sore, I hopped on the phone and interviewed Shaun White. Then Tricia and I drove four hours home to my apartment in Santa Monica, unpacked, re-packed, went to sleep and woke up the next morning in time to be at skateboard vert practice at the Nokia Theater in downtown LA at 10 a.m.

Usually, the X Games, and the lead-up to it, is the biggest mountain I climb each summer. This summer, it was the thing I did after climbing a mountain. But man, did I have a good story when people I hadn't seen in a while asked me about my summer. "What have you been doing lately?" "Did I see on Facebook that you girls climbed Mount Whitney?" Yep! Yesterday!

This year, I was back as part of the dotcom staff, which I loved. I wrote daily features that got great front-page play on ESPN.com and previewed the next day's top story. If you want to check them out, there was a Preview Piece, a story on Shaun White's Summer Skating, a piece on what it means to Race Rally on a Shoestring Budget or Be The Only Racer in Speed & Style, and finally, an Event Wrap-Up.

LOOK CLOSELY. THAT BLUR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PHOTO IS NATE ADAMS, MID-FLIP ...

After the X Games, I headed to Huntington Beach to be part of a panel at the annual Group Y Action Sports Conference. My panel included Brian Johnston, the marketing director for the UFC (formerly of Burton snowboards), and Tim McFerran, president of the Maloof Money Cup. Our topic: action sports vs. mainstream sports. It's a subject folks ask me about a lot, since few people spend as much time straddling both worlds as I do, and it's a topic I like talking about. I think I have an interesting perspective.

Last weekend, while I was in Cleveland for my cousin Lauren's high school graduation, my parents, sister and cousin Donny went to an auction. I was back at my cousin Jen and her husband Chris's house (parents of Lauren, You might remember them from the Fan Issue) listening to LeBron jokes. My favorite: "Did you hear LeBron's teaming up with Charlie Daniels?" my Uncle Lee, a die-hard Cavs (and Browns) fan, asked me. I told him that, no, I had not heard this. "Yeah, he's going to play second-fiddle for him, too," he said. If I were LeBron, I'd steer clear of the general Cleveland area for quite some time, and specifically the Roenigk and May homes in Hudson. The wound is still open.

Anyway, at the auction, my cousin bid on, and won, a copy of the first issue of Sports Illustrated, from 1954. It was fun to look through the pages and see what a different magazine it was back then. But what was even cooler was to see how different the sports landscape was back then. Today, when we talk about how sports is changing and try and predict what sports will be popular in the next few decades, I see a shift away from team sports and toward a lot of the sports I cover. No, I don't believe snowboarding will boast the kind of ratings football or NASCAR brings. But I believe the participation numbers for sports like skateboarding, surfing and snowboarding will encroach on Little League, Pop Warner and soccer. And I believe that, 10 years from now, we will watch shows like SportsCenter and see highlights from the X Games and the U.S. Open of Surf in the same segment as clips from NFL training camps and a double-header at Yankee Stadium. I don't think the sports world will become homogenized, nor do I think showing skateboarding on SportsCenter will detract from what makes action sports (or extreme sports or adventure sports) attractive to the kind of creative, free-thinking, open-minded, me-first kids they now attract. I just think, at their roots, sports are sports and people are becoming more and more well-rounded in the sports they play and the sports they are interested in knowing about. And that will only continue.

But that opinion is always a tough sell, even though much of it is based in statistics and fact. It's hard for people to break away from thinking that the most popular sports today have always been the most popular sports and will continue to stay that way.

That's why this issue of SI was so cool. In it was a story called "The Golden Age is Now." The subhed said this: "For world-wide interest, for widespread participation, for shattered records, for thrilling triumphs of the human spirit, this is the greatest sports era in history." Then, on the fourth page of the story, was a photo chart detailing the leading spectator and participatory sports of that year. (See below.) Sure, 56 years sounds like a long time. But is it? If the sports world can change this much in half a century, just think what it will be like 20 or 30 years down the road. Who knows? Maybe, one day, the X Games will be as big as softball was in 1954.

This summer has been a climb.

At its start, I had big plans to stay at home in Storybookland as much as possible. I was going to soak in summer and get to know this city that still feels brand new to me. Somehow, as tends to happen, my plan fell apart, my planner began filling up with reporting trips and adventures, and the next thing I knew, it was August. In between, I had one of the most fun and exciting summers of recent memory. I just didn't spend much of it at home. Or at sea level.

My climb up Mt. Summer began with the Memorial Day weekend trip I wrote about back in May. And while it might be some time before I take another trip of that caliber, it was on that trip that I fell in love with backpacking and hiking and camping. So, this summer, whenever I had the opportunity, I hiked. I hiked in Jackson Hole. And in Aspen. And in LA. I hiked when I was supposed to be sitting at my computer, stressing over a deadline, and when I should have been scheduling interviews or waiting for athletes not to call me at a scheduled time. When I was on the road and needed a running path, I chose trails over pavement and the woods over the streets. All of this made the long days at my desk, the endless stream of flights and the fish-out-of-water moments easier to inhale.

And then there was Mt. Whitney. On Wednesday, July 28, I hiked to the highest point in the Continental United States (or, the Lower 49, as I like to call them) with Lindsay, her brother Larry, Tricia (aka @tbyrnes) and John, who Lindsay and Larry met while climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. John was our guide.

As usual, I did little research before agreeing to take on this climb. Lindsay: "We're climbing Mt. Whitney on the 28th." Me: "Okay. Yay!" Then I did some reading. Supposedly, the hike was going to take 13 hours, if we chose to do it in one day (most do it in two or three) and covered 22 miles. Supposedly, we were going to have to wake up around 2:30 in the morning to be at the trail head by 4 am, our start time. Supposedly, the five-hour descent was going to be even more painful and intolerable than the seven-hour climb.

Clearly the five websites I read, as well as John, who had climbed Mt. Whitney nine times, were wrong. None of that information could be right. There was no wrapping my head around 13 hours of hiking. There was no wrapping my head around 13 hours of anything. "Seriously, can you think of anything you've done for 13 hours?" Lindsay kept asking. None of us could come up with anything. I'm not sure I've ever even slept that long. We were giving it 10 hours and calling it a day.

THE START OF OUR ADVENTURE ...

The first two hours, we hiked in a daze. None of us slept much the evening before, and some of us had been not sleeping much for days. It was dark, our minds were mush and our steps were slow. The only light on the mountain came from our tiny headlamps and from those worn by the few folks who'd beaten us to the trail and were flickering up ahead.

Around 6, the sun began to rise and light our way. We spent the next couple of hours in awe of everything around us. We snapped photos and talked and ooo'd and ahhh'd every time we encountered a new lake or waterfall or view. Still, it was hard not to wonder what the hell we were doing. We were walking, for hours, up the side of a very steep and very tall mountain. Why? At an hour when the rest of the world, or so it seemed, was fast asleep. Clearly, we had lost our minds. (Actually, that didn't happen for about 8 more hours.)

LEFT FOOT, RIGHT FOOT, LEFT FOOT, RIGHT FOOT ...

Four hours in, we arrived at base camp. This is where the sane folks set up camp, hang with their family or friends and enjoy the day before hiking to the summit the next day. We kept on walking. And found our first real challenge: the switchbacks. Ninety-nine of them. Up and around, around and up, up and up and around and back and up. An hour and a half of mind-numbing, silent stepping. This was the first time I felt real pain and noticed the altitude taking hold of my lungs and my brain and my legs. I counted to 100 and stopped. I counted to 50 and stopped. I walked until my legs screamed and stopped. Every break, even for a few seconds, was a gift. Finally, we made it to the top of this section and stopped for a break. (I must add that we arrived in this order: Tricia "Mountain Goat" Byrnes ... Alyssa and Lindsay ... Larry ... John. That was pretty much our day. The boys chasing the girls and Linz and me (and everyone on the mountain) chasing Tricia the Unfazed.)

We ate lunch. It was 10. Then we started around the backside of the mountain. I now know we were an hour and a half from the summit. At the start, we went down, down, down. We knew that was not good. That descent would come back to attack us, later, after we'd already stood at the top of the mountain and were too tired to climb another step. This section was sketchy. The path was rocky and uncovered and steep. Once, when we were about an hour from the top, a couple on their way back down told Lindz and me we were, "Almost there. Thirty more minutes." After 30 minutes, another couple told us the summit was another 30 minutes away. They didn't mean to, but they broke our spirits. We thought we were there. That last half hour felt like a decade. We couldn't talk. Or smile. Or believe we were still walking.

SPOILER ALERT: WE MADE IT!

Then we saw the little shack at the top of the world. And Tricia stading next to it. We'd made it. We'd "summitted." When people asked us, on our way back down, "Did you summit?", we could say, "Yes! All five of us!"

It was cold at the 14,497-foot summit, so we didn't stay long. We took in the view. We rested. We drank water. We signed the guest book, took a few photos and headed to the car. "Get us the hell off this mountain," was all we could think.

We earned this downhill.

Ha! The hilarity in that statement. "You've gotta earn the downhill," John kept saying on the way up. "It's all downhill from here," people like to say. Screw that. I would have hiked up another 10,000 feet if it meant not descending that hill. Every hour of the downhill hurt. There were moments I believed my patella tendons would grow mouths so they could literally scream in pain. My left foot was covered in blisters and my head hurt so badly I thought I was going to puke. Every step down made my brain shake inside my skull and my knees feel as if they might explode. There were rocks in my shoes. And splinters in my arm. And blood running down my right leg from a misstep in snow.

There was no way this could take 13 hours. But it did. Almost to the minute. I guess John was right. He has done this 10 times.

For the record, the rest of us are stopping at once.

There are few places I love more than mountain towns in the summer. They’re so quiet and peaceful; I often think if there is a heaven, it’s possibly located somewhere in the Grand Tetons or the Wasatch Valley. This summer, I’ve had the opportunity to spend time in three of my favorite winter spots—Mammoth, Jackson Hole and Aspen—under the cover of warm sunshine and surrounded by lush greenery.

My Jackson Hole weekend was a second reporting trip for my story on big-mountain snowboarder Jeremy Jones. I spent two days watching video shot during his two years of filming for Deeper, as well viewing a rough-cut of the film, at the Teton Gravity Research HQ at the base of the mountain. I left inspired, ready to write and sad to leave such a beautiful town. Fortunately, I got one good morning run in before I left.

THE VIEW ON MY MORNING RUN. PRETTY ...

This past weekend, I flew to Aspen for the first-annual Yoga Rocks the Mountains retreat at the Viceroy Snowmass, where I stayed for the weekend. (Man, there is just so much right with that sentence.) Because I plan to make this retreat an annual event on my personal calendar, I will now use this blog to convince you all why you must join me next year! Consider it an experiment in writing reviews.

First of all, the Viceroy is stunning. Built only three years ago, it anchors the base of Snowmass Village, which has undergone an incredible, and incredibly fast, renovation. The Viceroy is the calling card of the new village and is at once a monstrous mountain lodge, all wood panels and antler chandeliers, and a luxurious, indulgent sanctuary. Friday night, I met friends at Eight K, the hotel restaurant, for dinner. (Eight K signifies 8,000 feet, the altitude the hotel resides at.) Everything was memorable (I had the sea bass and a Moscow Mule cocktail) and the dessert, more than anything, lived up to the hype. The goat cheese cheesecake with blueberry fritters was unlike anything I’ve tasted. And the strawberry rhubarb pie with homemade ginger ice cream was less unique, but equally wonderful. I’m still talking about it, aren’t I?

Saturday and Sunday was the yoga retreat, and I went yoga crazy. I took three classes on Saturday, beginning with a relaxing Vinyasa flow. In the early afternoon, I experienced Yoga For Cyclists with Aspen instructor Aaron King, who owns King Yoga and recently spent three weeks working with Lance Armstrong. Loved that class. I ended the day with Yoga For Foodies, which was taught by my friend David Romanelli, an author and yogi who owns several studios in Arizona. He also runs a series of retreats around the country blending yoga, wine and chocolate. (I’ve been to his Napa retreat, which was fantastic fun.) Yes, I agree. He’s a genius. Nothing gets you through an hour and a half of yoga better than knowing there is food and wine waiting for you on the other side. I really wanted to take the Yoga For Runners class, but my bum hamstring just wouldn’t allow me a fourth class, so I opted to ice and sit by the pool for an hour instead.

Sunday, I took two classes: an outside class with Peter Avolio in the morning and an indoor class with his wife, Lisa, in the afternoon. The couple owns two studios in Seattle, called SHAKTI, and if I am ever in town, I will certainly look them up. I loved Lisa’s class. She has her own take on the Vinyasa style, blending multi-directional movement (there is no front of the room) and short, movement-infused holds. She also loves arm balances, hand stands and advanced leg balances, and so do I. It was a perfect fit.

Not as perfect as the Viceroy spa, though. I’d like to think I’ve been to enough spas to comment expertly on what makes one great. In my opinion, it’s a blend of atmosphere, staff, amenities, extra touches and quality of service. This spa gets an A+ in every category. I’ve had a lot of massages in my life, but the hot stone massage from Roxy was perhaps the best massage I’ve ever had. No kidding. Deep-tissue massages are my style, but I usually spend the hour gritting my teeth and trying not to cry, knowing it’s good for me. Relaxing messages are nice, but the effect lasts only as long as the massage. Somehow, this was a super-deep massage that was also intensely relaxing. I will dream about it for weeks.

To counteract the effects of the altitude, I also had an oxygen facial, which was wonderful. Elizabeth, the esthetician, taught me a lot about my skin and how to care for it now that I spend a considerable amount of time at altitude and, more importantly, “I’m not 16 anymore.” Afterward, I had a glass of complimentary Sauvignon Blanc, a cup of fruit-infused water, some dried fruit and nearly fell asleep in the Relaxation Room.

The next morning, I took Aaron’s class again, and then went on a hike up the Difficult Trail with my friends Tricia and Joanna, who live in Aspen. Then we drove to the Punch Bowl and jumped off a 35-foot cliff into the coldest water that has ever touched my body. It took my breath away, it was so cold. But, like most things in life, the jump was so worth it.

JOANNA AND ME, PRE-JUMP ...

This was one heck of a busy week. For starters, it was ESPYs week, which meant parties every night, tons of athletes, sports folks and co-workers in town from around the country, and little time for resting or sleeping between events. (Or actually getting any work done.) The show Wednesday night was my favorite yet. Seth Meyers put last year's host, Samuel L. "I freeze when the teleprompter fritzes" Jackson to shame. And I loved that ESPN allowed Meyers and the show writers to have fun at the network's expense, mocking The Decision throughout the night.

My favorite Tiger joke of the opening monologue: "Everyone, give it up for Tiger Woods! If you haven't already." LeBron took a lot of heat (and was booed every time his image was showed on the big screen during nominations), and the Steve Carrell-Paul Rudd skit mocking The Decision was great. I also loved the extra-long hold on Reggie Bush's face after this opening joke: "Welcome to the ESPYs, where celebrity meets sports. Sort of like a Kardashian's bedroom."

After the show, the after parties at Club Nokia and the Congo Room were a lot of fun, as were the after-after party and the after-after- ... Let's just say it was a fun, memorable night and I'm already looking forward to next year.

But it's Tuesday that put my usually other-worldly energy level to the test. I woke up at 5 a.m. to get ready and drive to Anaheim to report a print and video story for ESPNW and RISE Girls. Shortly before 8, I arrived at the Gatorade Performance Lab, where I met beach volleyball icon Kerri Walsh and a team of scientists. Walsh was in Anaheim to undergo a series of tests to determine her fitness level and how she most efficiently burns energy. Walsh is only eight weeks out from giving birth to her second son, Sundance, and already has a body any woman would envy. She's in fantastic shape and is already working out six days a week with her focus on winning a third gold in London. And besides being an impressive athlete, she is just the sweetest, nicest, most humble person and it was a lot of fun to spend the morning with her.

I MEAN, IT'S LIKE WE WERE SEPARATED AT BIRTH ...

Oh, and did I forget to mention that, just for fun (and video), I was in Anaheim to take the tests right alongside her?

Fortunately, the tests weren't all that difficult, physically. What they were was tough to do on camera. Talk about checking your ego at the door. "First, let's measure your height," Melissa the scientist said. Okay, that's not so bad. "Now, let's weigh you." Ugh! "Now, strip down to your sports bra and workout pants and sit in the Bod Pod (below), where we will measure your body composition to determine your body fat percentage." Double Ugh! Maybe the camera guy left the lens on. Fingers crossed.

CAN YOU BELIEVE DWIGHT HOWARD (AND HIS SHOULDERS) FIT IN THIS THING?

Next, Kerri and I were strapped into headgear and a plastic tube was placed in our mouths to collect the air we exhaled. Clips were placed on our noses to force us to breathe out of our mouths while we exercised, which took some getting used to. I was taught to breathe in and out of my nose, so that was a tough habit to break on the spot. The tube made it difficult to swallow, so my throat was very dry. "Here's a towel to catch your spit," Melissa said. You're going to drool a lot." Awesome.

HEY CAMERA GUYS, I THINK IT'S TIME FOR OUR CLOSEUPS!

Kerri and I spent a half hour on the bike, working from a difficulty level of 2 up to 8. The test showed that after only five minutes, and at a moderate exertion level, we were already burning carbohydrates and not fat. Meaning we needed to be ingesting carbs in order to fuel our workout, not just drinking water. Pretty cool, eye-opening stuff. We also took a post-workout cognitive test and were weighed again to see if we'd lost weight during the workout (the goal is to weigh the same). You can read more about the testing in the back-to-school issue of RISE Girls (I know you all subscribe!) and check out a video of our morning on the ESPNW website when it launches this fall.

After the tests, I drove back to Santa Monica, quickly changed and headed back to Anaheim (seriously) with my editor Sue for the MLB all-star game. Highlight: Seeing Hank Aaron walking through security. The game was pretty cool, too.

THE NL ENDED A 17-YEAR DROUGHT. WHO SAYS IT NEVER RAINS IN CALIFORNIA?

The game ended around 9:30 and after a lot of walking, waiting in traffic and driving, we arrived back in Los Angeles for our pre-ESPYs shindig at Boulevard 3 in Hollywood around midnight. Clearly I was wearing my rally cap. The location was great and the party was fun. I saw a lot of folks I don't get to see too often, chatted with Saints coach Sean Payton and his wife Beth for a while (love them!) and somehow managed to stay awake until the party ended at 3. I arrived home shortly before 4 and was asleep 23 hours after waking up that morning. All-in-all, not a bad day. And, I would learn the next day, good prep for ESPYs night.

STACEY, SUE AND ME ... FINALLY HEADING HOME.

This weekend, besides celebrating the 4th of July in Vegas with two of my favorite people--Jenni and Lindsay--I saw my first UFC heavyweight fight at the MGM Grand. Like many folks, I've been fascinated by the makeover Dana White gave to this sport. Somehow, a brutal fighting league has become family entertainment. He turned a violent, unorganized sport with few to no rules into the high-brow hybrid sport of Mixed Martial Arts. And he did it by selling characters, story lines and drama. UFC hearkens back to the WWF days of Big John Studd, The Killer Bees and Hulk Hogan. Except this is very, very real. Which makes the fighting tougher (for me) to watch. And made me more than apprehensive about attending the fight. I've been to smaller MMA fights, which rarely last more than a three-minute round-and-a-half, and I am a huge boxing fan. But I was still wary of watching UFC brutality for three five-minute rounds.

That said, seeing the event firsthand, I understood what all the fuss is about. The events are entertaining as hell. They're loud, colorful, fun and full of personality. I'm still not sure I liked seeing so many kids in the audience, and I had a hard time watching guys take bare-fisted punches to the head, knowing what the impact of those blows was doing to their gray matter. But if you accept that these are grown men who have taken responsibility for the repercussions of their sport, then there's a whole lot of upside to the ugly. And a wealth of stories to tell.

(Stay tuned for Lindsay's story on Brock Lesnar, who made a comeback Saturday night and won the heavyweight belt.)

CLOSE ENOUGH FOR A GREAT VIEW OF THE ACTION; FAR ENOUGH AWAY TO AVOID THE BLOOD-SPLATTER ...