Spring fever

For a week after I broke my toe, I didn't get out much. A couple of weight-lifting sessions at the gym. One bike ride on Sunday. Before the ride, I rifled through the darkest corner of my closet to find what I believe is the oldest gear I haven't yet discarded — a bulky pair of Montrail leather hiking boots that I acquired, secondhand, back in 2001. The boots have Vibram soles and a rigid toe box that effectively immobilize my forefoot, like a cast. Why do people choose to hike in such blister-prone clodhoppers? It's difficult to remember, although I saved them for a reason. As I clomped with my bike up the driveway, I felt safe. Secure. As though I could actually just walk over rugged terrain without rolling an ankle, blundering over rocks or breaking a toe. What a concept.

Thursday rolled around and I was beginning to feel out of sorts — one whole week with only one day outside, not my usual mode of operation. The day prior, my session at the gym had gone well. I'd finally surpassed 100 pounds on my 12-rep lat pulldowns, and was feeling chuffed about that. And also a little guilty. "You are wasting this good patch," I thought.

A good patch — those once-rare but becoming-more-frequent weeks when my body seems to find a healthy rhythm. My blood pressure drops. My resting heart rate also comes down. Sleep happens effortlessly. The air is suddenly full of oxygen, even at 10,000 feet, and I can breathe easy and pedal — even power — up a hill without feeling faint. The experience isn't quite like becoming superwoman, but it's close. My "old normal."

Of course, on Thursday I awoke to uninspiring conditions — 35 degrees, slush all over the roads, heavy slush still falling from the sky, and the Nextdoor Web site blowing up with panicked reports of cars off the road and school buses stuck and drivers turning around and returning home. Eek. The person I once was would have sucked it up and ridden a bike in such nastiness, but Juneau Jill is now just a figment of my past. Boulder Jill stayed home. I justified my decision with the fact that my toe is still sore, and the likelihood of having to push my bike through slush or crashing it on a slimy descent created too much risk. The power went out shortly after I escaped indoors, and for most of the day I got a lot of writing done, free of my usual distractions. Again I felt chuffed.

Then came Friday: Temperatures near 70 degrees, still a lot of snow on the ground, crystal blue skies and clear air. The most gorgeous day. After a week of rest I was bursting with energy, and coasted along almost effortlessly through a fairly stout ride (60 miles, 7,000 feet of climbing) over dirt roads that were still bogged down with peanut butter mud.

This was my favorite ride of 2018 so far — painless climbs, snowy spring scenery, and wild animals out in force (I saw cat tracks in the snow, a bald eagle, turkeys, elk, deer and a moose.) Even the descents were fun (when I ride in the winter, no matter what I wear or how many extra layers I pack, the 3,000-foot descents always hurt like hell.) I rode the Eriksen fat bike in anticipation of sloppy mud and snow-covered trails (ultimately I opted out of the trails, because a foot of unbroken slush promised lots of bike pushing.) Sadly, this was my first ride with "Erik" this year. Snow conditions were so intermittent during the winter. Fat biking opportunities were limited, and I always took advantage of snow days to snowshoe or sled-train for the ITI. Beat recently converted Erik to a 29+ with blingy new parts, and I have been making up for lost time with the beloved bicycle that once carried me all the way to Nome.

Looking toward Boulder amid the long, fun descent ... this one loses close to 4,000 feet. Descending these roads feels like being pummeled with a thousand tiny knives in the winter, but spring temperatures make room for actual enjoyment. So refreshing!

On Saturday I coaxed Beat out for a ride that's best enjoyed this time of year, when a nearby forest road is snow-free but still closed to vehicles. This ride contains one of my coveted Strava segments — those segments that Strava users frequent and start to challenge on their own merit, the way one might a 5K PR. Since I moved to Boulder, I've had to let go of Strava ambition, since my health issues and related decline in fitness correlated with entry into an unbelievably competitive population of athletes (seriously, I was able to skirt top tens on many segments in the Bay Area with its 7 million people. But not here in Boulder, no way.)

Anyway, there are of course some local segments where I value my "personal record." This segment climbs an unmaintained county road that has become severely eroded and somewhat technical. It's always a triumph when I can complete the climb without dabbing, and that rarely happens. There are a couple of power moves near the top of steep pitches that trip me up, nearly every time. Last Sunday — highly motivated by not wanting to land on my broken toe — I actually made it without dabbing and netted my fastest time. On Saturday and then again on Sunday, I faltered twice at the bottom of the hill — tripped up by brand new ruts from the snowstorm earlier in the week — and then dabbed again at two problem spots. Despite the resultant walking, I still netted another two of my top three times. Again, I was chuffed, and am recording them here on my blog, because it's so rare to be proud of an athletic accomplishment these days. ;)

My best time out of dozens came near the beginning of a six-hour ride, mashing the heavy hiking boots up to the 10,000-foot mark at Caribou ghost town. Beat used the afternoon to push through brutal hill repeats in Fern Canyon, part of his preparation for summer mountain races. I've already reached the point of pining for another race in my future, and gave some thought to an Alpine event at the end of August, while simultaneously talking myself out of signing up. Mountain foot races are something I am undeniably bad at in the best of times. I know I won't get better, because my descending/balance management has only worsened with age/experience. I'm not even capable of running at the moment, so at best I'll have three months to train. And although I feel strong right now, and cling to optimism that this good patch will stick, I'm still anticipating more lapses in my health/fitness. It seems likely that I'll again be a hormonal puddle by the end of June. And yet.

Well, at least I can enjoy strong climbs up 16-percent grades while the air is still full of oxygen. Sweat poured down my neck and back, and I had to constantly wipe sunscreen from my eyes. At the top I realized I was nearly out of water, but that's no big deal, this time of year. I cooled my knees in the snow as I scoped handfuls of slush from the most recent storm, filling my hydration bladder. Sweet, icy, back-cooling snow water. The best.

For a week that I'd deemed a rest week, this one ended on a stout note. In three days I rode 130 miles with 17,600 feet of climbing. All of those miles felt great. Even my toe didn't hurt, much. It's difficult to describe how incredible "normal" can feel, with memories of gasping and faltering on these same routes lingering in recent memories. If this relative strength continues, it will become my "new normal" and won't feel quite so amazing anymore. For now I can ride a surge of gratitude, hope, and the tiniest bit of desire to pursue something silly and reckless, once again.