High on my own supply

This feeling always trickles in around the beginning of the month. My mood begins to brighten. I read the morning news, and while it still bums me out, I don't feel utterly hopeless about the state of affairs. I scroll through horrors on my Twitter feed and think, "good can still come of this." The chronic rash on my shins and feet starts to clear. I check my blood pressure; it's down again, along with my resting heart rate. My gym visits are encouraging; I'm finally back to increasing my weights again after a little slump. Then the effortless personal records start accompanying my runs and rides — best Fern Canyon amid a long run; fastest-yet 68J climb on a fat bike. And I wonder, "why are things going so well? Oh yes, it's August."

Around here, August is generally not a great month for training. It's hot. It's dusty. The dirt roads and trails have been drying out since spring, and are now coated in wheel-sucking sand and loose gravel. Wildfire smoke fills the air every morning, leaving a haze over the horizon and an acrid sting in our lungs. The weather service regularly issues air quality warnings. The UV index is extreme. Historically August has been my least favorite time of the year. Even as a child. August is my birth month, so I feel rationalized in disliking it — the sun is hot, the air is noxious, and I've been languishing in summer doldrums for too long. 

Until recently, that is. Last August was a giddy, high-energy time for me, and this month is shaping up similarly. How do I make sense of it? It was about this time last year that began to notice this pattern — a rollercoaster of both mood and fitness that seems to top out every four months or so, and hit bottom at similar intervals. I started to dread late February, June and October. I looked for biological justifications, and found few answers, so I have to conclude it's self-fulfilling psychology. And yet, how can such wild fluctuations not be anchored in some type of hormone cycle? Today I revisited the thyroid forum I used to frequent (I was a lurker, as you can see by my post count) and found a somewhat useful thread titled, "Can my thyroid fluctuate?" I left this reply:

After posting this question, I wondered: Am I in effortlessly amazing (for me) shape right now? Could I just decide to go out and set a PR, and do it? I realize there's a lot of positive reinforcement in just trying, but this exact moment may not be one of my best. Last week was a 180-mile week (21 miles running, 159 miles cycling) with 25,000 feet of climbing. A fairly big week for me, and just yesterday I pedaled 7,000 feet up a 14'er and got a bit altitude sick in the process. My legs are tired. And I have to ride into town later today. Still ... what if? 

So at 10 a.m., I stepped outside to test the air quality ... deep breath ... not terrible ... and launched my mountain bike down the road. The Homestead Trail is always a solid effort for me — I'm not constantly trying to complete every ride or run as fast as I can, but when I hit the Homestead Trail, I am. This trail plays to my strengths, and it's close to home, so it makes for a great "tempo ride." The segment itself is a two-mile-long doubletrack climb that gains 800 feet in steep bursts. Springtime is PR season in Boulder — the dirt is still hero and the days are generally cool. By August the Homestead Trail is a sand pit, and the steeper climbs are littered with loose rubble. But I already snagged a PR here on Monday. Perhaps I could do it again. 

I cued up some Panic! at the Disco on my iPod an clicked the shifter a couple of notches above my usual granny gear. The power climbs flooded my legs with lactic acid, but I was amazed how much oxygen filled my lungs. Mash, mash, breathe, breathe. Last August I took my PR down to 21 minutes, and was proud of that number. I didn't see anything lower until early May, the last time I had a decent fitness surge. On Monday I nearly broke 20 minutes. Could I break that? A patch of sand caught my rear wheel. I spun furiously to get out of it. Mash, mash, breathe, breathe.

The final pitch is the worst of them all, and it almost broke me. My wheel spun in the sand and I dug deep for the power to climb out. In doing so, I felt of wave of nausea and nearly threw a foot down. How long has it been since I rode so hard I almost vomited? It's been a long, long time. Usually I can't take in enough oxygen to go hard. I composed myself as well as I could and soft-pedaled the rest of the way to the top, still feeling nervous about losing my breakfast. 

The final result: New PR! My three fastest times on this segment happened this week.

And most surprising of all: I snagged the fastest time on Strava. A real QOM! Homestead is a lower-level, less frequented segment among Boulder cyclists, but it's not nothing. I couldn't believe I (barely) surpassed Poot Sook's fastest time. I do not know her, but admit to Strava stalking her a bit when I figured out she lived nearby and rode many of my regular haunts. She is much faster than me. 

So I set out to try it and I did it! I will admit to taking much ego-boosting satisfaction from this little Thursday morning jaunt. 

 It's been a great week all around. On Sunday Beat and I headed out for what will likely be our last James Peak visit this year. I looked into a few different options for a mountain excursion, but Beat's big races in the European Alps are coming up soon, and we both wanted something predictable, with fewer opportunities for injury. Plus, the 21-miler with a loop around Rogers and Rollins passes is just endlessly amazing.

This time, I almost kept up with Beat (okay, he was taking it easy and waited for me at times, but still.) I hoofed my way to the top in 2 hours 33 minutes, and was stoked about that. At altitude my climbs are generally 100 percent hiking — I just don't feel a strong desire to spend limited oxygen intake on shuffling — and still snagged 10th woman on Strava.

 Between Roger's drop bags from Hardrock and Beat's from the Ouray 100, we have enough snacky junk foods in our pantry to last until 2019. For my summit treat I grabbed one of Roger's leftover Snicker Bars and didn't realize it said "Meh" until the peak. Yeah, this is pretty meh.

 The last time we visited James Peak, three weeks earlier, the tundra was still bright green and dotted with wildflowers. On Sunday, patches of crimson and yellow signaled autumn's swift approach. I'm starting to see golden leaves on cottonwood trees in my neighborhood. These signs of autumn always boost my mood, even when it's still 90 degrees outside.

 Between the peak and Rollins Pass are seven gorgeous miles where one can trace the actual spine of the Continental Divide. I love this section for its beauty and views, but find it mentally exhausting. The tundra walk is a patchwork of rocks and tussocks, with uneven footing for the duration. Paying attention to where I'm putting my feet is somehow extremely difficult for me, and I'm trying so hard not to roll my ankle. I've improved on this technique somewhat over the summer, but I still have a long way to go before I am even a proficient technical walker, let alone runner.  My right Achilles also has nagging pains, so I'm trying to limit my running and steep uphill hiking as well ... one 21-mile mountain outing a week is probably okay.

 It was an extremely hot day at 12,000-13,000 feet. Beat and I were begging for the appearance of an afternoon cloud, and there were none. Between the high-altitude UV rays and unbelievably windless conditions on the Divide, if you asked me to guess the temperature, I would have put it around 100 degrees. In reality it was closer to 75, but the "feels like" was intense. I couldn't take in enough water, and my head was pounding. But overall I felt great. I wish my Achilles would let me climb all of the mountains ... but I am trying to keep this from becoming full-blown tendonitis.

After two summers of failing to make time for this classic road ride, on Wednesday I finally rode a bike up Mount Evans. This 14'er has a paved road leading all the way to the top — it's bumpy, cracked and frost-heaved pavement, and narrow with tight hairpins. But it's well-graded and endlessly gorgeous. I'm surprised there aren't hoards of cyclists riding up this road every day of the summer, even though I purposely went mid-week to minimize exposure to car traffic (which wasn't bad, despite perfect weather — less hot than Sunday, with a surprisingly cold but not overly strong wind above treeline, and most importantly, no thunderstorms.)

 Steady, minimally technical climbing on a bicycle is my absolute favorite form of motion. We all have our quirks, and this is mine — I love all of the tedious bits and tolerate anything that requires skill or adrenaline. For this ride I started in Idaho Springs, just off the Interstate exit at 7,000 feet elevation, and pedaled up 7,000 more feet without a break. The road snaked up a narrow canyon, rising out of the pine forest into patches of scrubby spruce, and finally wide-open tundra. I slipped into a meditative rhythm, breathing steadily, oscillating between concentration on the sweeping surroundings, and happy recollections of the past.

The only thing that broke my revery was an occasional iPod moment — my favorite being a song I haven't heard in at least 20 years, "Mary Jane" by Alanis Morrisette (yes, I recently downloaded Jagged Little Pill for five dollars.) This song was on a mix tape that we listened to en route to my first-even snowboarding experience, of which I remember the date — Park City Mountain Resort, October 28, 1996. Wonderful and embarrassing memories of that day 22 years ago filled my heart, and I just had to belt them out, despite wasting a lot of oxygen to sing at the top of my lungs while climbing on a bicycle above 12,000 feet:

It's a loooooong waaaaay dooooown,
On this rolllllllercoaster.

 If there is such a thing as heaven, this will be mine. (And if there is such a thing as Jill Hell, it will involve terrifying whitewater and an eternity of fiddling with buttons on a duvet.)

I felt great as I snaked my way to 14,130 feet and pulled my bike up to the overlook beside the observatory. It wasn't until I hiked the final 150 feet up to the true summit that a wave of nausea overtook me, so intense that I had to lay down on a nearby boulder. And older woman in sandals walked past as I languished there, about 20 feet below the top. "I'm about ready for a break, too," she said.

 I ate a snack and walked around the observatory for a bit, but at that point I was really not feeling good — dizzy, foggy-headed, and still nauseated. I figured it had to be the altitude, and going down would help me feel better. But I was nervous about starting the descent in such a condition. I chose Beat's gravel bike for the ride because it had a beefier set of tires and disc brakes, but it still felt too squirrelly for the initial switchbacks. For all of these reasons, I had to take four or five resting breaks just to manage the 7,000-foot descent, when I needed none for the climb. At least there was incredible scenery and wildlife to make the breaks all the more worthwhile. Look, baby goat! Awwww.

And Summit Lake, adorned with autumn tundra. Ahhhhh. Whether the cause is biological or psychological or a futile attempt to make sense of a chaotic existence, I am going to ride this high for all it's worth. Yay, August.