Searching for inspiration

I've always been a person who races to train, not the other way around. The impetus for my first race — which was the 2006 Susitna 100 on a mountain bike — was the realization that Alaska winters would turn me into a marshmallow if I didn't do something. Past attempts to engage in a regular exercise routine like a normal adult didn't really take — in fact, after a bad personal spell in the summer of 2005, I was already a marshmallow by the time I moved to Alaska that September. If I wanted to improve my fitness, I needed a project.

"If I were to just head out at 10 p.m. and ride laps around the Homestead Trail in a blizzard, you'd think I was a total nut," I explained to a co-worker at the time. "But since I'm training just to survive this crazy 100-mile race across frozen wilderness, it's completely reasonable."

"No, you're still a nut," Sean replied.

My inner nut continues to crave that daily dose of adventure. With a few exceptions, ever since those fateful night rides in 2005, I haven't been without a project to generate excuses for "training." Like any addict, I swore I didn't need endurance races. I wanted them — for the way they gave shape to my endeavors, expanded my perspective, pushed me beyond comfortable perimeters, introduced me to places I'd otherwise never see and people I'd otherwise never meet, and materialized into intense and life-affirming experiences that would have never happened if all of the ideas were mine alone. Races were fantastic for these reasons and more, but they weren't the end-all. I'd still endeavor to be outside, in any way I could, even with an empty calendar.

With the health difficulties I've had in recent years, it seemed prudent to empty my race calendar and try just living my outdoor life, unburdened by fitness obligations and the stress of daunting adventures in my future. I actually thought I'd get more writing done, keep better pace on housework, renew my drawing hobby, maybe even engage in more social outings that didn't require athletic clothing. But decade-plus-long habits don't die easily. After my muscles recovered from the ITI 350/White Mountains 100 leg-shredder, I was quick to slip back into old patterns. A day is just better when I spend six hours on a bike rather than six more hours staring at a computer screen. And when I thumb through all of the nonsense I've written, I also have to concede that even aimless miles are less of a waste of time. (Although how do we even qualify "time well spent" or "productivity" outside actual life-sustaining activities? A philosophical argument to mull in future nonsense writing projects.)

Then the dog days of summer arrived to test my dedication to unaffiliated adventure. Breathing air filled with smoke from near and distant wildfires, raising a Buff over my mouth to protect my lungs, wearing too much clothing and eye-stinging sunscreen to block harsh high-altitude UV rays, scorching patches of skin anyway, withering in the heat, drenched in back-chafing sweat, slapping at biting flies and mosquitoes. Maybe I don't love the outdoors. Excuses started to form. Excuses not to train. Excuses to sleep in on Sunday rather than venture into the mountains. These excuses scared me.

Brainard Lake and my old pal Sworxy

Not that I'm becoming a marshmallow just yet. It's more of a state of mind — lacking purpose, my brain becomes annoyingly wistful. On Monday, I had to drive into town early for renewed allergy testing. After nearly two years of allergy shots (biweekly injections of noxious substances that cause painful arm swelling and make me feel blah for the rest of the day), I hoped for a positive outcome. The result: All good news! I'm not allergic to pine pollen, as I'd assumed. My reactions to grass are half what they were in 2016, now just "bad" as opposed to "hypersensitive, a few notches below anaphylactic shock." And they actually cured my allergic reaction to cats. I can adopt a kitty again! If only we didn't travel for such long periods away from home.

Anyway, this trip to town was a great excuse to take my neglected road bike for classic ride from Boulder to Brainard Lake. My back was on fire from being poked with dozens of allergens, but beyond that, I felt pretty good. My mood and general fitness seems to be on an upswing right now, and everything tends to come more easily on this side of the rollercoaster. I headed up Lee Hill and Old Stage Road to Lefthand Canyon. After a sporty little descent on rough pavement, nothing lay in front of me but a solid 5,000-foot climb — relentless and leg-crushing.

Among 2,000-plus women road bikers on Strava in Boulder, Colorado, I fall on the slow end of the spectrum, and find perverse satisfaction in letting this erode my self esteem. Diffidence can be motivating, and I chided myself to keep my climbing pace above 10mph. ("Okay, we have to at least crack the top 500 for this canyon.") As the grade steeped, 6 mph was okay, then 5 was good enough. No need to kill myself. I may aspire to athletic adequacy, but I'm still a Type B personality through and through.

After 25 miles and nearly three hours of constant climbing, I congratulated my road bike. "You made it above 10,000 feet!" I said to Sworxy, forgetting that our last excursion, nearly three months ago, was above 12,000 feet on Trail Ridge Road. I parked at a bench beside the glistening alpine water, chatted with a few hikers, and nibbled on a Honey Stinger Waffle. Views were stunning and the weather was ideal — an excellent reward. I wanted to feel that fleeting sense of accomplishment, but instead I felt restless. I missed having the bigger picture just beyond view. I missed the chase.

Perhaps for that reason, when Wednesday's commute ride rolled around, I went on a bit of a chase. Forest Road 509 is the only route that climbs out of Lefthand Canyon toward the beautiful and seemingly seldom-visited forest trails surrounding Gold Lake. I've wanted to do more exploring in that area, but it's so hard to get there. Either I need to ride all the way to Ward and drop down from the Peak-to-Peak Highway, or I need to climb FR509. This jeep road washed out with the floods of 2013, and was subsequently closed. Since then, the "road" has become the domain of motorcyclists and crazy downhill mountain bikers. Going up is just silliness. There's nothing but boulders, loose rubble, and deep, slippery moto-dust that gains 1,800 feet in less than two miles. It's a stout hike-a-bike. I first ventured here last October in a less-stable emotional state and ended up crumpled on the ground, expelling literal tears. But I'm stronger now. Or so I like to think.

It's true that the climb was uneventful, mostly because I now know what to expect. Whether I'm actually stronger, is also mainly a state of mind. It still took me an hour to cover two miles (and climb 1,800 feet, which isn't much worse than my Fern Canyon ascent times, without a bike.) My forearms and shoulders ached, my clothing — a long-sleeved shirt and three-quarter-length tights because I'd inadvertently sunburned my legs on Monday — was utterly drenched in sweat, and I was a little dizzy from exertion motivated by a turn-around deadline that was closing in at a rate inversely proportional to my snail pace. Both my left ankle and right Achilles — my latest problem areas — were complaining due to the fact I was wearing awful shoes (I've been using the same pair of Montrail Mountain Masochist for biking for at least four years, and the tread is entirely gone.) But I felt stoked, because, ha, I beat you, Forest Road 509. You did not make me cry this time!

The trails at Gold Lake were as lovely as I remembered, but since it had again taken me almost four hours to reach the lake, I'd run out of time to explore. Next time, I will leave the house by 8 a.m. at the latest instead of 10:30 (to be fair, I left later than hoped because I spent time faffing around with a leaking plug in the front tire and a problem with one of the pulley wheels in the rear derailleur.) Also, next time I will wear better hiking shoes.

It is funny how inspiration happens. Where my road ride to Brainard Lake left me feeling dissatisfied and wistful, the slog to Gold Lake left me determined. What will it be? Should I just throw prudence to the North Wind and return to the Iditarod Trail this coming winter? Plan a lonely and potentially arduous bike tour around the deserts of Utah and Arizona in March? The 2019 Tour Divide? The Tor des Geants if I can get in? The details hardly matter, as long as there's something, out there on both near and unseen horizons.