Freezing fog

Date: Feb. 5
Mileage: 25.2
February mileage: 121.6
Temperature upon departure: 34

When I left my office tonight, the landscape was enveloped in vision-obscuring fog. Halfway-frozen droplets drifted sluggishly through the thick air. Where they collided with solid objects, shields of white frost were beginning to form. Fatally silent as fog tends to be, the scrape of my footsteps on the gravel was by contrast deafening. So I stopped to listen, for a moment, to nothing at all. The churn of a newspaper press echoed somewhere distant - by the sound of it, distance measured in miles, at least. The drifting droplets began to collide with my body. Their icy grip tightened around my skin, and I could feel frost shields forming around me.

I thought of Dave and Doug, of several dozen other cyclists out on the Arrowhead 135 trail, noses wrapped in a shield of neoprene and dangling closer, closer to the handlebars. The headlines today screamed "ARCTIC BLAST." Not in the Arctic, just beyond my home, but somewhere distant - somewhere in northern Minnesota. Where schools and highways shut down and the feds closed up shop. Everything moves real slow when it's 40 below. It would be 2 a.m. there. Were the cyclists, too, stopped in the midst of endless ice fog, struggling with the disconnect of intense physical effort and minds they had to shut down a long time ago. Were they, too, listening, for a moment, to nothing at all? Waiting, for a moment, for nothing at all? Wondering where the wilderness trail ends, or if it even began?

I thought of Geoff, still gripped by injury and the crushing disappointment of two months of effort for naught. We set these goals in our search for purpose until they become our purpose; we embark on these journeys in our search for identity until they become our identity. To take away my bike would be the first step on a slippery slope that in the end could strip me of who I am. I would be unmolded, undefined, drifting. If Geoff is stripped of his ability to run, who is he? Even in temporary setbacks, life has a way of moving on.

I could almost feel the ice crystals shattering as I began to walk again, with an unfocused gaze drifting toward a faint stream of orange light. I imagined it was just a street light or possibly a house. But as the light crept through the opaque night, it cast a blurry path of impossible warmth and comfortable direction. I felt like I could follow and it would take me where I wanted to go, if only I could remember where I wanted to go.

I drift, for a moment, but eventually the fog has to lift.

Problems from the feet up

Date: Feb. 4
Mileage: 25.8
February mileage: 96.4
Temperature upon departure: 36

This entire time I have been training for the Susitna 100, my boyfriend, Geoff, has been working toward the same race. We haven't seen each other much in the process because while my training involves a couple of hours of cycling every morning, Geoff has been in high-intensity training to run the race. With no mechanical help. For 100 snowbound miles.

Even though neither of us really committed to the race until mid-December, training was going well. He ran 50 miles last week in less than 10 hours and felt great about it. So great, in fact, that he did a couple of 20-mile runs in a row just a few days later. The first day, he came home looking strong and refreshed. The second day, he came home hobbling on a foot that had swollen considerably. He could barely walk.

The next day, it wasn't any better.

He’s fairly certain it’s a stress fracture.

And today, I watched as grim possibilities started to settle in. He doesn't have health insurance, which means a 'real' diagnosis could set him back several hundred dollars, and probably wouldn't achieve much. What he does know is he's in pain, all of the dozens of Web sites he’s surfed tell him he probably has a broken bone, and he has a 100-mile race to run. In two weeks.

Or not. That, to him, is the grimmest possibility of all. He's poured his heart into this race - arguably more than I have, even with my narcissistic blog and scores of saddle hours. He put a lot more money that he doesn't have into this race. He's stayed up late at night hand-sewing a harness for his sled. He's purchased giant jars of Perpetuem and Hammer Gel and actually made himself choke them down. He goes out running in the dark. He even inspired me to buy a pair of Montrail Susitnas (yes, I did recently purchase a pair of winter running shoes. I’m still trying to figure out why.)

Realizing that he might not be out there pounding that dark trail with me is more heartbreaking than I would have imagined. It makes me want to quit, too. Or lace up my Montrails and run it myself.

In just a few hours, that "other" two-day winter ultramarathon will begin - the Arrowhead 135. I’m rooting for a couple of bicycle bloggers I know, Doug from Minnesota and Dave from North Dakota. The weather report is still predicting lows around 25 below zero. Maybe as you’re going about your daily Monday routine, as I will be, you could send a few good foot vibes their way ... for Doug’s and Dave’s toes to stay warm and intact, and for Geoff’s injury to magically be not that bad.

Self portrait

Since the Bloggies linked to my site last week, I've received a couple of e-mails from people who wouldn't have normally stumbled across a bike blog like mine. A few commented that it's weird that I post pictures of myself wrapped in winter clothing until most of my identifying characteristics are masked. "Either go for anonymity, or don't" one (ironically, unsigned) e-mail said.

One thing I have never been is anonymous. And lately I've been admiring the work of Dirt Diva, the ultrarunning goddess also known as Catra, who almost daily posts interesting self portraits on her blog inbetween the 100-mile runs she regularly completes. Since I had plans to go to the gym, and there's nothing remotely scenic there (trust me), today I took a picture of myself ... getting ready to do a hamster wheel workout at the gym. I gotta say, it's really weird to post an unmasked picture of myself on the Web. It makes me feel so ... exposed.

Anyway, it's been about three or four weeks since I last visited the gym. It's the only place I ever weigh myself, and the number is hardly ever interesting. The last time I went, the scale registered 133. Today, the little needle climbed to 125, and just stayed there. I waited for a while. Nothing. I was feeling a little dehydrated, but not eight pounds dehydrated. Which means ... I've probably lost some weight.

But what really struck me is my initial reaction. I wasn't worried about muscle mass loss or water needs or nullifying all of my hard training through some kind of nutrient deficiency. No ... I was excited. Giddy. And then I was disappointed in myself for feeling that way. Disappointed that I was ego-tripping about a meaningless number when what I really want is strength and endurance, and disappointed that I'm letting society tell me what I need to do to feel good about myself. And as far as I can tell, society is still telling me to go visit a tanning salon already and try to stay away from the Fruit Loops.

Not that I'm going to try to gain it all back before my race. After all, that could very well be eight pounds less I'll have to haul across the frozen trails of the Susitna Valley. But it was a little dose of self-revelation, because I have worked hard to put all of those insecurities behind me. But really, I haven't.