Tracking Geoff

Date: June 9
Mileage: 41.1
June mileage: 288.6
Temperature: 46

I had to take a day off yesterday because I was so sore from my silly little mud run. It was a good thing because I got a lot of cleaning done - once I freed my hip flexors from their overnight seize-up enough to walk, that is. But I was still disappointed. I've reached a point where I can go for 10-hour mountain bike rides and not even feel lethargic the next day, but I can't run four measly miles. Just when I thought I was in pretty good shape ... I'm not.

This is the part where experts recommend cross-training. I think that's an excellent idea. After the mud run, I browsed the Southeast Road Runners' Web site and found a few more races I'm interested in: A late-July mountain run, a five-mile hill climb and a possible road 10K (not because I'm crazy about the idea of a road 10K; I'm just curious how long it would take me to run that far. I'm guessing 9-minute miles multiplied by six.) I am interested in joining more organized events this summer, but the bicycle club's schedules rarely work for me. The only mountain bike race is a three-day series with individual races that are discouragingly short (What do you even do in a three-mile race? Red-line until it's over?) Plus, the running crowd seems cool. Whether I actually motivate to train on my feet remains to be seen.

Meanwhile, I am spending my time virtual-stalking Geoff, who left Salt Lake on Friday for his pre-GDR bicycle tour north. Geoff has a satellite tracker. After mild panic made the family rounds during my Iditarod debacle (where, unbeknown to me, I went missing for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours), Geoff's mom bought him the SPOT receiver and threatened him with future panic if he didn't carry it along the Continental Divide. Now, all he has to do is push a button and his exact latitude and longitude point is broadcast on his very own tracking site. I have been watching him wend his way through central Idaho and imagining the spaces - the Salmon River valley, the snow-capped Sawtooth Mountains, the places I never visited enough when I lived there myself. Every time I hear from him and listen to his daily misadventures, listen to him rattle off a litany of mileage, wind and weather statistics, I'm reminded of the way bike touring can so easily descend from adventure to lifestyle to career. Geoff's in career mode right now, and he has a particularly tough job ahead of him. I really don't envy that job with the mindspace I'm in: flighty, unfocused, thinking about becoming a runner ... But I do check up on him a little more than is probably normal. Maybe it's because I really do want to be a part of the grand adventure. Or maybe because this is what our relationship has come to ... upside-down teardrop icons on a Google map.

Mud run

(Photo by Michael Penn / Juneau Empire)

Date: June 7
Mileage: 12.1
June mileage: 247.5
Temperature: 51

The mud swallowed my shoe with a deep, slimy "shlorp." I pulled against the current with my free leg, but I was stuck, actually stuck, with frigid water rushing past my shins and salty liquid that was either sweat or sea water seeping between my lips. "Wow, I'm actually going to lose my shoe," I thought, and bent forward to gain more leverage. Another loud "shlorp" finally released my shoe, coated in five inches of cement-like mud but still attached to my foot, and I bolted toward the mirage of dry land, only to find more channels, more mud. Blood dripped down my legs from a menagerie of cuts sliced by the razor-sharp tall grass. The cold salt water burned my skin until it went numb. Tourist-laden float planes buzzed overhead. They were no doubt enthralled by the string of crazy Alaskans stretched out across the channel, a strange parade of running shorts, flailing arms, splashing, plunging, mud and blood. That's how fun the Spring Tide Scramble was.

The day turned out to be absolutely gorgeous, although a little on the chilly side. I showed up decked out in full winter layers, which I slowly shed as the sun sliced between clouds before the race began. I still had my wool socks on, which the real runners found amusing. "You're going to pick up some water weight there," one said. We all knew we'd come back carrying several pounds of mud. We talked about the course, an imaginary line from the island to the airport and back. "How far is it?" I asked. "About four miles," one guy told me. "But I think the winner last year finished it in 36, 38 minutes. It's a slow four miles."

I lined up with a friend whose boyfriend was racing the seven-mile version - a loop race but with more road and less mud. (Our out-and-back race had no road and all mud.) Our only goal was to beat him back. "How long do you think it will take you?" she asked. I looked up thoughtfully. "I don't know," I said. "Whenever I ride my bike on the beach, I usually spin 4 or 5 mph. I'm hoping to hit that."

I of course had to emphasize that I never run - *never* run - in order to pre-emptively disqualify the inevitable athletic embarrassment I was facing. The only rule in the race was to make it to point B and back. How we got there didn't matter. Someone shouted go and I jogged until I found a comfortable spot behind somebody else. I passed a couple of people and some simply dropped back, but for the most part, I stayed right on at least one person's tail for almost the entire distance, letting them choose the route and the steps over a course that had no boundaries. In the meantime, I felt pretty fresh and probably could have easily passed some of my "pacers" simply by amping it up a few more notches. But I've been out there before and I know some of those channels run deep. I was going to make sure I could see the head of the person in front of me at all times.

I met Karen on the turnaround and stopped briefly to take her picture (I had to stop because I discovered earlier that all the shots I took while moving came out slanted and fuzzy. Yes, I did actually take time to edit photos in the middle of a race that I was participating in.) At that point I was three or four minutes ahead of her. "What do you mean you don't run?" she said, smiling, but with a tinge of exasperation in her voice. A little ego boost to help power back over the mudflats. Thanks, Karen.

The fatigue set in during the final channel crossing, when that last "schlorp" sucked all the energy out of my legs like a vacuum. I stumbled for a hundred yards because I could not make my legs move faster. I felt like I was moving through wet cement, or one of those dreams where you want to run but you're stuck in place. I slogged and slogged and finally reached the razor grass again, where fresh skin cuts motivated me to high-kick like I had bees in my shorts and get the %$#@ out of there. Fun, fantastic fun. I finished with a time of 45:06, which I think made me either the fifth or sixth woman across the finish line. About 12 minutes behind the overall winner. I'll take it.

Another photo taken by my co-worker Michael. A few things stood out when I saw his photos. First was, "Hmmm, my shoelace is untied." Second was "Wow, my legs are really, really, really red." Third was, "I should have tried to reel in that No. 309 rather than stop and take a bunch of photos." Fourth was, "That really was a fun race."

I think I may have to re-examine my whole "running is awful" stance.

Competitive drive in neutral

Date: June 6
Mileage: 76.2
June mileage: 235.4
Temperature: 53

I had planned to "peak" for my 24 Hours of Light training this weekend, so it seemed prudent to do a longish ride today. I actually got some good riding in yesterday, so it didn't have to be epic. I just needed to chug out at least 10 hours for the weekend. Herbert Glacier and back sounded grand. Done and done. But what I really wanted to do was a car shuttle out to the Montana Creek side of the Windfall Lakes trail so I could bike out to Herbert Glacier and then walk to connect the two. I hear the hike is on questionable trail and about 11 miles one way - really need a weekend day to do something like that. Since my parents come to town next weekend I'll likely not get another chance this month, and then after that the mountains will be free and clear of snow and hiking the flats won't be as appealing. Oh well. Five hours on the bike won out.

I've had a good month of bike training, but in all likelihood, I'm done now. Don't get me wrong. I'll still ride my bike, excessively, but my other interests are starting to creep in now. My friends are starting to talk about sea kayaking. There are still so many trails in the area I've never seen because they're unbikeable, and I've been feeling an urge to spend more time on my feet. And beyond exercise, there just needs to be more time for barbecuing, for wandering the beach at sunset, for fishing and reading and going to plays. It's summer. The off season.

It's funny, more and more I'm realizing that I really am backward like that. I love to focus, focus, focus in the winter, and work hard with a set schedule and difficult goals in mind. Maybe it's to stave off the darkness and cold. Maybe it's to feel driven and strong when the rest of the world slips into lethargy. I don't know. I do know that summer comes and whatever shreds of competitive drive I even have start to unravel, and I begin to slack. When I started the summer I wanted the 24 Hours of Light to an "A" event, to be important. I really did. But my heart's just not in it. I guess I can't expect to be on all the time.

It's too bad, because I really believe that 24-hour racing could be my format if I ever devoted the kind of focus I put into winter cycling - which I'm not all that good at but love just the same. But 24-hour racing rewards all of my strengths - sleep deprivation, mental determination and keeping my butt in a saddle for a long period of time. And 24-hour racing is kind to many of my weaknesses - route finding, speed and technical savvy (anyone can ride a root-choked minefield given a dozen tries). Put me in an average field and I'll slowly chip away at it with my sheer turtle staying power. People who are good at sleep deprivation and sitting in a saddle all day and fast will destroy me, of course. That's why I'll never be a pro. But put me in a 24-hour race that I've really prepared for and I won't sleep, I won't crash hard and I likely will shine. Not that I know this for a fact. I've only ever ridden in one 24-hour race that I took seriously at all. That was two years ago, long before I had a clue what I was doing, when I was still a rank beginner on a mountain bike, and was sick half the time from really poor eating choices. But I stayed awake, and mostly stayed on the move, and ended up placing fifth overall, in a field of about 20 men and one other woman who was way behind me.

I had big hopes for the 24 Hours of Light, but they've been fading with the increasing sunlight and melting snow. I'm still going to go to the race and go hard, but I don't see the next three weeks advancing me much further toward that goal than I've already come. That's OK. It's summer and there's so much life to experience. The super-focused, intense biking can wait, and likely will wait, for first raindrops of autumn to fall again.

But, speaking of competition, I registered for my first race of the season. A couple of months ago, I crossed the Gastineau Channel with my bicycle and thought I was all adventurous for doing so. Turns out there are people who venture out that way every year, in a race, and they don't even use bicycles! So tomorrow I am headed out there to join the Southeast Road Runners for the Spring Tide Scramble, more popularly known as the "Mud Run." I have been warned to bring shoes I never plan to wear again. The race goes through knee-deep water and the forecast is calling for wind and rain with a high temperature of 48. I'm pretty sure I haven't run any significant distance since Nov. 11, 2006. So the plan is to go out and undo a month of hard cycling training in one reckless run across the Channel. Great fun! Here's a Google map of the course:

Wish me luck!