Shoring up optimism

"But with Saturday fast approaching, I'm going to have to decide beforehand how far I'm willing to 'swim' without quitting. I've decided that as long as I feel healthy and am not suffering beyond reason, I should have no reason to quit the race before the official cut-off time (48 hours. That's right.) I have the option of sleeping along the way. I'll have enough food to stuff a luau pig. And if there's one athletic talent that I have, it's plugging along — even when the going is insufferably slow. How long will it take me to swim 100 miles? I don't know. But I'm fairly certain I could walk 100 miles given 48 hours to do so. Not that I'm about to enter this race in the foot division."

I wrote the above paragraph on Feb. 14, 2006, a few days prior to lining up at the start of the Susitna 100 with my bicycle for my first-ever race. I was referring to a weather report calling for temperatures in the high 30s, sleet and rain, which sadly came to fruition. I finished after 25 hours and a lot of bike-walking through the slush (probably in the range of 35 miles with my skinny-tire mountain bike). I was shattered, but yet somehow hooked on endurance sports. And here I am, five years later, expecting to walk "run" the whole damn way!

Spring came to Missoula this weekend. It may not stick around for good, but when it's 55 degrees and partly sunny, and you're climbing a mountain in a cotton T-shirt as the sweet aroma of thawing dirt swirls in the air, you can feel confident that you're at least getting a taste of spring. The warm weather did somewhat squash Beat's and my plans for one last White Mountains snow-bike training weekend together before I have to ship the bikes off to Fairbanks. On Thursday night we got a slow, strenuous six miles of soft snow running with the sleds. On Friday we climbed the slush and dirt up to South Sentinel, and on Saturday braved the deep slush with snowshoes to the top of University Mountain, which at 6,000 feet was fairly cold and windy, but otherwise nearly scraped clean of snow. I think it's going to be an early year for Missoula mountain biking.

We had a lot of fun not working out this weekend, just sauntering along, taking lots of photographs of the wind-sculpted snow formations, and even building a snowman on the trail. Beat really emphasized the need for "taper," and it was good to have his voice of reason, because the weather was so fantastic that it felt strange not to at least try to go big, not that the conditions really warranted anything reasonable. Even the five-mile snowshoe to University Mountain at casual pace was fairly strenuous thanks to the soft snowpack. We did have lots of extra time to pack and repack our gear, make last-minute lists and switch things out, discuss options for airplane baggage and shipping, and stock up body fat stores via generous servings of Big Dipper ice cream and pasta.

When we weren't occupying ourselves with little chores or hikes, we did have occasional "freak-outs" where we would just grip each others arms, clench our teeth, and make distraught faces. Even these open displays of distress weren't quite enough to satisfy Beat. He thinks I should be more freaked out than I am. After all, this is my first 100-mile run attempt, and six months ago I wasn't even remotely a runner. But for some reason the physical effort doesn't seem as daunting to me as it probably should. Just as I did five years ago, I still feel confident in my ability to slog. I think that the Susitna 100 is fairly dissimilar to a regular ultramarathon in many ways. Even though it's "flat," two overwhelming forces — the friction of snow and the drag of a ~25-pound sled — conspire to really make it "uphill" the entire way (this is the way it feels on the bike, and based on my sled runs so far, even though many of them have literally been uphill, I believe the force is something that should be heavily factored into the effort needed for the run.) Add the below-freezing temperatures and scarcity of checkpoints, and it's really nothing like running the Western States 100 or Wasatch 100. It may seem like convoluted logic, but in my mind the uniquely difficult conditions of the Susitna 100 alone make not being a runner not all that much of a disadvantage to finishing the race on foot. If anything, it may be an advantage to be a rookie runner with previous Su100 course experience. Unless you're an extremely strong runner (and yes I am thinking of Geoff and his 21:43 course record finish in 2007), if you show up at the Susitna 100 expecting to run the whole thing as you would a typical ultramarathon, you're probably in for a rude awakening. We're all out there fighting the same forces, whether we're dragging a bike or a sled. The key, in my mind, is to show up fit, show up prepared, and, most important of all, keep the right mindset: "Just keep swimming."

As for the weather in the Susitna Valley, Alaska, it's currently -4 degrees and clear. It's supposed to remain fairly clear and dry all this week before warming up into the high 20s toward the end of the week. There's a 40 percent chance of snow showers on Friday and 30 percent on Friday, but no big storms on the radar as of yet. High in the 20s and lows in the single digits with some sunshine during the day and stars at night would be ideal, and so far it's looking like a real possibility rather than — as it was in 2006 — a distant dream.

But whatever the conditions, I really am looking forward to the swim run.

Gear junkie

"If you always use a compass to draw a circle and a ruler to draw a square, you will always remain a slave."- Song Zijing

"Next life, trail runner. One pair of shoes. Maybe one of those water-bottle holder fanny packs," Eszter Horanyi, talented endurance mountain biker, adventurer and skier extraordinaire, musing on the paradox of gear geekery.

I like to say it was the inspiration of the Swan Crest 100 that did it — but really, it was the frustration of TransRockies. With a mountain bike dangling precariously on my shoulder and my legs buried to my knees in mud, I resolved then and there to take up trail running.

The mountain bike stage race in the Canadian Rockies last August was a ton of fun, but after four and a half hours of dragging the bike through foul-smelling, cow-stomped sludge to gain a mere 25 kilometers of ground, I had an epiphany: I carried this bike over mountain passes. I carried this bike down headwalls. I carried this bike across rivers and up impossibly steep trails. I carried this bike through a seemingly endless bog of mud. This race would be a whole lot easier without this bike.

I love riding bikes. I like the flow of smooth trails, the quickness of pavement, the crunch of gravel, the challenge of climbs and the exhilaration of descents. But there are times that bikes feel like anchors — riddled with mechanicals, demanding endless maintenance, clogged with mud, limited by skill and strength and the restrictions of wheels. During the Bear 100, Beat asked me about the farthest distance I had traveled on foot in one day. I started to cite my Grand Canyon hikes, at 26 miles, but stopped myself when I remembered the Iditarod. “I pushed my bike over Rainy Pass,” I said. “About 50 miles in the deep snow. It took me 27 hours.” And the whole time I was dragging that heavy, suddenly useless anchor.

I had this fantasy about being free from all of it — free from gear, free from responsibility, free from expensive and highly breakable bike parts, free from trail restrictions and rules, free to just lace up a simple pair of shoes, fill a simple bottle with clear stream water, and just run. There would be nothing to break down, nothing to maintain, nothing to hoist over awkward obstacles, no restricting myself to staying within the lines if I didn’t feel like it. There would just be me, running up the mountains, down the mountains, wherever I felt like running. Free.

And then I entered the Susitna 100.

I couldn’t have picked a more gear-intensive trail run. Sleeping bag. Bivy. Closed-cell foam mattress. Down coat. Wind shell. Fleece socks. Gortex shoes. Hydration vest. Sled. And on and on. The list is quite long. When I throw it all together, it’s downright shocking. I scour my list for things to cross off, but I can’t. I need it, I tell myself. All of it.

(Click on image if you want to actually read it.)

The other day, Beat accused me of being a gear junkie, because I always manage to choose the most gear-intensive versions of the outdoor sports I enjoy. I had to concede. Once, way back in a far-away but simpler life, I was just a hiker. I owned one pair of hiking boots. Then I started multiday hiking with grotesquely heavy loads of camping gear on my back. Then I got a road bike, panniers and a bunch of extra gear so I could go road touring, followed by yet more bikes and yet more gear for mountain biking, working my way up to the most heavily laden of them all, snow bike touring, along with snowshoeing and mountaineering … then GPS units, small and large backpacks, bike bags, poles, crampons, ice ax, clothing layers, coats, mittens, shells, socks, more socks, boots, trail-running shoes, more shoes, and finally all of this Susitna 100 crap.

“But I need it,” I reasoned. “I’m a frail human who wants to run across Alaska’s Susitna Valley amid the ghostly beautiful scenery of winter. I need it to survive.”

And deep down, I am grateful for everything my gear has enabled me to do. It’s opened my freedom of exploration to realms I could have never dreamed to venture otherwise. Traveling 350 miles across Southcentral Alaska, over the Alaska Range and into the Interior in February? I wouldn’t have survived a night without my gear. 2,780 miles from Banff to Mexico in 24 days? I certainly needed my bike to help with that. Running the Susitna 100? I can’t wait for that challenge. If I need the stuff in my sled, so be it.

But in my next life, I’m going to be a barefoot runner in the Montana mountains. One water bottle. Huckleberries for food. Maybe some bug spray.

Either way, life is good.

Winter road rides

On Monday, I awoke to fresh snow.

I giddily packed my commuter bag with all the things I would need for a ride after work and launched my snow bike into the cold morning. The wide wheels glided through six inches of untracked powder like a swan in a tranquil lake. I grinned and pedaled faster, racing to match the bike's effortless glide. A wake of snow spray coated my jeans and I giggled out loud at the feeling of quiet weightlessness, floating in a fountain of powder, like an urban snowboarder.

Suddenly, the rear wheel swung sideways, launching my formerly weightless body into the cold air. It was one of those suspended moments, slow-motion terror. I remember the soft outline of the sun through the morning haze, and then the metallic taste of pain as my elbow slammed into the ground. I laid for a couple seconds, dazed, feeling the trickle of melting snow on my face, and then I stood up. The bike had spun a complete 180 and lay toppled beside a cleared half-circle of glare ice at least five feet wide. The contents of my commuter bag were strewn in wreckage — a full yard sale. I gathered the dented apple, the smashed bagel, the snow-drenched clothing, and the broken yogurt container sprawled beside an eruption of blueberry blobs. An orange had bounced a full 30 feet away. So much for lunch. Still shocked by the impact, I tenderly remounted my bike and soft-pedaled the rest of the way to work, terrified of hidden ice.

At 5:20 p.m., I left work to a full-blown blizzard. There would be no extra miles tonight. The wind howled as shards of snow stung my exposed neck and forced their way into my still-sore throat. I couldn't tell the street from the sky. The white out turns the cars and intersections and buildings into flickering shadows. Even with goggles I felt blind. I put my head down and ground the pedals toward the wind. On the other side of the bridge, I ran into my friend, Bill, who was also returning from work. "Man, commuting sucks," I grumbled in an open moment of weakness. I doubted Bill heard me over the wind. He had a huge grin on his face. "This is awesome," he said. "This is so much fun." I forget Bill likes blizzards. I can't say I understand, but he did manage to deflate my bubble of self pity. We churned in the general direction of home, hopeful we were still in Missoula on not on the top of some forlorn mountain, and plotted a bike ride for Tuesday.

A foot of new snow meant trail-riding was out. We decided to ride the Deer Creek loop from Pattee Canyon down to East Missoula, about 25 miles on packed snow and a bit of exposed pavement. The sky cleared up and the temperature dropped to the low teens. I have a bad habit of commuting to work with only the clothes I wear at work, a soft shell, liner gloves, and a hat. For the bonus ride I brought tights, gaiters, a thin balaclava and a fleece pullover. It still wasn't enough. I shivered on the climb, and I knew I was probably in for an uncomfortable ride down.

"It's 10 degrees," Bill announced at the top of the canyon. I mounted my headlight and put on the last of my extra layers, then followed Bill into the brutal descent. I was decently prepared for a run in those temperatures, but I had nearly forgotten just how cold winter bicycle riding can be, with the added windchill and periods of lower intensity. All of this is amplified tenfold when you have to coast for 15 minutes on a painfully long, gradual downhill, but can't crank up the speed lest a patch of ice meet you unaware. There's nothing you can do but clench your teeth and take your beating, bidding goodbye to the feeling in your toes and fingers as you dream about an anti-cyclist's-fantasy where there are no descents, only toasty warm sweaty climbs.

I knew I deserved it so I could laugh about it. At the bottom of the canyon we still had five miles to pedal into town on ever-more-icy, flat pavement. It was impossible to work up any heat. I held my hands in clenched fists in my pogies, hoping brakes wouldn't be necessary anytime soon. Bill seemed perplexed, and admitted he too was painfully cold. "This is good acclimatization," I reasoned. "Like taking cold baths. Getting ready for Susitna." Bill did not laugh.

Remembering Bill's blizzard grin, I said, "This is one of the things I like about winter activity. You can't quantify anything. Sometimes it's really hard, and sometimes the same things are not all that hard. But it's never easy."

Bill nodded, and I think he understood, but his face was probably frozen. We parted ways and I followed my commuter route home, thinking only of warm showers, and nothing of glare ice.