Feeling good about fitness

After I finished the Susitna 100 in mid-February, I set aside structured training. Not that my training is ever all that rigid, but pre-Su100 I was consistently putting in miles, long-effort weekends, 50K races and of course mind-numbing slogs with my sled. After the Su100, I decided to get an early start on my "off season." I dedicated more of my outdoor time to pure fun. I did a few moderately long bike rides to prepare for the White Mountains 100, but they were fun bike rides. Except for a few fun runs, I stopped running. My fitness goals were entirely focused on discovering new trails and soaking up sunshine. March was good.

Then I surprised myself by having a fairly good race in the White Mountains 100. "Maybe I'm better when I don't train," I mused when discussing it with a friend afterward. "Maybe I should just focus on fun, and not beat myself up if I have a really low-key week or three." Beat also subscribes to a similar theory. His race training plan is comprised almost entirely of racing, surrounded by relatively low-key periods of tapering and recovery.

The past three weeks have been good weeks for a recovery period. But I admit that after my somewhat indulgent March, I was starting to feel concern that my hard-earned winter fitness had finally fallen off the cliff. This weekend, with my running crash bruises and inflammation finally starting to settle a bit, I felt ready for a good "moderate" effort. Beat is still recovering from a micro-tear in his Achilles, so I set out for a "short" road ride on Saturday.

I picked a 43-mile loop that I guessed would take somewhere in the range of three hours. However, I didn't yet realize that this loop also included more than 4,000 feet of climbing and not a small number of gut-bustingly steep grades. I felt strong the entire time, if a little tentative on the road bike, but managed to keep my heart rate near or above 170 for most of the climbing. Even with slow and careful descending, I still wrapped it up in 3:03. GPS track here.

Sunday morning, Beat decided he wanted to try a "short" run. I geared up in the appropriate body armor for the jog. (Just kidding ... but really, when you think about it, padding isn't a wholly horrible idea for a klutz like me.) Our intention was short and easy and we didn't even take any water with us, and ended up running nine miles on the Rancho trails at our usual pace, in the heat of mid-day. I was pretty blown when we got home, basically woozy from dehydration, but I downed about six glasses of water and geared up for my next adventure.

During his own downtime this weekend, Beat overhauled my singlespeed with a brand new chain, grips, pedals and hydraulic brakes. He even managed to fix the busted zipper on my frame bag and switch out the studded tires for my Nanoraptors. My Karate Monkey hasn't been in this good of shape since last spring. I promised him I'd take it out to test the new parts, but the ulterior motive was, of course, to go for a late afternoon bike ride. The singlespeed is geared well for gradual climbs and really not much else, which is sort of the rub of singlespeeding. But I picked a gradual climb for testing — Steven's Creek Canyon.

Despite having felt quite tired since returning from the run, I really started to perk up again as I rode up the canyon. I veered onto Redwood Gulch Road with hopes of continuing the good climb. I forgot that the road gains more than 1,000 feet of elevation in two miles — pretty steep for my one gear when I haven't ridden more than a handful of commutes on the singlespeed since autumn. What followed was about 20 minutes of pure pain — gasping and gulping for oxygen as my heart rate shot to 180 and my all the fibers in my leg muscles threatened to burst under the strain of simply turning the cranks. I don't think I've spent that much time in zone 5 all year long. At the top I decided I deserved a reward, so I continued moderate-intensity climbing to the singletrack of the Saratoga Gap Trail, which was so stunningly fun that I continued rolling along Long Ridge, which dropped me off in unfamiliar terrain until I meandered my way over to the tip top of Steven's Creek Canyon and dropped down the long and winding trail. By the time I reached the gradual road descent, the sun had set and I was spinning the crank furiously in a futile bid for speed to beat the darkness. I ended that ride with 32 miles, 4,258 feet of climbing and fairly fried legs. GPS track here.

And still, I feel pretty good. And even after six weeks of "downtime," I feel like my body has maintained an encouraging level of both strength and endurance. Which is great, because it's just about time for me to really focus on summer goals ... and right at the top, the intimidating Tahoe Rim Trail 100.

Finding my place

Six months ago, if you asked me how I felt about the idea of moving to coastal California, I would have cringed and made a sour face. In fact, six months ago, I did exactly that when I was visiting Utah and my sisters asked me about possible future scenarios with Beat. "I like him," I told them. "But California ... I don't know. There's just so many people, so much sprawl. I have this sense that it's not my kind of place."

What is my kind of place? It's a place where I can go outside every day, where I can walk out my front door and wander into the mountains, to quiet places where I can listen to streams gurgle down narrow gulches and watch wild animals sprint across open meadows. It's a place that sometimes pummels me with drenching rains and stiff winds. It's a place with steep roads to climb and narrow trails to ride, and enough of both that every day has potential for new challenge and discovery. It's a place where I can find solitude, and also enjoy time with friends. It's a place where I can take photos I appreciate and have experiences I cherish. There are of course a lot more attributes that might make a place absolutely perfect for me, but these aspects are the basics, the aspects I need to be happy.

I went for a bike ride today. It was a low-key, "short" ride, because I am still in downtime mode. Even though I've only lived in California for just over a month, I've already scoped out my comfort places — the places I seek sometimes to challenge my physical limits, and other times to spin easy and think. But even in this secondary mode, I can still plan a two-hour ride that includes 2,700 feet of gut-busting climbing, strenuous enough that my "time to think" thoughts soon dissolve into gasps and whimpers. Today I rode to Black Mountain. At the top of the climb, I met up with a small group of mountain bikers who tempted me onto the singletrack. We descended into the green rolling hills on a narrow ribbon of trail, dipping, weaving and grinning like children. After several hundred feet, the jolting on my bruised arm and knee became too pronounced and painful to continue riding downhill. I waved goodbye to the mountain bikers and turned back up the trail, back to spinning smooth and climbing — my favorite mode of travel.

Back at the top of the mountain, I startled a large herd of deer. I stopped as they darted away and listened to the strange zipping sound of dozens of hooves tearing through the grass. Just as the sounds of the stampede faded, I heard other, even more eerie sounds ringing out from the crest of the next hill. Low moans and yips preceded a long, drawn out howl. I squinted into the low sun and realized there was a pack of coyotes prowling the ridge. I could see their slender bodies silhouetted against the golden evening sunlight.

I stood there a while longer, listening to their yipping and smiling at the sun. I have found my kind of place in a lot of places, but I honestly never dreamed I'd find one here.

Quiet week

I've had a fairly quiet week since I fell on my face on Sunday. I had been looking forward to getting out for some road rides and runs this week, but swelling and bruising on my arm and knee has limited me to minimal-impact activities, like taking my mountain bike on smooth-as-possible pavement rides. Even slight jarring from potholes on my bouncy bike has been enough to bring a few tears to my eyes. I feel battered. It really is humorous in a pathetic kind of way, especially when it comes time for the nightly cringe sessions needed to clean and redress the road rash, which is finally close to the point of scabbing over. I'm taking this silly running crash as the final sign from the universe that I was meant to take some real down time this month. OK, universe, you win. I'm taking down time. No more signs, OK? Because at this point I'm really itching to get out for a good long effort.

In the meantime, I really wanted to bump down those disgusting road rash pictures, so I'm posting a mid-week news update. In the week's most exciting news, Beat was accepted in the 2012 Iditarod Trail Invitational — 350 miles to McGrath on foot. I am super excited for him, and also excited for myself and potential opportunities to train with him during long backcountry hikes in the snow. Training well for this race is of upmost importance, so as far as I'm concerned, Beat's sacrifice in signing up for the 2012 ITI means I get to enjoy all the spoils of winter adventure without actually having to go through with the race.

It's true — I did not attempt to sign up for next year's race. When asked why, my short answer is that my mom would kill me if I ever entered the ITI again (ha ha.) But the truth is, I did some soul searching about it and decided it wasn't the right time. As I said, I really look forward to participating in Beat's training adventures. I also have dreams of putting together short, solo bike tour on the Iditarod Trail, possibly from Point McKenzie to Finger Lake or Puntilla Lake and back, which I could plan during the week that Beat is racing the ITI. I really wanted to plan a solo tour this past winter, and probably would have if I had stayed in Alaska. Since I'll be doing a lot of foot training anyway, maybe I can fly out a week early and try to crush my Susitna 100 foot time. Oh, the possibilities! Next year's race does promise to be an exciting one. There are 20 people who signed up to race on foot, including Geoff Roes and Dave Johnston, who has won the Susitna 100 twice.

When I wasn't cringing through my short and "too bumpy" mountain bike road rides this week, I was deeply immersed in Great Divide projects — editing photos, writing book promotional materials, playing with cover design ideas, and writing an essay for the second edition of the Cordillera. Even simple design work prompts vivid memories of those three weeks in 2009, and that's where my head has been for much of the week. Because of this, I was fairly amused to receive a fortuitous e-mail from a promoter for the movie "Ride the Divide," a documentary about the 2008 Tour Divide. He had set up a showing in Oakland and he wanted me to attend as a "special guest" to answer questions about the race.

I coerced Beat into joining me on the long Wednesday rush-hour drive to the northland. The showing was held at the Grand Lake Theatre, a quirky old movie house with ornate decorations and a balcony. I expected a low-key event, and was a little shocked when I arrived to a sold-out crowd at a big theater. I've already seen this movie four times, but it was fun to watch it on the big screen, not only for the beautiful cinematography, but also to listen to the crowd's reactions to different scenes. It found myself becoming surprisingly choked up during relatively benign scenes that depicted race leader Matthew Lee quietly riding alone through areas of Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico. I realized that I am still deeply attached to not only my experiences in the Tour Divide, but also the regions it traverses. For the first time in two years I found myself truly believing that *perhaps* I really do want to go there again someday, in that same context. But not this year. Like the ITI, it's just not the right time.

The Q&A session was fun, but I was not prepared and didn't know how to answer questions like "why did you do it?" ("Uh, well, I had some time off and it seemed like a fun way to spend a summer.") and "who sponsored you?" (Well, I guess the Juneau Empire sponsored me, because they employed me beforehand and gave me paychecks that I was able to stash away for race funds.") A question about my "most vivid experience" resulted in a really long story about interacting with another racer after a serious truck collision on Indiana Pass. But for the most part it went well. It really is rewarding to see how other people react to images and stories from the Tour Divide, because the experience means so much to me.

And hopefully, there will be more mountain biking in my future. Sooner would be my preference.