Minimalist shoes and fixie mountain bikes

This afternoon, Beat and I went for an eight-mile run in the heat of the day. I didn't feel any strain in my feet — an encouraging development. For two days after the 50K, I had mild soreness on the sides of both feet that felt like muscle strain — very much like one's biceps might feel after too many reps with heavy weights. Even after the long day Saturday, my legs still felt great, so I did two days of bike recovery — 20-mile, 2,900-feet-of-gain mountain bike ride on Sunday, and a 25-mile, 2,600-feet-of-gain road ride on Monday. By Tuesday, I'm back to running. It feels good.

Since I started wearing my Hoka One One shoes in public more often, a lot of people have asked me how I like them. Since this is a bike blog, I feel like I should back up first and explain. In trail running right now, there appear to be two growing trends on opposite ends of the spectrum. The first are ultra-cushioned shoes like these Hokas that claim to absorb 80 percent of the shock associated with heel striking. The second and arguably more popular are minimalist shoes, or "barefoot" shoes like Vibram Five Fingers, which eliminate cushioning to prevent heel striking altogether. Both claim to minimize injuries and make running more fun.

Beat bought me the Hokas as a sort of "I'm sorry for wrecking your feet" gift following our awesome first date at the Bear 100. I traveled 50 miles with him and developed so much foot pain that I could scarcely hobble the last eight miles of the race. I attribute this pain to excessive impact, the kind that could arguably be reduced with heavily cushioned shoes. At the time I was wearing an admittedly worn-out pair of Montrail Mountain Masochist shoes. The pain, which was similar to a mild case of plantar faciitis, bothered me for nearly six weeks after the Bear. I accepted my injury because it is quite reckless to go from practically zero running to 50 miles overnight, but at the same time desired a way to get back into running quickly while keeping my soft feet functional. Beat, who had seen the Hokas work very well for more than half the field in the grueling 200-mile, 80,000-feet-of-climbing-crazy-steep Tor des Geants, told me I should try out the clown shoes.

The verdict: I like them a lot. I still run in my regular Vasque shoes in mixed and soft terrain, such as mud and snow, but I by far prefer the Hokas on hard dirt and rocky trails. I compare them to trail riding with a full-suspension mountain bike. The thick cushioning floats over small rocks and allows me to pound hard on terrain where I otherwise might tiptoe or hold myself back. While I am still a running klutz, the Hokas do help improve my downhill confidence by absorbing the shock and allowing me to increase my speed. They also seem to maximize foot and leg comfort over higher mileage runs compared to my regular shoes. I mean, a mere 36 hours of minimal foot strain after an eight-hour run, following two months of relatively little running, really isn't too shabby.

And then there's the other end of the spectrum — minimalist or barefoot running. As a newbie runner who has never even tried these types of shoes, I can't claim to know anything about it. But when I hear others counter my "awesome full suspension" views about Hokas with the case for barefoot running, I can't help but smile and think of the claims of the growing culture of mountain bikers who like to ride fixed-gear bikes off road. Both tout simplicity and the lack of extranious and arguably needless pieces of metal and plastic that just weigh you down. Both tout connectedness, a sort of "one with the trail" feeling that can only be achieved if there is a high risk of stubbing your toes or bashing your pedals into a large rock. Both claim to force a flowing, natural sort of movement — for runners, that means landing on your forefoot. For fixie mountain bikers, it means mashing pedals really really hard when you are climbing a hill and then spinning your legs into a soft whip upon descent. Both take a higher level of skill and both are more physically taxing than the "geared" version. Both embrace abstract and therefore unsubstantiable ideals such as liberty, freedom and mindfulness. And both, from my limited perspective, seem to sustain a whole lot of injuries — barefoot runners get stress fractures, and fixie riders crash a lot.

But, of course, both require a slow buildup and time and distance in order to master the discipline, which is great. But not all of us have that kind of time or patience. Some of us just want to spend as much time and as many miles as possible in the beautiful outdoors. We want to run and ride whatever terrain we want, when we want, instead of building up distance on smooth gravel roads in 1/10th-mile increments over many tedious years. To me, tools that allow us to move more easily and freely — tools such as full-suspension mountain bikes and Hoka shoes — just make a lot of sense.

I'm not saying those arguments that heel-striking leads to long-term injury have no merit; I'm only saying that there does seem to be inherent risk in trying to fix a "problem" that may not need fixing. As Beat likes to argue, the problem isn't running shoes — the problem is running on roads. Technical trail running by definition forces natural movement and all but eliminates repetitive motion and heel-striking issues, even over long distances. But it still feels rough on soft cyclists' feet, which is why I love my Hokas.

Berry Creek Falls 50K

It was a reason to go there — Big Basin Redwoods State Park. It's California's oldest state park, established in 1902 and now teeming with coastal redwoods, old-growth conifers, chaparral and oak trees that have been largely left alone for more than a century. It's less than 30 miles from our house on a narrow, winding road, but through the occasional openings along the thickly forested ridgeline, all we could see were green mountains and trees — no buildings, no roads, no logging scars. "Might as well be in Montana," I said, just before we caught a glimpse of the Pacific, deep blue and sparkling in the morning sun.

After a month of recovering his Achilles inflammation, Beat got a go-ahead from his doctor on Friday to "tread slowly" toward running again. I had already expressed interest in running a 50K at a mellow pace as I start to increase my own running mileage. Saturday just happened to be the Berry Creek Falls 50K. We both signed up less than 24 hours before the race start. I used it as an excuse to dress up like a complete trail-running geek, with a GPS watch, Nathan hydration pack and ridiculous-looking but "hurty-foot"- preventing Hoka One One shoes. As the perfect finishing touch to my costume, I recently acquired a hot pink running skirt. Take note — I have never been a girly girl. I was the kind of kid who tried to get away with wearing jeans to church and once did wear jeans to a formal high school dance. I thought it would be fittingly ironic to grow into the kind of adult who wore pink skirts on 31-mile trail runs. Plus, it went so well with my purple shoes.

It was simply an awe-inspiring day; 75 degrees, sunny and not a particle in the sky. When the views did open up we could see clearly across many miles of mountains and ocean. Deep inside the forest, the water ran clear and needles and leaves took on a blazing green hue, sprinkled with flecks of sunlight. The race was small — a few dozen people for the shorter distances, and only seven for the 50K. I was the only woman, which meant I automatically won by default. Or, I remembered, I would still have to finish the race first.

I felt strong. Beat was moving conservatively to be kind to his Achilles. He agreed to drop at the first sign of pain, and I was torn about whether to really try to push my pace or hold back and run with Beat. The course quickly proved to be quite difficult, with incessant steep climbs and descents on root-clogged singletrack. It felt good to run hard up the hills, but I couldn't quite master the footing on the descents. After a few miles, it became apparent that my most comfortable pace essentially matched Beat's, so we ran and hiked together.

The course was hard — a 15K and 10K loop each completed twice, each almost entirely on singletrack (with the exception of about 2.5 miles of steep fireroad on the second loop), and each with 1,500 to 2,000 feet of elevation change apiece. I emphasize the word "change" over "gain" since the descents were often tougher for me than the climbs. It was still a lot of climbing, and I soon started to feel the 75-degree "heat."

In a good indication of overall fitness, I felt strong and had no foot or leg issues for the duration of the race. Beat and I moved steady at our conservative pace, but it was by no means easy. I think we were both holding back more than we wanted to, on some levels, but we were also enjoying the scenery and relishing a long day out in the Big Basin Redwoods. I've spent this past week stressing over my book project, and this long run provided much of what I needed to balance out my mindset. Many times during the run, I'd feel a wash of peace or euphoria and think, even believe, that "this is all I need to be happy." As always, the feeling fades as soon as the run is over, but a good run — or bike ride — really is a beautiful state of bliss where those feelings are emphatically — if temporarily — true. I like it when a run goes long.

I made one tactical error when I arrived at the 25-mile aid station about three minutes before Beat and lost self control on the delicious spread of race snacks. As a cyclist I have a "feast or famine" style of fuel intake, but I am learning during running I have to take my calories in smaller, more frequent doses. I made the mistake of eating three brownies and spent the final 10K wracked with stomach cramps. Although his Achilles wasn't bothering him, Beat was feeling fairly rough too — it has, after all, been nearly a month since he's done any significant running. We mostly hobbled through the last six miles, and it took us nearly two hours to wrap them up.

I'm still pleased with how it went, even if it did take seven hours and 50 minutes. My GPS registered 32 miles and 7,900 feet of elevation change. The elevation reading may be too high by 1,000 feet or so due to thick tree cover, but the ruggedness of the course definitely added another layer of difficulty. It was certainly my most physically difficult 50K yet, of the four I've participated in. And yes, I did win. Since I signed up so late for the race and was the only woman, they didn't have a mug made up, but the friendly race director Wendell promised he'd send one my way.

Really, it was the ideal day out. Races are fun because you meet new people and challenge your limits in ways you likely otherwise wouldn't. But in the end it was just a fun eight-hour romp through the park, with soup and good conversation at the end.

Flailing and awkward

It was a gorgeous day on Russian Ridge. I was out for a 10-mile run, soaking in sunshine and searching for wildflowers that haven't yet emerged. I veered down the steep trail toward Coal Creek and quickly developed the side-stitch that I often suffer from when I run downhill. I realize this is likely caused by too-shallow breathing, but running downhill honestly frightens me a little and I almost can't help myself. I slowed down and took deep, long breaths, concentrating on the rhythm of motion as the sharp pain stabbed at my rib cage. While I was locked in focus on steady steps and breathing, I planted my foot in a deep mud puddle across a particularly steep slope and slid forward. Leg kicked up, arms flailing, and just like that I was lying sideways in the mud with yet another bloody elbow, scratched leg, bruised hip and skin coated in brown sludge.

After I arrived at home, I had to explain to Beat why I was yet again coated in mud and blood. He just shook his head. "When you slide like that you're supposed to ride it out," he said.

"Well when that happens to me, I fall," I protested. "That's how I roll."

I thought back to a friend I used to hike with in Juneau, who was constantly criticizing my walking style as we picked our way down 45-degree slopes covered in mud and moss. "You need to keep your feet forward," he told me. "Keep your weight back. You always walk like you've been sitting on a bike for too long. Why do you stick your hips so far out?"

I thought even further back to rock scrambling in the canyons of Utah's redrock deserts. I'd cling precariously to some craggy ledge, frozen in place as the blood drained head and my arms and legs slowly went numb. "What's wrong?" my friends would ask. "This is an easy pitch. Class 3 tops." I could never explain; they just didn't understand what it's like to not trust your body, to truly believe there's a measurable time delay between your brain circuits and motor functions. You never really know when your body is going to do something completely erratic or clumsy and send you plummeting into the sand far below. It's scary, and that fear helps perpetuate the physical awkwardness.

I don't think it's a coincidence that upon discovering cycling at age 22, I instantly latched onto the activity with an almost obsessive zeal. It wasn't just the ease and quickness of movement that most beginner cyclists experience. I also found a method of motion that felt natural and comfortable — which, up to that point, was an almost foreign sensation. I had spent the first two decades of my life accepting the seemingly unbridgeable divide between poor coordination and an innate desire to explore the outside world and participate in intense physical challenges. Through cycling, I discovered a way to span that gap. Bikes just fit me, literally. I can ride all day on other people's bicycles and not feel even slight discomfort. I can wear big backpacks and switch from platform to clipless pedals without even noticing a significant difference. I can appreciate full suspension but I don't feel out of place riding rigid or singlespeed or fixed. I don't get saddle sores, or back and neck soreness, and even my weak knees have adapted to the strain of thousands of pedal rotations. Unlike the criticism I've received for my walking style, I've actually been complimented on my riding style — straight back, flexible arms, steady legs. I am, truly, a cyclist.

But there's still that other side of me, the side of me without a bike, the side with the weak ankles and soft feet, the side who's prone to flailing awkwardly all over the trail and sometimes slamming into the ground at the seemingly most random spots. This makes her quite bad at running, but all those years of self-discovery through cycling have also made her the kind of person who refuses to accept this. There is freedom and satisfaction in removing a heavy dependence on wheels, and finding new ways to move light and fast through exhilarating spans of open space. I want to be free; I want to run, even if my body doesn't quite cooperate, and even if I'm realizing that a large base of endurance just makes the learning process that much more difficult — because it's actually not all that difficult to run 20 or 30 miles; the difficulty lies in doing so without hurting myself.

I won't stop riding bikes. I am, after all, a natural cyclist. But I'm also a glutton for a challenge, and running long distances is truly a challenge. Full training for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 has begun. If I can make it to the starting line without a cast or crutches, that in itself will be a satisfying success.