Friday roundup

In the midst of a lot of nervous energy about finishing up my book, and the tedious promotional work that's gone along with it, I've been grateful for my opportunities to get outside this week. Unfortunately, after the Banff/North Dakota/Ohlone 50K whirlwind of travel and activity, my body hasn't quite been able to keep up. I've been more sluggish than usual, and these days I actually have a GPS/heart rate monitor to show me the ways in which I haven't quite snapped back from recovery yet. Of course there was the 25-mile mountain bike ride with Beat, the seven-mile run along Skyline, and the Mission Peak hill mountain repeats (Beat's idea ... steep terrain practice) that together amounted to about 8,500 feet of climbing since the race. It's all just a continuation of the last two weeks and potentially the next two weeks. Barring injury or burnout, I actually think it's a good idea for me to "train tired" from time to time so I become will accustomed to carrying on when my body feels less than awesome. Then of course rest to fully recover before the big event. I'm not claiming this is a sound training strategy. Mostly, I'm just shoring up mental stamina to carry me through my next fun slog. Plus, I needed excuses to play outside despite admittedly sore quads and weaker heart rate. That's all training really is to me anyway ... an excuse to play outside.

This brings me to my new favorite energy food. You thought I was going to say Honey Stinger Waffles, weren't you? Wrong! These are exactly like Honey Stinger Waffles, at about one tenth the price:

Caramel Bites or "Stroopwafels" from Trader Joe's. Yes, these are the exact same thing. Ok, maybe Honey Stinger uses organic ingredients and packages them in neat individual wrappers. But nutritionally and taste-wise, they're identical. The nutritional indistinguishability is the part that gets to me. I can't tell you how many aquaintances have praised Honey Stinger Waffles only to balk when I reply, "I know. They're awesome. They're cookies." Not only are they just cookies, but they're unapologetically overpriced cookies. I saw Honey Stinger Waffles at a store in Canada for $3 each. Given the current exchange rate, that's like $147 in U.S. dollars. For a small cookie. Yes, a delicious cookie. Still just a cookie.

But because Honey Stinger markets them, they've developed a reputation as a nutritious energy food. Nope. Cookies. Not that I'm against using cookies as energy food. In fact, I'm a big advocate of the taste, convenience and calorie-loading benefits of subsisting on candy and cookies. Which brings me to the next segment of my blog post. Occasionally during the next few weeks, until my book release next month, I'm going to post short excerpts from "Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide" so readers can get a feel for the content. I will offer book pre-ordering soon.

This is an excerpt from Chapter 18: "Untouchable"

I had become an expert on small-town convenience stores. Even independently owned service stations, buried in the most remote regions of the west, all had a near-identical selection of products laid out in a nearly identical way. Their organization was both simple and highly effective, designed for the maximum obtainment of junk food.

I walked into the Salida 7-Eleven with single-minded purpose, knowing I would not pass another significantly populated town on the route for more than 150 miles. I strolled down the first aisle, also known as the candy bar aisle, and selected four king-sized Snickers bars — which not only boasted 500 calories each, but were also usually the most popular and therefore freshest items on the shelf. I then grabbed four pairs of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, prone to melting but probably okay in the high mountain air. The next aisle, the salty snack aisle, held my Corn Nuts, regular nuts, and packages of crackers. The next aisle, the specialty candy aisle, was my favorite. It was here that I was treated to the widest and most thrilling range of selection that can only be found in gummy snacks. I was partial to Sour Patch Kids, but I liked to mix it up with gummy bears and sour worms and sometimes something florescent and obnoxious and full of artificially flavored and chemically colored high-fructose corn syrup. 7-Eleven also carried chocolate-covered espresso beans, a special treat for the mornings I anticipated waking up in a sleeping bag. In the “regular food” aisle, I usually picked up tuna packets and the occasional energy bar. The refrigerated shelves along the outer edge of the store held my orange juice, liters of Pepsi, yogurt, and the hopeful rewards in my never-ending search for wax-coated balls of cheese. I finished with an extra-large cup of coffee and a quick browse of the gourmet cases in front of the store, where I could obtain 600-calorie “homemade” brownies and the cinnamon roll I planned to eat for breakfast before heading out the following morning. After less than five minutes of "shopping," I’d walk to the counter and dump 10,000 calories — about two days’ worth of food — in front of the startled clerk.

“Um, did you find everything you needed?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I said.

The clerk in Salida was more bold than most, and she smiled wryly. “Having a little celebration are we?” she asked.

I smiled back. If I was more bold, or a better actress, I would have launched into a long sob story about how my husband just cheated on me and I didn’t want to be in the world any more so I was just going to eat my way into a sugar coma. If I had been even bolder than that, I might have just told her the truth, but instead I said, “Ah, I’m just stocking up.”

“Okay then,” she said as she slid a heart attack’s worth of survival food into a plastic bag. “Have a nice day.”

Finally, in anticipation of the book launch, I am offering digital files of "Ghost Trails" for the low, low price of $2.99. You can upload an eBook for your Kindle, Nook, Sony Reader, or laptop at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/62341. "Ghost Trails," my first memoir that I released in November 2008, details the pivotal life experiences that led to my participation in the 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational — which remains perhaps the most intense and perspective-altering experience of my life. It also provides an entertaining backstory to "Be Brave, Be Strong."

Have a great weekend!

The publishing process

While I was living in Anchorage, I dedicated a fair amount of time to shopping my Tour Divide book around in the traditional publishing industry. During my conversations with agents and queries to publishers, I learned a bit about the book industry — namely, that it was not only more difficult and more unstable, but also less profitable than the newspaper industry. An agent who tended to take on "niche" projects such as mine told me her clients were lucky to see advances of $5,000. Plus, royalties and press runs were small enough that few authors even earned out their advances — meaning that $5,000 was all they were ever going to see. And this all came after months if not years of securing a publisher, revisions, marketing, etc. This agent was just trying to be realistic, but it was discouraging. I had worked hard just to capture her attention, only to reach a point where I learned even success in the book business wasn't really that successful.

Just before I moved to Montana to return to the publishing business at Adventure Cyclist magazine, I had dinner with a friend where I lamented the bleak prospects for my current book and unwritten future books. I related the hours I had spent working on the project, and how my time spent riding my bicycle around central Alaska and hiking the Chugach Mountains was ultimately more fulfilling and productive. I told him about the school paper I penned when I was 6 years old about "Where I'll Be in the Year 2000" and how I was one of those unfortunate children whose ambition was "to be a writer and write books."

"But, geez, I made more than $5,000 in the first year of Ghost Trails," I sighed.

He just looked at me quizzically. "Then why don't you do that again?"

Independent and digital publishing. Many industry insiders say that's the future. Similar to the sputtering newspaper business, they don't like that it's the future, but they acknowledge it's the direction the industry is headed. As more bookstores shutter their doors and more publishers shed mid-list and niche authors to focus on only those with enough popularity to sell millions, independent publishing will be there to fill in the gaps. I've long believed that outdoor literature has a potential that hasn't yet been fully realized. For the handful of bestsellers like Jon Krakauer who are currently capitalizing on literary nonfiction about outdoor endeavors, there are probably hundreds of talented athletes and explorers embarking on quiet adventures. If even just a fraction of these took the time to sit down and write a book, the world would have some pretty great books.

But would these books ever find a home? In this regard, I don't feel as optimistic. It's no longer enough for a book to be well-written and contain an intriguing story. These days, publishers want books that will stand on their own in the mass market, which is dominated by people who would rather read a tell-all by Levi Johnston than Hemingway. Good outdoor literary nonfiction will always find readers, but possibly not enough to survive in this industry.

Enter this idea I had, about an independent publishing group. A place where outdoor, nature and adventure authors can reach out to a like-minded audience. Perhaps it won't be millions, but it will be comprised of dedicated readers who truly appreciate this kind of work. And the best part is, in this brave new world of indie books, there's a strong potential for writers to actually be financially rewarded for their time — unlike legacy publishing, which is a game of craps at best. I'm calling the project Arctic Glass Press. I'm only starting to get it off the ground, but I already have interest from a couple of authors — Adam Lisonbee, who recently wrote a series of essays about outdoor stoke and the four seasons, and Eric Bruntjen, who compiled two volumes of art and essays by people who have raced the Great Divide. I appreciate these guys getting on board, and hope that in the near future, Arctic Glass Press will become a great source for off-the-beaten-path armchair adventures.

I've also decided to finally release my second book so I can get on with writing my third and fourth book, and so on. The possibilities really are endless. I'm excited. My latest book, about my adventure leading up to and during the 2009 Tour Divide, is called "Be Brave, Be Strong: A Journey Across the Great Divide." I'm hoping to have paperback copies ready to distribute by the second week of June (yes, in time for the start of this year's Tour Divide.) I'll write more about this in an upcoming post, but I've already received good feedback about the few copies I've distributed so far, including an insightful review from my friend, Dave.

This blog post is also a call to other outdoor-adventure-writer types. Anyone who has a book sitting on their hard drive or swirling around in their head. As an independent but full-service publisher, Arctic Glass Press can help you finish and polish your project, and release it to the world. Contact me at jillhomer@arcticglasspress.com and I'll send you more information about getting involved with the project.

Ohlone Alone

The Ohlone Wilderness 50K was my sixth ultramarathon — since Dec. 18, 2010 I've run five 50Ks and one nicely eviscerating 100-mile snow slog. Beat uses 50Ks as long training runs and I've developed the same habit. I'm really a "relentless forward motion" kind of a person more than I'll ever be a focused runner, so aiming to run a fast 50K doesn't really appeal to me. Being able to run three 50Ks plus another seven or so miles, however, does. So when I set out for a 50K trail race, I'm purposefully aiming to hold a pace that I could conceivably (optimistically) sustain for quite a bit farther than 50K. This of course is only a theory because I won't engage in any longer runs before the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 (although I may have an opportunity to pace as many as 50 miles in the San Diego 100.) But that was my hope for the Ohlone 50K — a sustainable ultra pace. My sustainable ultra pace.

As such, Beat and I agreed that we'd run the Ohlone separately, each at our own pace. Beat on his own is quite a bit faster than me, but I had yet to run an ultramarathon without him. During all four 50Ks and the entire 41 hours of the Susitna 100, for better or worse, we were only a few stride lengths apart. It was a fantastic learning technique for me and a decent relationship builder as well, but at some point here I need to learn to slog on my own. Since every single one of my bike races, from 24 hours to 24 days, have been overwhelmingly solo, I wasn't all that worried about a 50K alone. But I admit it's nice to have someone there to remind me to take my Vitamin I at an appropriate interval several miles before the big steep downhills, hand me salt tablets and help me lighten up when I'm being grumpypants.

But even with Beat out ahead, it was hard to feel alone at Ohlone. The East Bay classic is one of the more popular trail races in the Bay area, and attracted a sold-out crowd of 200 runners. It's also one of the more difficult 50Ks in the region, a one-way race across a relatively remote section of the Diablo Mountains with about 8,000 feet of climbing (and descent.) I couldn't be less concerned about 8,000 feet of climbing. That much ascent isn't going to break my legs, and it's not going to make or break a race. Really, at the grades we were climbing, a large percentage of the field walks. Some walk at 4 mph and others walk at 3. Not a lot of distance is being gained on the uphill stretches. Downhills, however, open the margin wide. Some fly down the mountains at 10 mph, others shuffle nicely at 6 mph. I prefer to tiptoe down at 2 or 3. Obviously, I was going to have to improve on this.

My main issue with downhill running is confidence. I kick rocks. I stumble. I wrench my knee or turn my ankle. Sometimes I fall. The probability of a mishap makes me extremely, irrationally anxious. My steps become more rigid, my breathing becomes shallow and I develop side stitches that range from uncomfortable to debilitating, so constrictive that I have to clutch my abdomen and take big gulps of air just to get oxygen into my system. Short of developing more confidence, which I've accepted will only come with time and experience, the only solution I've found is ibuprofen. If I take two brown pills about 20 minutes before a big downhill, I seem to be able to stave off the side stitches. Obviously, this isn't a long-term solution, but this was my plan for today.

This isn't to say the climbs aren't difficult. They are. But I was feeling extremely good today. Honestly, I felt fantastic. This was strange as well because I purposely loaded my training days just before this race. We rode 40 miles on Saturday, ran nine relatively fast miles on Friday, and time-trialed a 2,600-foot climb on Wednesday, to say nothing of my Banff/North Dakota week, which, on top of the 105 road miles and 15 hours of mountain biking, included 46 miles of trail running. The reason was to start the Ohlone on slightly tired legs. That's how you learn how to run 100 miles.

It helped that it was not hot today. This race is known for scorching temperatures and I don't think they rose above 70 today; plus, there was a nice breeze. The core group of Californians that I ended up spending much of the race with (we mostly hopscotched, with them flying past me on the descents and me catching back up on the climbs) largely complained about the "cold." I felt like I had dodged a bullet. Although I need to learn to run in heat as much as anything, that doesn't mean I want to.

The Ohlone trails were beautiful, and I was stoked about the one-way race course. It was more like going out for a long, scenic (fast) hike than running a race. The scenery was ever-changing and dynamic. The valleys were green and the hillsides carpeted with golden grass that rippled in the wind. We summitted two peaks (Mission and Rose) and two more minor ridges, effectively crossing a nice chunk of the rippling Diablo Range.

A race volunteer took a picture of me on top of Rose Peak, elevation 3,817. She said, "It's mostly downhill from here," and I said, "Oh, great, the hard part."

But I popped for vitamin I and started down at my conservative pace, which wasn't as bad as gingerly tiptoeing but probably averaged 4-6 mph. Other that taking it purposefully slow to avoid eating gravel or contracting the horrible sidestich, I felt really strong. I got to listen to my iPod, drop in the grass to shoot photos of flowers and slum at aid stations to my heart's content. I usually don't believe people when they say this to me, but the truth is there was never a moment when I wasn't having fun. Could I have pushed myself more? Yes, undoubtedly. But could I have possibly had a better-feeling, stronger-finishing and more confidence-building race? Not likely.

I ran my fastest pace in the final quarter mile and finished with a big smile on my face in 7:27, which is my second slowest 50K but given the elevation change and difficulty of the course, was really above my typical pay grade. (Garmin data here.) I found out that if I was younger than 30, I actually would have won my age group. The volunteer at the finish kept asking if I was "under 30" and in my post-race haze, I could not figure out what he meant. Under 30 miles? Under a 7:30 finish? Finally Beat told him I was "31." Oh, that 30.

For his part, Beat set his own Ohlone PR with a 6:37 finish. Our friends Steve and Harry also put in fast times, and Martina rallied to the finish so hopefully she'll rock San Diego (she's the person I'm supposed to pace.) A great day was had by all.