Tapering just means more time to panic

Beat and I did a couple simple taper efforts this weekend. They were simple, but in a strange way not easy. I was sucking wind for most of the hour-long climb during our 30-mile road ride, and again today during our eight-mile trail run in Berkley (we had brunch with my dad's friend in San Francisco and decided to visits Beat's former haunts from the two years he lived there.) Beyond the fact that I ate three chocolate chunk pancakes, an empanada, a fritata and a slice of berry torte and then ran eight miles ... I'm still a bit baffled as to why I didn't feet more stellar. I've been taking it easy all week and the weather has been mild. I should be in full taper manic mode by now. Beat and I have been conducting an altitude-acclimating, hypoxic training experiment with a specialized face mask for 60 minutes each evening for the past few weeks, which might explain while my lungs felt so tired while my legs felt strong. But still, there's less than a week now until the Tahoe Rim Trail 100.

It's probably just time for me to contract all sorts of phantom pains and illnesses, not to mention a creeping suspicion that I'll never actually be able to run and I might just currently be in my worst shape yet. The usual, you know. But truthfully, I'm not really one to worry excessively about things I can't control. Meanwhile, Beat's uber-preparedness habits are making me feel guilty about having not even glanced at the TRT elevation profiles yet. I just want to sing "Que Sera Sera" and procrastinate more by blogging instead of making a drop-bag list.

Meanwhile, the 2011 Tour Divide is now drawing to a close, for the most part, as the last original-start riders roll into Antelope Wells. It was a sad day for me as a sports fan when one of my favorite riders, "Red Lantern" Justin Simoni, crashed his bike and dislocated his collar bone just outside Silver City with less than 130 miles to ride to the finish. Justin was the only competitor who braved all of the snowy passes from the start, when they were still so snow-choked that he had to employ snow shoes, an ice ax, and a mountaineering skills to get through them. He was so close to becoming the only non-ITT rider to complete the entire GDMBR this year when the crash forced him to scratch with only the "milk run" left. In his final report, he confirmed his disappointment but mused about the "romantic" way it all ended. I couldn't help but smile, since I'm sure I would draw the same admittedly unique conclusion ... "Sure, I had to DNF with one day left in the ride, but wow, what a fittingly poetic ending. A hard but ultimately enlightening reminder that our only rewards come from within, in the end."

Cricket Butler, the woman who set out from Banff on June 30 with the seemingly almost single-minded focus to ride for "the women's record" on the main course (which happens to currently be my 2009 finishing time) held a solid pace for the first 700 miles of the course but decided to stop outside Wise River, Montana, because of debilitating knee pain. Since she dropped, I've received a couple of congratulatory e-mails for "keeping" the record for another year, but I really was rooting for Cricket. I love that more women are getting involved in the Tour Divide and really want to see them all succeed. I enjoyed watching the women battle it out in this year's race. I've even heard from a couple of them since the race, women with whom I hadn't had any contact before they finished the TD.

The women's race winner, Caroline Soong, wrote me a thoughtful e-mail that I hope she doesn't mind my sharing: "I wanted to let you know that while racing the Tour Divide this year I somehow got the name of your new book "Be Brave, Be Strong" stuck in my head. It was during the Gila section that I would chant it in my head like some kind of mantra. It was just what I needed to get my mind off the heat, wind, brutal terrain and fear of running out of water. After having crashed a few times already in the race I became frightened of descending so I also chanted it my head on descents. I haven't read your book yet but look forward to reading it soon."

I also heard from Tori Fahey, whose real-time race reporting kept me glued to her progress from the start. I commented a few times on her blog posts and she recently wrote me an e-mail offering to buy me lunch or a beer if I ever travel through Calgary, as well as her sincerest respect for a Tour Divide finisher (which I also share. I think that in many ways this race is more difficult than anyone who has never participated in it can really understand.) In her latest blog post, Tori wrote that "The simplicity of riding and eating and sleeping is wonderful. It is only in the depth of such simplicity that the true intensity of emotions can come out. When it gets down to a matter of basic survival, that's what it is to be alive. ... I want to continue to experience life with such intensity. And I *know* that I will be stronger next time."

At the end of her message, Caroline commented that "The Divide was a great adventure, different than anything I had done before and in the end looking back after only a few days, I loved it. Not sure if it is in my future to race it again but the race was a great experience. I'll be rooting for you next year when you give it another go."

I actually laughed when I read Caroline's last sentence. When I give it another go? When? Since I finished that race two years ago, I've notoriously become one of those people who will decry "Hardest three weeks ever! Never again!" in one breath and then, in the next, spout off all the ways I could "easily" ride "at least three days faster" in the next go-around by racing smarter and sleeping in the dirt. The Tour Divide, like the Iditarod Trail, has this strange pattern of working its way into your blood, haunting you with images and memories and fantastic, unrealistic ambitions. A larger part of me realizes that, for the same time investment, I could ride a bike across Mongolia, or fast-pack the Pacific Crest Trail, or embark on a Brooks Range trekking trip. In other words, I could go out and experience new adventures. And yet, a desire to go back to the Divide calls to me like a siren in the mountains. Whether or not I ever heed it, well, that still depends on whether or not I survive the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 next weekend.

Great moments

Last week, my friend Bill wrote a great blog post in which he listed his "top five greatest moments." It makes an intriguing thought exercise, because by pinpointing specific moments we consider our "greatest," we simultaneously throw a sharp spotlight on the aspects of life that make us the happiest. It sounds trite but I think listing them can have a profound impact. Take the moments you felt the happiest, analyze what you learned about yourself and life, and set your sights in those directions. So I gave it some thought this week and came up with five great moments from the past decade. To make the list, they actually had to qualify as true moments — although framed by a larger experience, these were all just a few quick but vibrant seconds that reverberated with a lifetime's worth of color and energy. I don't necessarily consider them the "five greatest" or "top five" because I don't think these types of moments are quantifiable — not only are they always changing, but they're constantly re-imagined through the lens of what has happened since. But "great moments" are worth acknowledging.

Reaching the summit of Mount Whitney with my dad, August 2001: The summers of my early adulthood were marked by long hikes with my dad. He got me started on Mount Timpanogos in the Wasatch Mountains when I was 16 years old and each summer included a progressively more epic outing. In the summer of 2001, we scored a permit for a day trip on Mount Whitney. It was an intimidating prospect — 22 miles, 6,000 feet of climbing to an elevation of 14,500 feet. It was by far the most difficult single-day effort I had ever planned. I was also approaching a big intersection in my life. I had just returned from my first big adventure — a cross-country road trip followed by a two-week rafting trip down the Green River. The travels left me with a lot of conflicting feelings about adulthood, freedom and relationships. And just two days before our hike, I had interviewed for a career job as a newspaper editor in Tooele that I was poised to get. So I had a lot on my mind as my dad, his friend Tom and I marched up the barren slopes of California's highest mountain. In the process I started to open up to my dad, and he helped me feel secure when my head spun and heart raced in the thin air. Practically crawling onto the broad peak and looking out over the sweeping ridges of the Sierras was a particularly meaningful moment for me. I'll never forget the smile on my dad's face.

What I learned about myself: I feel most at home in the mountains, I relish big efforts, and I value shared accomplishments.

Cresting Bayview Hill over Homer, Alaska, September 2005: In late August 2005 I made the spontaneous and rather terrifying decision to leave my home and job in Idaho and follow my then-boyfriend Geoff to Alaska. We decided to move to Homer nearly sight-unseen because I managed to land a job at a weekly newspaper in the quirky fishing village, population 3,000. We drove directly from Idaho to the tip of the Kenai Peninsula over three long days. I felt deeply fatigued and uncertain when we rounded the sand bluffs at Bayview Hill, where I caught my first glimpse of the Homer Spit and Kachemak Bay. I remember the calm water was glowing gold in the late afternoon sunlight; yellow birch leaves lit up the hillsides and the impressively rugged Kenai Mountains wrapped around the bay. My jaw just dropped in an "I get to live here?" kind of disbelief, and I felt a wash of strong conviction that I had landed exactly where I needed to be. Although I don't regret leaving Homer and following the path that I did, my heart still flutters when I think about that place.

What I learned about myself: I thrive in the excitement of new beginnings and I love dramatic outdoor landscapes — and Alaska.

Climbing toward Rainy Pass, February 2008: Entering the 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational, a 350-mile snow bike race to McGrath, was simultaneously the worst and best idea I ever had. I was so far in over my head that even now it's difficult for me to understand how I got through it with the knowledge and personal experience I had at the time. Everything about that adventure was so much more remote, intense and absolutely frightening than I ever anticipated, and I did the whole thing almost completely alone. I struggled and struggled and achieved small triumphs followed by crashing blows, but I just kept chipping away at it even though I was plagued with a fair certainty that I was probably going to die. (Yes, I'm more confident of my abilities in extreme conditions now. But I certainly wasn't at the time.) Despite all of this, I'm not sure any of these moments I've listed quite reach the level of pure ecstasy I felt as I plodded into the Alaska Range early on a sunny, frigid morning in February. I was so, so happy to be alive, just simply alive. But I also recognized that I was alive in one of the most overwhelmingly beautiful places I had ever seen — stark white mountains, deep blue sky, sprinkles of dwarf spruce trees and absolutely nothing else.

What I learned about myself: I really am stronger and more resilient than I ever imagined I could be, and I deeply love the wilderness — and Alaska.

Rolling into Antelope Wells at the finish of the Tour Divide, July 2009: The 2,740-mile mountain bike race was full of intense, ecstatic and triumphant experiences that all seemed to condense and collide when I coasted past the last mile marker and approached the waving arms of my mom and dad at the border. Finishing that race was a beautiful personal accomplishment, one I can never really repeat because I can never return under the same circumstances. But I can always cherish the way I set out to do this thing that genuinely seemed impossible to me, and finish with flair — arm raised in the air and a smile on my face.

What I learned about myself: I value solo accomplishments and also adventures infused with difficulty, daunting challenges and suffering, because they make the experience that much more vibrant and meaningful to me.

Standing in the moonlight with Beat during the Bear 100, September 2010: The circumstances surrounding Beat's and my "first date" at the 2010 Bear 100 are almost too convoluted to list, but we had ended up together in the most unlikely spot and we both knew it. I set out to travel 50 miles with him even though my 2010 running miles up to that point probably didn't yet total 50. Beat was fresh off a five-day, 200-mile, sleepless epic in the Italian Alps and practically flew directly from Italy to Utah to run yet another 100-mile race a week later. We barely knew each other but agreed to the meeting because to both of us, it almost seemed like our only chance. I joined Beat right at sunset and we worked through our "first-date" introductions, discussions of physics, favorite places and meaningful adventures as we ran through the night. After a couple dozen miles, we stopped for a break in the midst of a large alpine meadow. We turned off our headlamps and let the bright moonlight illuminate the mountains surrounding us. Beat said he brought something for me, reached in his pack and fished out a golf-ball-sized gray rock infused with flecks of gold and pearl. He told me he thought of me when he collected the rock early in the Italian race and carried it the entire 200-mile distance — and 70 miles of the Bear 100. I was deeply touched by the gesture, and immediately understood what that meant for both of us.

What I learned about myself: I cherish these shared moments of clarity. And Beat is a great person to share them with.

That was fun — and provided some good personal insights that I can carry into the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 next week. What are some of your great moments?

Torturing the parents

My mom and dad came to visit me for a few days, so I did what any good daughter would do for her 50-something parents in the technology capital of America — I dragged them around on grueling athletic adventures. I took this picture during our six-mile hike in Fremont

Older Preserve in 90-degree weather.

The next day, I set them up on mountain bikes for the 16-mile-round-trip ride to Google. I rode my fixed-gear commuter to keep the pace casual. Noncyclists both, they humored me all the way up to "Vista Point," a knoll that looks out over the Kingdom of Google. On the way down the smooth gravel path, I mindlessly relaxed my legs into "coast mode" and experienced the usual blunt fixed-gear force that disconcertingly feels like my tibias ramming directly through my knee joints. Suddenly the chain jumped off the chainring, so I applied the front brake and coasted to a stop. As I started to thread the chain back on, I discovered the chainring had folded inward. There were no rocks or any sort of chainring-bending obstructions in sight. My knees felt fine but the Surly chainring was completely tacoed. It appears that the sheer resisting force of my astonishingly strong legs managed to bend a stainless steel chainring. That, or I was dealing with a loose chainring bolt or otherwise defective ring. But I'm going to go ahead and give the credit to my legs.

Either way, my fixie quickly became useless and I was the one who had to call in a rescue ride, much to the amusement of my parents. I tried to make up for it this evening by taking my dad on the 2,500-foot climb up the Monte Bello Road at sunset. Did I mention my dad's not a cyclist? He's a strong hiker and runner, but rarely rides a bike. You'd never really be able to tell if you didn't know him well. He holds his own.

Here we all are at the top of the climb. Yay Dad! They're leaving here on Friday to spend the weekend in San Francisco. I wonder why they just don't stay?