Sleeping is giving in

I had planned to turn around at 45 minutes, but that was before the wind really picked up speed. Erratic gusts buffeted the bike from all sides, whistling through the vents in my helmet and causing the wheels to teeter ever so slightly in the midst of the uphill grind. I admit it was kind of exciting, so I continued climbing. The wind carried a surprisingly strong chill. It was 65 degrees in the valley, probably high 50s up here, and the wind made it feel like something closer to 45. A spark of cold realization made me think about the upcoming weekend; I shivered with anticipation and tried to push those thoughts aside by shifting up a few gears and cranking a little harder. As I approached the ridge, a jet stream of fog tore across the hillsides seemingly inches from the top of my helmet. The wind, having finally chosen a clear eastward direction, howled with the intensity of a sonic blast as seemingly benign white clouds streamed past at astonishing speeds. It was a strange sort of storm, and it caused me to shiver even though I knew it was harmless. This was just wind and fog from the Pacific. The skies overhead were crystal blue and the valley below was warm and calm. This was just a microburst of a windstorm, and I purposely rode farther than I should have to find it. But the personalized pocket of exciting intensity made me smile all the same.

On Friday I make my way toward Lake Tahoe for my first attempt at a "summer" 100-mile trail run, the Tahoe Rim Trail 100. I could ramble on and on about how nervous I feel, about the consistent jolts of reality that I'm actually *not* a very good runner, how I realized that a 100-mile race is not the same thing and probably not nearly as fun as a long leisurely hike through the wilderness, or how I'm pre-emptively mourning for my feet — but those things aren't relevant now that I've accepted that I'm setting out into the Sierras early on Saturday morning. I know I'm not going to come close to winning and I know it's going to hurt, a lot, probably more than I even understand despite my extensive feet-mourning period. I know I'll be ecstatic if I finish in something close to 30 hours, pretty darn happy if I finish at all, and I know I won't feel any of these emotions until well after the pain has finally stopped, which, even at my most optimistic won't be for a very long while. So why go? Why indeed?

Maybe, once the pain has finally abated, I'll be able to expound on that ongoing internal debate. For now, I just have to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and let those fleeting moments of clarity sort themselves out in the midst of the micro-storm that I sought out on purpose.

There may be updates during the race at this Web site, or possibly on the Twitter at this feed or hashtag #TRT100. I don't really know. I considered carrying a SPOT, but that's really quite silly given I'll be plodding along a fairly tight and well-marked course at, well, plodding speeds. So updates during the race may be few. Wish me luck, and if you really want to make me smile when I'm wallowing in self-inflicted hurty-foot pain, you can buy my book while I'm gone or, if you already read it, leave a review on Amazon to tell me what you think. For those who purchased signed copies recently, I'm hoping to receive my latest order on Tuesday and will try to get those out next week. Thanks again!

As for me, I'll probably be humming through the ear-worm of what I've already made my 100-mile-plod-through-the-night theme song, "Rebellion" by the Arcade Fire:

Now here's the sun, it's all right (Lies! Lies!)

Now here's the moon, it's all right (Lies! Lies!)

But every time you close your eyes (Lies! Lies!) ...

Good times.

Simply perfect

I wasn't going to ride tonight, taper and all, but during the late afternoon I found myself caught up in a spiral of unproductivity and decided there's really only one way to break free of a spiral like that.

I only had time for the usual road climb, the one I do so often that I find myself racing myself ("Last time I reached the gate in 53 minutes. Have to hit sub-52 this time. Crank! Crank! Crank! Shoot, I'm under 8 mph again. Crank! Crank! Crank!") So, of course, I purposefully left my GPS watch at home. The weather was beautiful, 70 degrees and sunny. Of course, it's always sunny here. I have to scold myself for not appreciating the persistently blue skies more than I do, especially because I was sun-deprived in Alaska for so many years. But today I was genuinely grateful. The afternoon sunlight tinted the trees and pavement in rich, almost metallic colors, and there were vibrant summer flowers everywhere. How come I never noticed these along to road before? Oh yeah, because I'm usually going too hard.

Today, I just pedaled and smiled. It was simple in the most perfect way.

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.