Three sides of the Susitna 100

 The good.

The bad.

The ugly.

Yet another dynamic experience at the Susitna 100. I finished in 35:42, which was under my best-case scenario goal of 36 hours. I had one of the most incredible walks of my life during the 12-mile leg between the Alexander Lake turnaround and the Yentna River, marching under the aurora borealis with my headlamp off and watching columns of light ripple across the sky. I used snowshoes for 91 of the 100 miles. I ate most of the 5,000 calories of junk food that I brought and still experienced a harsh, energy-sapping bonk on the Dismal Swamp at mile 80. I was so paranoid about frostbite that I think I gave myself heat blisters from my vapor barrier sock system. I'll write a race report when I have more mental capabilities. Right now I mainly fluctuate between thinking about food and sleep, and feeling a combination of horror and fascination about exactly what Beat is going to attempt next week in the Iditarod 350. My feet hurt just thinking about it. Actually, my feet just hurt.

But I'm happy I did it. I love my annual slog-fest. More to come. 

Susitna, again

Mount Shasta from the plane. It was a beautiful day leaving San Jose. 

As I sat in the San Jose airport with a large cup of Peet's coffee, I looked over my gear list and tried to figure out what I'd forgotten or what I still needed to change. My mind drifted to the first time I'd done all this, while sitting on the hardwood floor of my cabin in Homer, Alaska, with a bewildering spread of unfamiliar gear piled around me. I smiled as I remembered strapping a handlebar bag full of Power Bars to the inside triangle of my full-suspension mountain bike, and laughed at the memory of bursting into tears while attempting to glue a pair of studded tires to the rims one day before the Susitna 100. That was six years ago, six years. Long enough that I can no longer define endurance racing as this quirky new hobby I'm experimenting with. No, this has become major part of my life, and I can no longer feign novice status when I stand at the starting line of my original journey. However, I am still a newbie to ultra distances on foot, and I will probably cling to this fact if things go wrong.

My final food stash. One thing I've learned over the years is the importance — nay, necessity — of junk food. I've already blogged about appeasing my inner 4-year-old. But there are two truths that I think anyone who has ventured into the 24-hours-plus-of-activity zone has experienced. One: A person can not become malnourished in 24 hours no matter how badly they eat. Empty calories are still calories. Two: A body in continuous motion will reject food intake in the most surprising ways. I stick with what I know I can force down. The Susitna 100 requires that all racers leave the last checkpoint with 3,000 "emergency" calories. That role is filled by the seven king-sized Snicker's Bars. The baggies contain my "deep space rocket fuel," a mixture of Trader Joe's chocolate-covered peanut butter pretzels, dark chocolate covered espresso beans, peanut butter cups, and dark chocolate and sea salt almonds. I weighed them mainly so I could tally my final food weight, and recorded the approximate calories in case I decide to swap them out with Snicker's Bars. The total is 5,205 consumable calories and 3,080 emergency calories. Together, the fuel stash weighs 4.2 pounds. This probably seems like a lot, especially with two or three supplement checkpoint meals. But I need to expect that I might be out there as long as 48 hours, and if I can actually consume 3,500+ calories during each 24-hour period, my performance (not to mention my mood) will be much better than if I languish on minimal rations.

I packed up all my gear in my sled duffel bag. Including the snow shoes, the total is 21 pounds. This does not include water or the weight of the sled structure itself. What it does include is the 4.2 pounds of food, sled and foot repair kits, meds, toothbrush and toothpaste (oh yes. See above for justification), spare batteries, SPOT device, two headlamps, red blinkie, spare bladder, survival gear required by the race: (-40 degree Marmot Cwm sleeping bag, Thermarest Ridge Rest, Black Diamond winter bivy sack), RBH Designs Vapor Barrier mittens, goggles, Wiggy's waders (warm temperatures mean a potential for overflow), spare DryMax socks, spare fleece socks, spare base layer, hat, thin balaclava, fleece balaclava, mid-layer (won't be in sled if I start out the race wearing it) and a down coat. Because the race requires 15 pounds of gear at all times not including food, and I don't think the snowshoes will count as sled weight, I feel I've come close to the minimum even with the extra clothing — which I think is a good idea to carry. Given the weather forecasts for warmer temperatures, it will be more difficult to stay dry.

As for clothing I plan to start with, if the forecasts hold true and temperatures are around +20 degrees, I will probably start the race wearing a pair of wind tights, a base layer, a bike jersey (for use of the pockets in back, where I will store things I want to keep warm), a Gortex coat, a thin balaclava and hat, and my same DryMax sock/ fleece sock/ vapor barrier sock/ Vasque Gortex shoes set-up. I will probably go bare-handed with pole pogies, and carry a set of liner mittens in my coat.

My race strategy is one of continuing forward motion and minimizing impact on my body, so I will likely make good use of my poles and snowshoes. I don't expect I'll spend much time "running," as I consider the motion too much of an energy drain for too little increase in speed when traveling on top of soft snow. I also need to acknowledge that I didn't train running in snow, and I have no idea what kind of impact the uneven footing will have on my body, but I do feel confident that I can walk consistently and comfortably at a decent clip. However, I will have to race the first checkpoint cut-off. Warmer temperatures and a sled full of tasty candy will likely reduce the allure of slumming at indoor checkpoints. Slushy conditions will significantly reduce everyone's pace, but hopefully things cool down a bit by race day.

I'll probably post once again before the race starts on Saturday morning with a final pre-race update. But I wanted to make a gear post — if for no other reason, so I can check everything off when I complete my final packing on Friday. I should have a SPOT tracking page set up at http://www.beultra.com/routes/main_new.php?course=SU100Jill. Beat designed the page to include special slogging and sleeping icons if I am either moving very slow or have completely stopped. There's also an option to send pre-set messages, and if I have the wherewithal to do so, I will probably have some fun with that. 

Last weekend before winter

For every ominous challenge looming over the horizon, there must inevitably be a quiet weekend before. The lists are complete with gear sorted. Travel plans have been made, transportation arranged, training tapered, and fitness as good as it's going to get. All that can happen now is injury, sickness, panic ... you get the picture. Daily routines must go on, distances must be traveled, and pre-race chaos must ensue. But, by and large, this is a week of waiting.

I am not great at waiting. Rather than let phantom pains and panic get the best of me, I decided to stay busy this weekend. And because the Susitna 100 is all about mastering mind games, I also wanted to log some happy images in the short-term memory bank. Happy memories = biking with friends in scenic places. A four-hour mountain bike ride and a five-hour road ride didn't exactly fall into the smart taper plan, but I believe they were a good use of this weekend all the same.

I was going to add warm weather to the happy memory bank, but Saturday was not exactly warm. We were off to a late start after Beat and Liehann spent more than an hour trying to fix Liehann's rear axle (they finally pronounced it busted, and Liehann had to ride Beat's mountain bike, which is why Beat rode the Fatback.) The boys raced each other up the mountain while I struggled to keep up, and then we were hammered by weather on the ridge. We descended Alpine in a spray of mud and cold wind, teeth chattering and fingers numb as we surfed the slick clay with locked-out rear wheels. I fluctuated between a wide, mud-splattered grin, and quiet fretting about all the maladies I would surely catch from this ride — a cold, broken wrists from endoing in the mud, maybe pneumonia. Ah, phantom pains.

Today I met up with a new friend, Leah, for a "mellow" road ride through San Francisco and Marin County. Leah is a cross racer who is recovering after an intense season (cross season just ended a couple weeks ago in these parts.) And I'm tapering for a 100-mile foot race on snow. We both agreed we wanted to take it easy, but Leah secretly likes to hammer and I secretly like to ride all day. In some ways, we both got our secret wish, although the ride did maintain a mellow vibe. Leah guided me through the city and pointed out the sights while I stressed about dodging street cars, descending steep hills and clipping in and out and in and out of my road pedals. I am not well-practiced in urban riding. The Golden Gate Bridge and Sausalito bike path felt like a slalom through an obstacle course of pedestrians and meandering bikers.

I think Leah could sense my weariness with crowds and suggested riding "some dirt" to connect with the road on Mount Tam. We were both riding road bikes. I had Beat's carbon S-Works, and I'm new enough to road biking that I'd hadn't ridden skinny tires on dirt, ever, so I was skeptical of this plan. "It's an easy fire road," Leah said. "We'll ride the dirt up and take the pavement down."

I agreed before I remembered that Leah is a cross racer, and well-practiced in skinny-tire dirt riding. We ended up on Old Railroad Grade, a road that climbs most of the way from sea level to the 2,500-foot peak on soft dirt, rocks and loose gravel. Although the grade made climbing easy, much of the surface was just as rugged as any other fire road I've ridden or run in the Bay Area, with stone slabs and deep ruts rippling through drainages. All I could do was put the fact I was riding an expensive road bike out of my mind, and this technique actually worked. It felt just like mountain biking, only bumpier. A few times we passed groups of mountain bikers who were clearly impressed ... "Whoa, nice bikes."

Then, as we were rounding a tight hairpin turn on a particularly rugged rocky slab, two completely out-of-control mountain bikers came careening around the corner on our side of the road (it was a wide road, and we were all the way on the right edge.) Leah was in front and swerved first. I yanked my foot out of my pedal so fast that my ankle rebounded painfully into the crank, and I slammed my knee into the handlebar as I dove toward the bushes. That was the closest I have ever come to a head-on collision with another mountain biker — while riding a wide gravel road on a road bike. I was livid. All one of the guys could do was say "sorry" as he screamed past us. He was going too fast to stop. "What the hell!" I screamed back. Now I have bruises on my right ankle and left knee, and a grumpy disdain for mountain bikers who ride like idiots on easy trails (Seriously, guys, at least find a real downhill trail or a new hobby.) I only hope they didn't hit somebody else further down the road.

But all was forgotten when we reached the top of Mount Tam, hiked up to a dismantled military installation on the west peak, and looked out over the San Francisco Bay as a storm approached from the south. It was so peaceful up there, seemingly so far away from the noise and the crowds. I decided I loved the dynamics of our ride — busy urban streets to the tourist slalom to the fire road to this beautiful, tranquil perch above it all. As we descended a road cut into cliffs above the sea, I made a point to absorb as much speed as I could handle. Next weekend I'll likely be moving very slow when it's dark and cold, and it will be nice to remember what it feels like to fly above the open ocean, breathing air filled with the aroma of spring grass, sea salt and cherry blossoms, and descending into city drenched in golden light.