See, California isn't so bad

Back when I lived in Juneau, I tried to coax my friends into visiting me by promising that I could prove why Juneau really "isn't so bad." "Don't worry about the possibility of mind-numbing rain; we can still go ride bikes on the beach and that's actually a lot of fun." Strangely, I never had any Outside visitors besides my parents in the five years I lived in Southeast Alaska. Since I moved to the Bay area, I've had several out-of-state friends express interest in visiting. I guess California is just a more visitor friendly location, and it's fun to have a chance to show off my new backyard, which I also believe "isn't so bad." This past weekend, my friend Danni from Kalispell, Montana, flew down for a Memorial Day vacation.

Another incentive I usually add when trying to coax friends to visit me is the promise that "we don't have to torture ourselves" — since apparently most of my friends assume my notion of "fun" is synonymous with grueling all-day slog fests. I try to reiterate that I do the slog fests on my own time, and prefer to have actual fun when other people are involved. I'm not sure Danni was banking on a 52-mile weekend when she flew out here, and honestly I wasn't either. But Danni and I are both too alike in many ways, and the miles stacked up all the same. On Friday we did ten miles on my current favorite running trail, preferred for its UTMB training-appropriate properties of being both steep and downhill runnable. After we descended out of the fog on top of Black Mountain, I pointed out all the local landmarks — "That cluster of buildings is downtown San Jose. There's the NASA complex. Google is just to the left along the shoreline." I also added fascinating bits of trivia that I learned from reading trail maps — "Mountain View is named after this mountain, because the town's settlers could, you know, see it from their settlement."

On Saturday we decided to fight the holiday crowds through Marin County to visit Point Reyes National Seashore. We picked up my friend Leah, who has about the same opinion of running that Danni seems to have about cycling — "It should be fun, in theory, but it's kinda not." Plus Leah was recovering from a cold, so I promised "hiking, only hiking." See? I can be a great activity negotiator.  We still ended up on a 14-mile walk, moving at a brisk clip. Walking long distances quickly is often more tiring than running long distances slowly, even at comparable speeds. But it did give us plenty of time to discuss possibilities for future bike adventures.

The scenery in Point Reyes was stunning, with a brisk sea breeze skimming the grassy hillsides.


Beat ran a few extra miles during the hike, and I joined him for a spur down to the shoreline. We found a hidden cove that seemed like an idyllic spot to run along the beach and maybe set up camp for a long stay. I mused on this fantasy until Beat pointed out that the high tide line ended right at the bluffs, which were too steep and loose to climb in most spots that we could see. Just like most great places in nature, Point Reyes is peaceful and enticing right up to the point that it threatens to kill you.

On Sunday morning we set out to run the Skyline to the Sea Trail, a popular backpacking route that descends from the Santa Cruz Mountains to the Pacific Coast through the thick forests of Big Basin Redwoods State Park. We set up a shuttle with our friends so we could complete it as a point-to-point run, 28 miles total.

We got a fairly early start in order to coordinate scheduling with our friends, and it was 45 degrees and foggy at the top of Skyline. The fog was thick enough that it "rained" on us for the first five miles, but it made for a wonderfully spooky run through the woods. Every Halloween, Danni and her husband Ted throw costume parties, and Danni dresses as some version of an Ewok. Beat and I attended the "sexy Ewok" party in 2010, so the mossy forest setting invariably prompted many Ewok jokes.

We all became increasingly more giddy as we loped through the Sexy Ewok Forest. "Oh, the wonders of combining endorphins and beautiful nature," Beat said. "And sugar," I added as I munched on a piece of Danni's Pop Tart. "Don't forget sugar."

Danni posed with some of the larger redwoods we passed, many with trunks hollowed out by wildfire.

We met up with Steve and Harry near Big Basin Headquarters and continued along a high ridge toward the coast. The pace picked up after we connected with the boys, and Danni and I had a tougher time keeping up. About two miles from our lunch stop, Danni mentioned she was having difficulty breathing. Seconds later she emitted several loud gasping noises and then went silent. I could tell she was trying to speak, but couldn't. I thought she was having an asthma attack and panicked a little, and tried to suggest that we turn around immediately and return to Big Basin to call for help. After she caught her breath again, she insisted it wasn't an asthma attack. We couldn't figure out what caused her airway to constrict so badly for several long seconds. She was fine for the rest of the run, but it was still scary. I thought another friend's visit was going to end at the hospital.

But we did make it all the way from Skyline to the Sea, wrapping up a mostly relaxing run. We spent Monday in San Francisco, moving only enough to make our way from a little bistro where we ate lunch, to a shoreline bar for midday appetizers, followed by a short jaunt through Golden Gate Park. I also had a chance to meet up with my aunt for dinner at a tasty Italian restaurant in North Beach. It was a fun day of marathon eating to make up for our weekend of marathon trail running/hiking.

It's hard to believe that it was just two years ago when I showed up on Danni's doorstep with the introduction, "Hey, I'm Keith's friend Jill," and the plan to hike more than 35 miles through Glacier National Park with a woman I'd never met. Two years later and a thousand miles apart, we're still sharing long marches and the occasional uncontrolled giggle outburst. Thanks for visiting me in Cali, Danni. 

The road ahead

On Monday, I saw my doctor for an annual physical. I was convinced my blood tests were going to show something — low blood glucose levels, iron deficiency, something. Nope. Normal. The doctor asked questions about sleep, weight loss, and stress, which have also worked their way back to normal. Then my doctor had the nerve to suggest that the symptoms I described — general sluggishness, sudden bouts of fatigue in the middle of the day, and lower energy levels — probably had something to do with "the endurance exercise."

Bah.

But as much as I can understand what's going on with my own body, I really do feel like I'm starting to emerge after several weeks under water, and the Ohlone 50K was my first hit of fresh air in what feels like a while. I suspect that my "fun" spring of biking was a lot more difficult for me than I was willing to admit, and the "short" bikepacking race — the Stagecoach 400 — required me to dig a lot deeper into my reserves, and therefore required more recovery, than I wanted to believe. For example, on day two of the Stagecoach 400, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. in Fish Creek Wash and spent the next fifteen hours making my way to Alpine, which was 70 miles away. I had one hour-long breakfast break in there, but for the remaining fourteen hours I was struggling at the crumbling edge of a sustainable pace, in temperatures that topped 90 degrees, for an average moving speed that essentially matched my Ohlone 50K pace. That was just one day of the 400-mile race, and not even a full day, because I continued beyond Alpine for three more hours in the late evening.

The Ohlone 50K, by comparison, was a lot smoother. I'm actually thrilled about how well that race went for me. After feeling like lukewarm road kill for most of the morning, I crossed the threshold of more reasonable daytime hours (for me, the hours after 9 a.m.) and didn't experience much of a struggle for the rest of the day. I was near the end of the line during the climb to Mission Peak, and slowly moved up in the pack during the race. I ended up finishing 71st of 230 starters, and 14th of 67 women ... which, I think it's fair to say, is solidly top third. And although my failure to train for running meant I wouldn't have been able to run it much faster, I do feel I could have run a fair amount farther. If someone told me I could win $1,000 if I turned around and ran the whole course backward for a full 100K, I might have been willing to give it a try. Yeah, I know, it's easy to say that now. But I felt good at the finish of the Ohlone 50K, and recovery runs since haven't even shown the same levels of sluggishness that I was feeling before the Stagecoach 400.

I'm still slow. BUT, I feel like my long-distance endurance is actually pretty good right now. Which, give my aspirations for a potential 46-hour death march at UTMB in three months, is a good place to be.

Good rest and regular fun bike rides are still a priority for me right now, in hope that I do finally dig myself out of my springtime slump. But I at least feel slightly less gloom and doom for the next "benchmark" event I've gotten myself entangled in, the Laurel Highlands Ultra. Beat signed up for this 70.5-mile trail race in southwestern Pennsylvania because his friend Tim Hewitt — the godfather of human-powered Iditarod Trail travel — told him it would be "fun." I admit I have a different opinion about the potential agony of 70 miles of rocky, rooty, steep East Coast trails, but I agreed to sign up as well because I need mental (not to mention foot) conditioning for UTMB. Given the technical aspect of the Laurel Highlands Trail and the race's fairly tight time cut-off that will require me to move faster than my "all day all night" jogging/hiking pace, I still have heavy doubts that I can finish that race. But at least I'm slightly less convinced of my imminent demise on June 9. 

Goodbye to a good bike

Attempting to powder-shred with Pugsley in Spaulding Meadows, Juneau, Alaska.

 I sold my Pugsley.

I know, I thought I'd never write those words. If there was any bike I just assumed I'd keep forever, for sentimental reasons if nothing else, it was Pugsley. I loved this bike. But I didn't love seeing Pugsley hanging on my wall, gathering dust, and never being ridden. I quietly put Puglsey up for sale, and a couple of weeks ago, I mailed him off to his new home in Palmer, Alaska. I like to imagine a bright future of trips to Knik Glacier, beach riding along the Matanuska River, and perhaps even more miles on the Iditarod Trail. A bike like Pugsley deserves to be ridden in Alaska — not languish on a wall in California. Plus, Pugsley *is* just a bike. But I do sort of miss him.

This 16" battleship gray Surly Pugsley came into my life in September 2007. Buying this bike was my method of coaxing myself into signing up for the Iditarod Invitational. I figured if I had the right bike, I could somehow be ready for that kind of expedition (ha!) For the two years prior I was an avid winter cyclist, making do with a full-suspension Gary Fisher Sugar and a hybrid 40mm-rim "Snaux Bike." Anyone who claims that fat bikes aren't superior for their intended purpose as a go-anywhere, all-terrain bike have, in my opinion, simply never actually ridden one in appropriate fat bike conditions — deep but packed snow, soft mud, or sand. Pugsley was a revelation for me; suddenly I had so much more mobility than I ever imagined.

This is a photo from one of my first rides with Pugsley, taken on the Salmon Creek Trail, which was part of my "long" commute to work at the Juneau Empire. Pugsley and I spent a lot of quality time together that first winter, training for the ITI. I expressed my love for my bike in blog posts like "Ode to Pugsley."

Here we are on Sevenmile Lake on the first day of the 2008 ITI. When you go through an experience like that with a bike, it cements a strong love-hate relationship. There were times when I couldn't find the strength to push that heavy bike up a frozen headwall, and I nearly just left it there. Then, minutes later, I'd be coasting down a hard-packed slope, buzzing with elation.


Pugsley wasn't just a winter bike. I made it an ongoing summer project to circumnavigate Douglas Island along the cliff-lined beach. It was always an adventure — crushing mussel shells, steamrolling barnacle-crusted rocks, grinding over sand, racing high tides, mowing down beach grass, and eventually meeting an unworkable obstacle, like cliffs that dropped straight into the sea. Douglas Island is doable with a packraft, but I do believe it would be easier and probably faster overall on foot. Still, trying to use fat bikes for off-trail explorations is a lot of fun.

Beat and I posing with Pugsley in Missoula, on what I believe was Beat's first snow ride. Shortly after this, Beat purchased his aluminum Fatback, and it wasn't long before I started cheating on Pugsley with Beat's bike. I prefer the Fatback for many reasons — it's lighter, more agile, and seems to fit me better (even though it's Beat's bike.) We discussed it and decided that the chance the two of us will ride snow bikes together, ever, is fairly low at this point. It no longer made sense to keep the Pugsley. So I sent him back to Alaska, where I think he'll be happy in the way bikes can be happy — that is, I'm happy because someone else out there is falling in love with a fat bike.