Palette of motion

My friend Jan offered two great suggestions for our morning ride today: Mountain biking along the sandy ridges above Pacifica, or road ride to the top of Mount Hamilton. At first, mountain biking seemed to be the clear choice. With the exception of two routine hill climbs near my house, I've been actively avoiding road biking since my friend Keith was hit by a motorcycle while we were riding in Yosemite National Park last May. It's not a fear or protest type of avoidance; I've ridden plenty of pavement on my mountain bike and commuter since then. It's just that much of my excitement for road riding tapered off when the harsher realities settled in. Put yourself on skinny tires and you're always at the mercy of vehicle traffic. There's no escaping it.

Still, I'd never ridden Mount Hamilton before. At 4,200 feet, it's the highest peak in the Bay area, accessed on a solid 18-mile road climb (and descent) with 4,300 feet of climbing (thanks to a couple of rollers.) There's a domed observatory at the top, and on clear days, huge views of the Diablo Range, the Silicon Valley, San Francisco, and even the Pacific Ocean. And I'd never been to the top of Mount Hamilton. I couldn't say no to that. The method of travel didn't matter to me as much as the destination.

As we pedaled up the winding road, I pondered the origins of my current palette of activities. I began to wonder if many active or outdoors people ever consider what life events sparked their preferred methods of motion. What makes some people avid skiers who sulk through summer and others identify as cyclists and claim complete disinterest in anything that doesn't involve wheels? Why do some people live for running while others would rather push tacks into their feet than pull on running shoes? Why did I dislike cross-country skiing so much during the one season I dabbled in it? And why did a friend of mine, an otherwise nonathletic, stay-at-home-mom, develop such a passion for ice climbing, of all things? Why do you do the sports you do?

I clearly remember the moment when I decided to become a cyclist. It was several years before I cared much about fitness or even dreamed that competitive events would someday become a big part of my life. No, I was 22 years old, and gripped by wanderlust. My palette of motion at the time was backpacking, day hiking, snowboarding, and more backpacking. One day, I saw a man pedaling up a canyon on a bicycle loaded with panniers and camping gear. And I thought, "Wow, what a great way to travel!"

Because I'd effectively not ridden a bicycle since I was a child, I actually had to re-learn simple bike handling before I could become a bicycle tourist. After a year and two big tours, my travel ambitions morphed into road centuries and commuting, then a brief period of barely dabbling in mountain biking, before my bike passion suddenly and inexplicably swung toward extreme forms of endurance racing, namely long-distance snow biking and self-supported bikepacking. By 2008, I was a single-track-minded cyclist, logging 9,500 miles in one year on dirt, pavement and snow, and aspiring toward ever-bigger and more-difficult bike adventures.

In 2009, that trajectory came crashing down. I'd lost a long-term relationship and finished the Tour Divide. I was heartbroken and burned out. I desperately needed a change of scenery, so I returned to my first passion — hiking. But now, with all that endurance experience behind me, I carried a strong new desire — distance. So it only made sense to try trail running.

That, in essence, is why I became a runner. Not because it felt good, or even natural. In fact, I was an awful, awkward runner, and I still pretty much am (although I have learned a few techniques to better control my awkwardness.) But I loved the way running increased my ability to travel longer distances in the mountains, in less time. A hundred miles on foot in 1.5 days? Check! Now how can I apply what I've learned to backcountry routes where bikes can't go?

But it's not just about travel anymore. Somewhere in those wanderings, I did fall in love with trail running. I enjoy pounding out my routine trail runs, even though the scenery is the same and all the loops eventually go nowhere. The simple motion makes me feel alive. Maybe someday I'll be so in love with this newfound fluidity of motion that I'll even be willing to take my running to the road. But not yet. Biking on pavement is still enjoyable enough to trump the drawbacks. But running? Not quite yet.

And I still love cycling, both as a fun and fast way to get to a brand new place like the top of Mount Hamilton, and as a satisfying motion on the same old hill that I've already climbed many dozens of times. But I wouldn't choose to go back to the days when I was solely a cyclist. Not only did I grapple with a lot more little injuries back then, but I also had fewer destination options overall. Monotone palettes are limiting. I sometimes meet cyclists who tell me they'd never be interested in running and I think, "You should try it! You really should."

Think about it. Why did you become a cyclist or runner? It's likely a lot of us just fell into one or the other through the randomness of life circumstance. Personally, I've enjoyed expanding my palette of motion. Maybe someday I'll even give cross-country skiing one more chance.

Still an incredible ditch

It's my favorite tradition — and a strong indicator of where my priorities fall. I've failed to go home for Christmas for six of the past seven years, but I never miss the annual autumn Grand Canyon rim-to-rim hike with my dad. 

This year was my seventh trip into the "big ditch," as my friend Dave calls the Colorado River gorge. My first rim-to-rim hike, back in October 2004, was such a daunting prospect that I was awake all night before the hike, nervous that I wouldn't find the strength to climb all the way out of the canyon. I'd done 6,000-foot climbs before that, but never at the end of a long day. My dad and I joined a large group at North Kaibab trailhead in predawn darkness. I remember thinking it was such an incredibly long way down; after fifteen miles, my legs were aching and we were still at the bottom of the canyon. Temperatures climbed over a hundred degrees as we plodded up the Bright Angel Trail. Some of our companions developed bloody nipples and heat exhaustion, and had to submerge themselves in tiny trickles of streams. When we finally reached the South Rim, I plopped down with a Pepsi my mom brought for me, convinced I couldn't possibly take another step. Now, eight years later, a rim-to-rim hike has become something I've convinced myself I can squeeze in less than a week after a hundred-mile mountain run. Even my dad has started talking about doing a double-crossing next year, calling it "the new rim-to-rim." But where some of the challenge has faded, the unbelievable beauty and quality time with my dad has remained. 

 This year we started on the South Rim and worked our way to the north. We were joined by my dad's friends Chad and Ophie, who recently moved from San Francisco to Utah. Chad is a fun guy to spend time with. He and my dad were hiking companions in the 1990s, before Chad moved from Salt Lake City to the Bay Area. Chad was a 2:48 marathoner and a mountaineer aspiring toward Mount Everest (the tragic death of his climbing partner on Mount Whitney put this dream on hold indefinitely.) But Chad is an obvious bad-ass who recently had knee surgery and gained a little weight, so his self-depreciating humor is a continuous source of entertainment. Chad is looking to get into trail running and was actually asking me for advice about training for ultras. Coming from a 2:48 marathoner, I have to say, the notion that I had anything useful to offer was pretty hilarious. But he is a great guy. His wife, Ophie, was quiet but steady. She was nervous about the scope of a rim-to-rim, too, but only seemed to gain strength as she climbed.

 I still had a few lingering physical issues after the Bear 100, including tired climbing legs, extremely sore pinkie toes and a few open blisters. On Thursday night, I spent an hour giving myself a specialized pedicure, filing down my more problematic calluses, moisturizing, and carefully taping my blisters and four toes. This seemed to help a lot. My feet had been my largest concern for getting through the canyon, but they proved to be a minor inconvenience — if you count excruciating pinkie toe pressure pain as a minor inconvenience. I guess I really am developing an ultrarunner mentality.

 We started down the South Kaibab Trail just minutes before the first wave of shuttle bus hikers and runners (we actually saw the bus pull into the parking lot.) Even still, we managed to stay ahead of all but a handful of runners, so we largely had the canyon to ourselves in the morning.

 Although I've considered taking on the popular runner tradition of running across the canyon and back in one day, I'm torn about the notion of a R2R2R. Honestly, I think it would be a fun challenge, but the Grand Canyon is really the type of place where it's even better to take it slow.

 There were, of course, many picture stops along the way.

 Friday was a hot day in the canyon — barely cool before sunrise on the South Rim, and well into the 90s at the river. Having lost all of my heat acclimation since I haven't been in real heat since August, the early afternoon climb in the box canyon was a tough grind for me. Ophie, who is Filipino, continued to wear long pants and long sleeves all day long.

 The bridge across the river.

 The "Black Bridge" was constructed in the 1920s for mule traffic, and remains one of only two bridges across the Colorado River in the entire Grand Canyon. The other is the Silver Bridge, on the Bright Angel Trail less than a mile away. Both are foot- and mule-access only, so shuttle drivers for any rim-to-rim crossing still have to drive more than two hundred miles around the big ditch.

 Climbing out of Bright Angel Canyon. It was really hot here.

So I was stoked to arrive at this place for lunch — Ribbon Falls, my favorite spot on the North Kaibab Trail. (Actually about a half mile off the main trail. So you even get a bonus mile.)

 I spent as much time as I could lingering near this misty alcove. But not too close, unwilling to get my taped-up feet even remotely wet.

 Yay Ribbon Falls

 This was the first time I carried a GPS on a south-to-north crossing, so I never before realized that despite the long, hot grind out of the box canyon, the North Kaibab Trail actually only gains about 2,000 feet total in the first ten miles after Phantom Ranch. The Artist's House below Roaring Springs sits at about 4,500 feet altitude, and from there it's a big grunt to gain another 4,000 feet in five miles. I knew those last five miles were mean! It's not just tired legs that make it seem so.

 We really motored up those last five miles. I was struggling enough to keep the pace that I didn't even stop to take many pictures, for fear my weak legs wouldn't muster the oomph to catch back up to my dad, who can hike really fast. (He may be nearing 60, but I still have to jog sometimes to keep his pace.) We were about a half mile from the top when my dad and I finally stopped at the Coconino Overlook. Chad joined us about three minutes later and staged a comic meltdown, staggering about and dramatically declaring "I got nothing left. I'm seeing stars, cherubs, there's a monkey on a pogo stick!" A lady sitting nearby turned around with a horrified look on her face, believing that Chad was serious. "You're almost there," she sputtered. "Really, you only have about twenty more minutes." Chad's a funny guy.

My mom, our ever-gracious shuttle driver, was waiting for us at the North Kaibab Trailhead. This is such a great tradition and I hope it continues, even if most of my family would probably prefer I come home for Christmas. Thanks, Mom and Dad. 

Recovery week

I had the opportunity to spend the week after the Bear 100 in Salt Lake City with my family, visiting my sister and her two-week-old baby girl, and trying to coax my legs back to life in time for my favorite annual tradition, hiking rim-to-rim in the Grand Canyon with my dad. It was enjoyable to spend time with my family and catch up with a few friends. But as usual, physically recovering from a hard effort is seriously unfun. 

After I finished the Bear 100, I was up for most of the night drinking lots of water and struggling to breathe. I was extremely dehydrated, probably the result of a gradual failure to take in enough fluids during and also after the race. So that was two nights without sleep, and the next few were also limited thanks to sore feet and "the jimmy legs," in which involuntary muscle contractions and cramping kept me awake. By Tuesday I had to start testing whether my legs still worked since our rim-to-rim hike was Friday, so I set out for a two-hour easy hike on the Jacob's Ladder Trail in Corner Canyon. My feet, which were still covered in raw blisters, felt surprisingly okay, but my legs were mostly dead. Starting something like the Bear 100 with tired legs means — like post-Stagecoach 400 rebuilding during the spring — I'll probably spend the rest of the fall operating at reduced capacity. Honestly, that's fine with me. As long as I'm healthy, I'd rather have a steady trickle of adventure at 60 or 70 percent power, than take long breaks coupled with big training bursts in hopes of achieving that elusive 100 percent. That's one of the advantages of being a mediocre athlete no matter what, in my humble opinion — the fun doesn't have to stop.

I certainly do wish I could have been a little healthier during the four days I spent in Salt Lake, because it would have been nice to really get out and enjoy fall in the Wasatch Mountains. The day after my Jacob's Ladder hike, I had lunch with my sister and then had two hours of free time before I planned to go visit my grandmother. I told my sister I was going to get a pedicure for some help with my mangled feet, but instead I ended up in Big Cottonwood Canyon, hiking up the Broads Fork Trail. Whoops. It was worth it, though — trading some foot relief for ninety minutes of bliss. I was even able to run most of the descent, as my running muscles are actually less achey and tired than my uphill hiking muscles right now.

Another thing that happened this week is I found out my standing in the White Mountains 100 lottery, which is a disappointing number 42 on the wait list. I thought I'd be okay with not getting into the WM100 after three years of successful rides around the hundred-mile loop north of Fairbanks. But I'll be honest — I was slightly devastated that I didn't get in for a fourth year. One of the reasons is that the Susitna 100 has been cancelled in 2013, and I didn't put in for any other winter races. I've mulled it over and decided I'm not willing to put up with the extended travel or expense it would take to race the Yukon Arctic Ultra, and the Arrowhead 135 is already full even if I did decide I wanted to make a trip to Minnesota. So, for the first time since 2005, I find myself without any kind of winter goal. Winter is my season. I could be perfectly content hiking mountains and going on leisurely bike tours all summer long, but I really do like to be "on" and training with purpose during the winter. So the lack of direction is disappointing. I'm still not sure what to do.

Beat joked that since my blog reports have been getting so few comments recently, I should poll readers to see what training efforts or trips might make my blog less boring. Ha ha. But then creating a poll helped me think about what I might want to do to compensate for my lack of races this winter. It's on the left in the sidebar of this blog. Please weigh in!

Other than that, it's time to start training for the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow, which is less than a month away. I've spent so little time on a bike in the past two months that even my sit bones have gone soft — also for the first time since 2005, I've lost my one superpower: my "iron butt." That coupled with my dead legs should make for an interesting training block indeed. But I don't even really care because I'm so excited to get back on my Moots and crank out long rides in the Santa Cruz Mountains. It is good to be home again.