Winter of discontent

Cache Mountain Divide during the 2012 White Mountains 100: So bonked, so tired, so having the time of my life

In late February 2013, Beat is going to load up his sled and set out from Knik Lake, Alaska, and walk toward Nome — 1,000 miles on the Iditarod Trail. For many reasons, such an ambitious undertaking is well beyond my scope right now, and yet the desire to find an Alaska adventure of my own burns deep. On the whole, I'm an adaptable person who could happily change a lot about my life — but, as of yet, I feel unwilling to let go of my annual winter "pilgrimages" through the wildernesses of the Far North. Why this particular activity has become so deeply woven through the fabric of who I am, is still a mystery to me. But a winter without Alaska is still as unthinkable to me as a summer without mountain biking. If I *had* to choose one to give up, well ... most of my biking friends would probably not be happy with my answer.

Happily, Beat's month-long commitment to Nome will likely give me a lot of time to work with in winter 2012-2013. Less happily, my usual, convenient and fun solution of racing is not an option this year. The three races that have played the largest role in my personal development — the Susitna 100, the White Mountains 100, and the Iditarod Invitational 350 — are all unavailable to me this year. I do believe the Susitna 100 will be back someday, and I've mostly been able to let go of the ITI 350, but the White Mountains 100 lottery outcome has been hard for me to cheerfully accept. I admit I was one who didn't understand why some runners are so devastated when they fail to make it through the Western States or Hardrock 100 lotteries. What's the big deal? There are lots of other opportunities. But now I get it. It's hard when you've been part of a small community for three years, channeled so much effort and devotion toward one event, and suddenly you're shut out. I understand why it has to work that way. It's still hard.

So the question remains: What to do? I appreciate the votes on my blog poll. The results were interesting:

Rainy Pass during the 2008 ITI 350: So frightened, so destroyed, so loving every minute I'm alive

"Independent, self-supported bike tour of the Iditarod Trail from Knik Lake to McGrath," 107 votes (31%): A longer, self-supported snow bike tour in Alaska is something I've been considering since late 2009. The main reason I haven't followed through is because I moved away from Alaska, and now lack what I consider to be the necessary conditions to adequately prepare for such an adventure. Attempting 350 miles of the Iditarod Trail on my own would be, in my opinion, considerably more difficult than participating in the race. I would have to be absolutely prepared for every contingency because there are no bailouts. I would have to carry all of my food and fuel, at least seven days' worth, from the start. I would have to prepare for camping every night, in potentially horrific weather conditions. There are a few lodges in the early miles where I could book a room and buy a hot meal, but beyond mile 165, I would be deep in the wilderness and completely on my own. There's also the issue of the short window when such a tour is even possible. Basically, the whole Iditarod Trail only exists for a few short weeks in late February and March. It's almost impossible to plan an independent tour and not bump into either the human-powered or the dog sled races. These two race organizations do so much to facilitate the maintenance of the Iditarod Trail that I do feel it's important to not get in their way. For all of these reasons, I admit I'm still more intimidated by the prospect of such a tour than I am drawn to it.

One of my ideas when I first started considering this in 2009 was to launch an initial "shakedown tour" on the first 165 miles of the trail, closer to "civilization" but far enough out that I could still make a day trip over Rainy Pass and see a lot of amazing scenery. At this point, having never done a longer winter outdoor camping trip, this is probably a better idea. Another idea suggested by Phil in Nome was to fly out to a village much farther west on the Iditarod Trail, connect two points, and see some incredible and completely new-to-me country. This, in some ways, would be more manageable than a McGrath tour since I could mail myself food packages to all the villages along the way. I could arrange it to finish in Nome and wait for Beat there. This is also, of course, an intimidating and probably expensive prospect.

2012 "Pecha Kucha Mountain" fat bike weekend: All of the fun, none of the suffering.

"Snow bike or sled tour on the Denali Highway, Resurrection Pass, and other shorter routes in Alaska," 90 votes (26%): Yes, it is possible to have an adventure in the Far North without resorting to a big sufferfest. I admit I like the challenge of more "extreme" adventures, but I also like vacations that are driven toward fun. The awesome women who invited me on a snow bike tour of the Dawson Trail last March — Jenn and Sierra in Whitehorse, and Jill in Anchorage — are all interested in putting together another tour this winter. One idea I had was the Denali Highway, 135 miles of somewhat maintained snowmobile trail in the shadow of the eastern Alaska Range. There are two lodges along the way to help minimize the suffering, although there is one 65-mile stretch with no commercial structures. Depending on weather and trail conditions, this could either be a very long day or a long two days. I'm not sure how far my friends want to venture into the suffer zone.

There are other possibilities for great tours as well — the 48-mile wilderness trail on Resurrection Pass, snowmobile trails around Homer, and the Denali Park Road, although I'm not sure whether that's maintained at all during the winter. There's also the White Mountains loop in Fairbanks, and of course lots of options in the Susitna Valley. I could certainly spend a happy month seeking out 2- to 3-night snow bike and snowshoe/sled tours, working on my book, riding my Fatback around Anchorage, and hiking a few small mountains. Wait ... why am I considering anything else? Oh, yeah, because I would genuinely miss my annual slogfest. If nothing else, I'm likely to be very lazy the rest of the winter with nothing to train for.

The Dawson Overland Trail, home of the Yukon Quest and Yukon Arctic Ultra. It is beautiful.

"Suck up the exorbitant fee and run the Yukon Arctic Ultra on foot," 45 votes (13%): This is one race I would love a shot at running. Paying for it, however, is not nearly as enticing. For whatever reason, the YAU is considerably more expensive than any other winter race I've participated in, and I mean considerably. The price of the 100-mile event is basically insulting. The 300-mile or 430-mile events might be more justifiable, but again, these distances would be extremely hard, especially because if I race this winter, I want to do so on foot. The YAU is notorious for cold weather and bad trail, enough that winter cyclists have all but abandoned this race (I looked at the results from last year, and they were all runners and skiers.) Plus, it's in early February, so it takes place before I'm going to be in Alaska, making travel another considerable expense. As much as I'd love to run this race, it's out of my price range this year. Perhaps my Yukon friends and I will be able to organize another independent trip on the Dawson Overland Trail, which I'd love to see again. I will mention in this section that I am strongly considering registering for the Homer Epic 100K. It's an awesome course that utilizes the snowmobile trails where I used to ride my mountain bike when I lived in Homer. However, regardless of how I approach that race, I'm not sure it will become a focus.

Walking the Yentna River in December 2011: I will say this, there's a lot of time to think out there. 

"Buckle down and finish writing a book for crying out loud," 57 votes (16%): I'm happy that this option received even more votes than the single winter racing option in my poll. It means there are a few out there who care whether or not I ever actually finish my book project(s). With all the fresh inspiration I was seeking in Utah, I've been trying to sit down and work on it this week. It's tough to explain, but my mind feels so "mushy" much of the time and my writer's block persists. I'm convinced this is a result of devoting so much energy to my outdoor pursuits and travel, and also having what is in reality so much time to work on my writing. I'm a journalist; I honestly work better under impossible deadlines. Well, this winter I'm vowing to set some impossible deadlines for myself. Having no sufferfest to train for might, in the end, be the best thing for me. This isn't to say I'm giving up on the possibility of a longer tour. But maybe it won't be so devastating if it can't happen.

"Experiment with speed work and see if I have a 'fast' 50K in the old legs," 23 votes (6%): I mentioned in my last blog post that I wouldn't mind aiming for a ~5:30 50K, acknowledging that I would need to focus my training in order to achieve this. This and the Homer Epic 100K could the efforts I train for in California while planning other short Alaska adventures. The problem is, the race I'd like to train for, Crystal Springs 50K, is in early January — right after Beat and I return from a dark and cold training weekend in Fairbanks. It's not the ideal taper for a fast 50K. I might look into other trail races and keep this possibility on the table.

The Douglas Island Ridge in Juneau, Alaska, in November 2009: Fleeting beauty worth experiencing

"Nothing, winter is for hibernating," 15 votes (4%): We'll just have to agree to disagree.

Just because we can

I was under the influence of a "22-hours-of-driving-from-Grand-Canyon-to-Salt-Lake-to-Los-Altos" lag, and feeling disconcerted about the degree of difficulty I experienced during a 90-minute bike ride on Tuesday, when Beat turned to me and said "Horseshoe Lake 50K is this Saturday. Do you want to sign up?"

My mind initially cranked out a stream of logical reasoning. "The Bear 100 was just ten days ago. Grand Canyon was three days ago. You were already tired before all of that happened, and still have enough genuine fatigue that you can sleep like the dead through the night and still feel muddled and sleepy during the day. And despite what you might believe, you haven't even run that much lately. Everything you've done from UTMB on has pretty much been strenuous hiking. Plus, the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow is in three weeks, and the last thing you need to do is go for a long run. If anything you need to get that baby-soft butt onto a bike seat and crank out some actual bike mileage for a change. Haven't you missed biking? Aren't your feet shredded enough?"

And then, in the same mental breath, that logical side let out an exasperated sigh. "Whatever. You're screwed anyway."

So another side broke through with a burst of elation, like a manical laugh, "Yes, you're screwed anyway! Let's see just how much this thing can blow up!"

I turned to Beat and agreed to sign up for this pointless fifty-kilometer trail run, and then sat back feeling rather satisfied with myself as the lyrics to "Wrecking Ball" by Mother Mother played in my head.

I made a wreck out of my hand
I put it through a wall
I made a fist and not a plan
Call me a reckless wrecking ball ...

Beat and Jan at the start. Jan is my cycling friend who has decided to dabble in trail running. He was in for the half marathon.

Beat upped the ante by taking his brand-new carbon Niner singlespeed for its maiden voyage by riding to the start of the race, a 16-mile road and singletrack ride with 3,200 feet of climbing. Even my wrecking ball can't compete with that; I slept an extra hour and drove to the start on Skyline Ridge. As I greeted friends at the starting line, I admitted that the only real run I'd done since the Bear 100 was a 6.5-miler on Thursday, two days earlier. What I didn't admit was that during this 6.5-mile run, my quads cramped up and I all but limped the last mile, then felt a strong need to take a nap afterward.

"I'm pretty tired," I mumbled, "and I'm not sure how this is going to go." But in my head, the wrecking ball was manically cackling and prodding me. "You need to run this thing fast. As fast as you can! What do you have to lose?"

See, I do hold this secret wish to run a "fast" 50K, which for me would be around 5:30 or so, but so far have lacked enough desire to follow through with the disciplined training it would take. Still, despite my lack of consistent running, let alone speed work, I thought I might have a shot at sub-six hours if I just refused to let myself hold back. I did have one more factor working against me — the fact that the course was almost entirely singletrack, which is always slower if you're a clumsy and unassured runner like me. But the course was designed as two half-marathon-length out-and-backs with one five-mile spur, all closely paralleling a road. I could blow up at any point and not have to limp all that far to a DNF, which I wouldn't even feel bad about given this was a rather pointless endeavor to begin with. At 7:55 that morning, with still-aching quads and sleep crust in my eyes, a big part of me was vowing to run all-out for as long as I could.

I am unruly in the stands
I am a rock on top of the sand
I am a fist amidst the hands
And I break it just because I can.

Beat with our friends Steve and Harry, who I haven't see since shortly after they finished PTL in France. The main reason to come to these events is to visit runner friends. Trail races are basically parties on the move. They're even catered. 

The field took off at 8 a.m. sharp. I initially ran with Beat, Jan, and two Bay-area friends who also finished UTMB in August, Karen and Nattu. The social chatter drowned out the cackles of my inner wrecking ball, and I fell into a comfortable, perfectly logical pace. "Maybe I should have fun with this and simply finish. Maybe I shouldn't blow myself up," I thought. Still, the wrecking ball persisted. "Run! Run faster!"

I was actually feeling pretty good, and was just about to let the wrecking ball win the argument when, at mile 4.5, something sharp and hot stabbed me in the back of my leg. Beat turned to me and said, "Are you limping?" "I've been stung," I replied. As soon as I said that, a yellowjacket stung him, too, and we both started sprinting as fast as we could away from the wasps.

So, I don't know how most of you react to wasp stings. I have more-severe-than-usual allergic reactions to most insect bites, so I wonder if I'm also more sensitive to wasp venom than the general population. Either that, or I'm just a big baby — but I'm being sincere when I say that I was suddenly in a lot of pain. If a nurse had shown me a pain rating scale, I would have marked six out of ten. Several years ago, I had a comparative experience when I crashed my mountain bike into a large sagebrush. A broken-off branch stabbed through my calf and left a puncture wound, and also — I was convinced — a few splinters somewhere deep in my skin that I never found. That's what the wasp sting was like for me — being stabbed hard in the back of the leg with a jagged stick, and then continuing to run with the stick embedded in my leg, yanking and ripping the skin and muscle. Oh, and plenty of swollen burning, too.

And, just like that, I transitioned from "I'm going to run fast" to "I'm going to drop out at the first aid station, walk out to the road, and stick out my thumb because this is way too hurty to even consider walking 6.5 miles back to the start." The fact that Beat and been stung as well and didn't make a big deal out of it made me reconsider this plan, since it did seem like I was overreacting. When we arrived at the first aid station, they were passing out Benadryl like candy because apparently several racers had been stung by wasps. I took one Benadryl, along with four Advil, and decided I was at least going to power myself back to the start.

After all of my pre-race fretting lack of specific training and fatigue, it was a wasp sting that became the overpowering factor in my experience at the Horseshoe Lake 50K. I could no longer muster the maniacal excitement to "run fast" and just continued at a reasonable pace, grumpy about how much my leg hurt. After finishing the first half marathon, I had reached the conclusion that my leg wasn't going to hurt any less if I stopped running. I took two more Advil and headed out for another 13.1 miles, only managing a real sprint through the "wasp gauntlet." Strangely, my right butt cheek also started to go numb. I'm not sure if the numbness was unrelated or if the venom had moved up my leg, but that coupled with burning pain was enough to consume every thought I had from then on out. I ran a bit more with Beat, Karen, and Nattu. Even though I tried to resist a strong urge to complain about my own petty discomforts when all three of them had been stung themselves, quite a bit of whining did spill out. Sorry, friends.

I strode into the finish just behind my friends at 6:32, and, upon sitting down and realizing that stopping in fact did not change the level of pain in my leg, immediately took two more Advil. Eight Advil was the entire amount of painkillers I allowed myself to take during the Bear 100, but recklessly decided that number was just as appropriate for a biddy widdle wasp sting, just to get through a 50K.

Yes, I'm a big baby. And because of that, the Horseshoe 50K was a hard race, a challenge just to endure. Even though I didn't come close to blowing myself up, that big ol' wrecking ball side seemed wholly satisfied. (Race results: 4th woman, 20th overall.)

Let's break it just because we can
Deface it just because we can
Let's break it just because
Just because ...

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.