Pain in the neck

Something about the Mount Tam 50K sparked a "must run" stoke that has yet to dissipate. When I get up in the morning, I feel excited about running. I want to hit familiar trails and try to run faster; I want to seek out new routes and run longer. It's hard to say why my run stoke is so high right now, but it may have something to do with the fact that every time I've ridden a bike in recent weeks, I felt like the reduced-power slug that I probably actually am. And yet, somehow, whenever I set out on foot, I feel comparatively strong, light, and free. So I go for a run, feel great, and then the hidden knot in my neck tightens again. After every run, without fail, I've grappled with a stiff neck for a day or two. It's baffling, and annoying, because since when did a sore neck become a running injury?

This started at the Horseshoe Lake 50K, which was a little more than a month ago. I woke up the next morning with a sharp pain down the center of my neck, and assumed I had wrenched it after I was stung by a wasp during the race. The rigid stiffness faded over the course of the week, and may have gone away completely if I didn't run that road half marathon in Moab a week later. Unknown forces during that thirteen-mile fun run took my little knot and tightened it into something more permanent.

See what I did there? Even though my neck first felt sore after a trail race, I try to blame the half marathon because I think road running is the root of all running-related injuries (not really, but I do carry disproportionate prejudices against running on flat pavement.) But after The Other Half, I was stricken again by a seriously stiff neck, and it's come back to some extent after every run since. I rode my bike for 170 miles in Frog Hollow with no ill effects (at least to my neck), and yet a six-mile run a few days later left me hobbled again. I finally decided this nagging neck soreness might not go away on its own and scheduled an appointment with a massage therapist next week. Based on his opinion, I'll decide where to go from there. In the meantime, I try to limit my running to shorter routes every other day. Which is how, despite rain and colder temperatures, I ended up on a bike ride today.

Here's another habit I've formed since I moved to California that I'm not proud of — I don't ride my bike in the rain anymore. Now, granted, it only really rains here from October to March, and even then only a few times a month. But on the days it does rain, I don't ride. If I want to exercise, I go for a run. I really enjoy running in the rain, and now view non-commute biking in the rain as wholly unnecessary and bad for bikes. It's sad to me because I used to thrive — thrive — on rain riding when I was an Alaska resident. People gave me kudos for riding through snow and subzero temperatures, but it was the rain riding that really made me tough. When I was pedaling in the driving rain with thick droplets clinging to my face and an icy stream running down my back, I wasn't training to be a fit cyclist. I was training for life, to be strong, to be resilient, to be ready for anything the world could throw at me. Now I'm a wimpy Californian with a stiff neck who has to dig through the back corner of my closet to find my cycling rain gear.

I tried to muster strength up the long road climb, but I was feeling sluggish. A steady drizzle tickled my skin, but it was still too warm for rain gear. It was a blah gray day, nothing terribly scenic, and I considered bailing from my ride early. Then I reached the ridge. A storm that had just minutes before been simply gray and drizzly suddenly broke loose. The mountain was enveloped in thick fog, driving rain, and gale-force winds steamrolling eastward from the coast. The Santa Cruz Mountains form a barrier between the Pacific Coast and the warmer Santa Clara Valley, and Montebello Ridge is a prominent spine. Weather collects up there, so even if conditions are nice and calm in the valley, it can be hurricane nasty on the ridge 2,500 feet higher. Suddenly surrounded by horrible, uncomfortable, bike-rattling weather conditions, I couldn't help it. I broke into a big smile.

There was little else to do but pull up my hood, pull on my gloves, and pedal full-tilt into the angry storm. Wind buffeted my little bike and a deeper chill seeped through my wet shirt. I had the best time descending the wet Bella Vista Trail, laughing in the face of driving rain. I relished the fading light, obscuring fog, and violent wind, because they reminded me of everything I used to love about riding bikes in weather, real weather. It will batter you and drive you to distraction in too-large doses; I learned that the hard way. But in small doses, few things are more fun than riding bikes in bad weather.

The rain left me fully soaked and had to bundle up for the long descent, but as soon as I dropped out of the storm, I was treated to a stunning sunset. This photo doesn't capture the visual at all, but there was this beautiful wash of pink light over the sky and valley, and the clouds had an eerily bright tint.

Yeah, this photo didn't grab it either. Guess that's why it's good to get out there, in the cold and driving storm, to see for myself. Either way, I was buzzing after my ride, and wonder if I can now return to my regularly scheduled "ride stoke." For reasons that don't make any sense, this evening has been relatively neck pain-free. 

City living

"I guess that's what happens when you give adrenaline athletes a bunch of jalopy go-carts and an incentive to go hard."

"People really rolled them ... in the middle of Market Street?"

"Some more than once. The streets were soaked so the tires were slipping out, and the wheels would get caught in trolley tracks and spin the cars all the way around. People were drag racing at stop lights, and ramming into each other like bumper cars. We stalled out on steep hills and had to push those things up the road."

"Wasn't there a bunch of damage?"

"Oh yeah. Some were totalled. Helmets came back cracked in half. Someone hit a bus. People were all bruised up and covered in blood, looking pretty forlorn. Everyone was wet. It was carnage, total carnage. But funny."

We turned into a dark alley splattered in street art, and I smiled at the mental image of a few dozen semi-pro and pro athletes set loose on the streets of San Francisco with three-wheeled go-carts and a loosely organized scavenger hunt with a big cash prize for first place. My ex-boyfriend, Geoff, was in town for the Clif Bar athlete summit, and after he completed what was apparently a race to rack up as much collateral damage as possible, we met up with him, our friends Paul and Monika, and old friends visiting from Chicago, for a night in the city.

Minutes after Beat and I arrived fresh from a short but hard run, our friend Paul decided he wanted to eat tacos at a place that was about thirty blocks away. So we walked and walked and walked, and Geoff told us increasingly more head-shaking stories about the Clif Bar summit. "One of the challenges was to trade a Clif Bar for something better. So of course Levi Leipheimer finds a bike shop where everyone knows who he is, and walks out with a $5,000 set of wheels." Monika and I discussed our upcoming trail marathon team relay, and she told me that actually, we're all just taking turns running the same 10.5-kilometer loop. "So in a way, we're kinda just racing each other," I replied, and she didn't disagree.

The Mexican restaurant was typical of many San Francisco establishments I've visited — headache-inducing colors on the walls, all of six tables for seating, and featuring many intriguing menu items that, as an adventurous person, I really should order — even though I usually just go ahead and get two boring old grilled chicken tacos.

Paul went ahead and ordered the fried grasshopper taco, and made sure everyone had a taste:

"It tastes sort of what I imagine rotten yellow grass soaked in stale vegetable oil would taste like."

In the 45 minutes it took to walk back to Paul and Monika's place, the weather changed from pleasant to pouring, with torrents of rainwater gushing down the steep sidewalks. We spent the rest of the evening in soaked jeans, snacking on home-dried fruits and the prototype Clif Bars that Geoff made at company headquarters ("The secret is yogurt-coated mangoes.") We discussed South Park parodies, Iditarod strategies, and listened to Monika's stories of Christmas traditions under communism.

After a fun night in the city, the next day we went mountain biking at one of our favorite spots in our little slice of the "city."

Black Mountain, part of the bustling municipality that is Palo Alto, also home to Facebook and Stanford University.

As I was telling our friends from Chicago, the Bay area has its cons, for sure. But if I'm going to live in a big urban area, this isn't a bad place to be. 

Surprise PR

Some days, I'm not really sure what to think. One day, I was so stiff that I was barely able to walk after stepping off my mountain bike at the top of Black Mountain. And the next, I was sprinting down Wildcat Canyon effortlessly, like my feet had wings. One day I was half-convinced I might actually need to take a couple of weeks off, or else simply learn to enjoy myself inside my fitness hole. And the next, without setting out to do so, I carved four minutes off my best time on a routine but tough trail loop that I've run dozens of times in better shape.

The bike ride was Beat's idea. It was a beautiful, warm afternoon, there was a storm in the weekend's forecast, and he and Liehann decided to carve a few hours out of their work day to ride up Black Mountain. Recovery was slow after my hard effort at the Mount Tam 50K, and Beat was even more sore than I was. We were still walking like zombies when we geared up for the ride. The 2,700-foot climb was hard, harder than it should be, but worth it. The mountaintop was bathed in rich November light as wisps of clouds painted abstract patterns across the sky, and the distant Pacific Ocean reflected the deepest shade of gold underneath the late afternoon sun. We saw two coyotes lope across the hillside and descended in a refreshing blast of cool air. Some days, I think it doesn't really matter how fit I am, not really. As long as I am still healthy, I am free.

The next day's run was really a "clear my head" kind of pursuit. I've returned to my Alaska memoir writing project after shelving it for nearly a year, mostly because I'm a bit stuck on my "A" project. The main reason I shelved the Alaska memoir is because I lost faith that I could sell it. However, my recent small successes with my "Arctic Glass" blog compilation showed me that books don't have to be fantastically original and "epic" to sell. It's the modern age, eBooks are cheap, and good stories are good enough. I still want to do great things with the "A" project, which is why I've been so tight-lipped about it, but that can wait. So I've vowed to finish the memoir. But when I'm working on it, I find myself a little bit lost in the past. I wanted a good, short jaunt to bring my head back to reality.

My legs were less sore than I expected them to be as I started up the steep first climb on the PG&E Trail. I'd been plopped on the couch all day and didn't even realize that something, perhaps the bike ride or maybe the solid night of sleep, had flushed the lead out of my muscles. I kept a conservative pace down the Coyote Trail and up the first bit of the Wildcat Loop climb. It wasn't until mile three, about halfway through, that I looked and my watch and thought, "Huh, not too bad. If I pick up the pace I bet I can break an hour."

The next two miles melted away at 7:30 pace, loping across a carpet of dry leaves, legs free but lungs hot and head fuzzy. My vision started to wobble and I had a drunken sense of skewed depth perception. I always slowed enough to pass hikers and tight corners cleanly, wondering the whole time how fast runners possibly manage their speed steering. I wanted to keep a good pace on the final climb, but it's still a climb, and I fought that underwater feeling with loud gasps for air. Honestly, I turned off my iPod for a minute and the noises I was making embarrassed me, so I turned it back on.

During the final short descent my shoe came untied and I ignored it, not the smartest thing I've done. I ran full speed across the bridge and hit stop on my watch, 57:41. Sub hour! I was pleased. This is a tough loop. It's only a 10K (6.3 miles), but with 1,050 feet of climbing and all trail. It used to be my "recovery" loop and I would run it in 1:15, and lately have pushed that down to 1:05 or so, but 57 minutes is four minutes faster than my recorded PR (although I don't wear my watch all the time.) So then I wonder how fast I could run this loop if I "tried" on the climb. And then I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I'm not in such overtrained poor shape after all. Maybe being tired is this idea I put in my head because I assumed I should feel that way.

I don't know. I don't have any big events in the pipeline right now, so I feel secure in just going with the flow for a while. I did, however, apply for two 2013 races this week. I was accepted for the Homer Epic, a hundred-kilometer snow race to be held in old hometown next March, and which I hope to race on foot, fast and light. (Yes, I really did once live in Homer, Alaska.) The other race is the Hardrock 100. Yeah, yeah, I know. Luckily the odds aren't good that I'll get through the lottery for that one.

Still, I have a whole winter of relative freedom from training in front of me, and I plan to enjoy it by pushing my margins as much as I can.