2013 dreams, winter

Well, it's the middle of January and I'm well overdue in the blogger department of "listing my goals for the coming year." Because if you write it out, you're more likely to at least try most of it. And of course adventure plans have been on my mind quite a bit since the year started. I recently went to see my doctor about a large lump on my big toe. He diagnosed it as a ganglion cyst and used a giant shiv of a needle to drain out an impressive quantity of gelatinous goo. The cyst is benign but has the potential to come back and cause issues, so as a precaution he took me off running for a week (I talked him down to four days after asserting my need to be mobile during a trip to Yosemite this coming weekend.)

 I'd planned to start ramping up my running miles this week, as I have 100K race coming up in mid-March. But, ah well. I've enjoyed some wonderful afternoons on my road bike. Today I caught a wave of inspiration and veered off the pavement onto the Waterwheel Creek Trail, a scenic fire road that contours the hillside. It was a beautiful, frosty evening with the last wisps of sunlight refracted by a haze over the mountains, and I enjoyed the extra time up high. Also, it's invigorating to grind steep gravel on skinny tires. I can understand why my friend Leah likes to ride her cross bike so much.

 But yes, back to the 2013 dreams. I believe it will be another great year of pushing my limits in places far outside my comfort zone. This could draw out into a very long blog post, so I'll start with winter. Both Beat's and my focus for the winter is centered around Beat's plan to walk to Nome, a thousand miles on the Iditarod Trail. He expects it will take about a month, and I am planning to spend that time in Alaska. Still, I've had a difficult time formulating my own plans. I want to take advantage of that window to embark on some great adventures. But at the same time, I want to be present should Beat have any issues, and I also want to be aware of what's going on in his journey. This desire excludes the possibility of doing a larger trip of my own, and I'm fine with that. I plan to break my own trip up into smaller adventures, in hopes that I don't stay out of contact for too long. So I've drafted a list of "maybe adventures," most of them tentative and dependent on weather, trail conditions, and logistics.

February 24: Iditarod Trail Invitational starts. Of course I'll be there for that.

Week One: Iditarod Trail snow bike tour. It would be strange for me to go a whole year without venturing up the Yentna River at least once. Since there's no Susitna 100 this year, I'd still love to tour in the Susitna Valley. The quiet time between the start of the ITI and the start of the Iditarod Dog Sled Race would be a good time to embark on a short out-and-back bike tour of the Iditarod Trail. Even if I just ride to Skwentna and back, it would be awesome, but in good conditions I could potentially make it a little farther. I'm thinking two to three nights, Tuesday though Friday.

Week Two: Running and hiking in the Chugach. I also hope to embark on a two-day sled run on the Resurrection Pass Trail. The Res Pass run is highly dependent on weather conditions, and if I ran solo, would need to be an out and back — about 38 miles total either way. I'd love to reserve the cabin on the pass and run/snowshoe up to the high country before descending the next day.

Week Three: Snow bike tour of the Denali Highway. This is something I'm working on planning with two friends from Whitehorse — riding 135 miles in three to four days along the winter snowmobile trail in the shadow of the eastern Alaska Range. We'd likely "comfort tour" the trail and stay backcountry lodges at least two of the nights, with one night of winter camping. This adventure is dependent on whether my friends commit; there's no way I can attempt it alone (a long shuttle is involved, among other issues.) If it doesn't work out, one consolation prize would be a trip to Juneau. Tough break, I know.

March 16: The Homer Epic 100K. My only winter race on the calendar, but it's not an easy one. Still, the course was too intriguing to resist. I lived in Homer from 2005 to 2006, and back when I was training for my very first race ever — the Susitna 100 — I would ride my mountain bike on some of the same trails used in the course. It's an undeniably beautiful place, with great trails. I plan to compete in the 100K on foot, carrying a large day pack rather than dragging a sled. I still need to plot my plan of attack, but if conditions are favorable I hope to actually *run* on this course. And if trail or weather conditions are not favorable, it should be a wonderful 100-kilometer snowshoe hike. Either way, I'm there and can't wait.

Week Four: Trip to Nome. This one is more of a pipe dream. Airfare could be prohibitive, but I would love to fly with my Fatback to Nome and ride around the region as I wait for Beat to arrive in town. I might even be able to construct a bike tour on the Iditarod Trail if I have enough time. I've never been to Alaska's western coast, and would love a chance to visit.

Also, if you are going to be in Southcentral Alaska during this time and have any interest in joining me, or perhaps inviting me on one of your adventures, please get in touch. I'd love to have company. If all goes well it will be a fantastic, exhausting month ... all the better to kickstart the wide-eyed hopes for spring and summer. 

The short but full life of trail-running shoes

The blue heart is a patch Beat sewed into my tights after I ripped a hole in them during a fall. I'm hard on gear.

This weekend, Beat gave me a new pair Hoka Mafates, the fourth pair I've owned. It wasn't a special occasion; he's just sweet and orders shoes for me because he knows I'll probably continue to use an older pair until the shoes are literally in pieces. But I was surprised, because my third pair of Mafates aren't even that old. They were Beat's birthday gift to me before UTMB, in August, which was only five months ago. It seemed ridiculous that I should already need yet another pair of shoes, but when I put the new Hokas next to the old ones, the evidence was clear.

Apparently the Hoka Mafates once had lugs ... and weren't the color of a mummified rat

I have no idea how many miles the old shoes have on them, but I can think of more than 300 miles of racing they've been through (UTMB, Bear 100, five 50Ks, and a road half marathon.) Not to mention all of that rugged hiking in the Alps, a muddy fall here in Cali, and a life that's about 95 percent trail use. Still, relative to most runners who race ultra distances, I tend to log lower-mileage training weeks. A typical week of running falls in the range of 20 to 25 miles, with more if a race is involved. But the racing piles up, hiking scuffs soles too, and another 400 miles or so of training puts even a five-month-old pair of shoes well past their prime.

So yay, new Hokas. Even though I feel guilty for wearing through an expensive commodity at this rate, their price tag appears small next to the value of adventure and fun I've had in these shoes during the past five months (and also pales in comparison to cost of wear that I put on bike parts in a similar amount of time.)

Friends and others have asked me to write my opinion about Hokas, as I clearly am a fan, but I am reluctant to weigh in on this polarizing subject. For starters, I'm far from an expert on running shoes. Honestly, I find shoe science to be the most boring subject there is in the realm of my hobbies, and I can't bring myself to get excited about anything involving the phrases "heel drop," "rocker," or "toe splay." I've never analyzed my own running form, but others who have watched me flail about on trails tell me I appear to be a mainly a mid-foot striker, probably because I frequently employ the ultra-shuffle stride. But don't even try to drag me into the minimal versus maximal debate. I have no frame of reference; my feet find their way into hurty things when I walk barefoot around my apartment. And my feet are usually the body parts that hurt if anything hurts after a long run. If it weren't for feather-soft pillow shoes, I wouldn't run. Period. That's what wheels are for.

But if I could provide any endorsement for Hoka, it's this. Two and a half years ago, I wasn't a runner, even in the most basic sense. Then I decided to go nuts and run really long distances. Hokas aided me in this quest with few — and all relatively minor — issues. While some runners claim that Hokas lack stability, I haven't felt any notable difference in my footing with the Hokas versus my "regular" trail-running shoes. (Brooks Cascadias. And yes, I'm equally clumsy.) Especially since Mafate 2 is equipped with grippier lugs than the Mafate 1 (there, see, I used a quasi-shoe-science term.) Most of my typical runnerly injuries (shin splints, knee pain) developed after periods when I wore the Cascadias for the majority of my training runs, either because I wanted more reliable traction or was trying to "break my feet in." I always went back to the Hokas. They work for me. Why try to fix something that's not broken?

And, after this ringing endorsement, if you are dying to try a pair of your own, I'm including a handy Amazon affiliate link. Because, you know, every nickel toward Hoka pair number five helps. :)

California cold snap

It's been cold in the American West this week. Where I live, a winter cold snap means frost-coated leaves in the morning, ice patches that linger through the day, unobstructed sunshine, azure skies and clear visibility that gives depth to the farthest horizons. So most everywhere else it's cold, but here, it's perfect. 

Beat had quite a bit of Iditarod prep to work on this weekend, including molding a new sled from a sheet of plastic. So I spent a quiet weekend writing and reading ... oh, who am I kidding? There was still a much higher ratio of running and riding. On Saturday, Beat and I got out for a hill climb up Black Mountain, 10.5 miles with 2,800 feet of climbing. Physically there wasn't much notable about this run, but the views were nice.

On Sunday I joined a girls' ride with Leah and Heather, and took the opportunity to wear my new Castelli bike skort. I'm finally starting to part with some of my more ancient active wear (like a pair of Nashbar bike shorts from 2003), and I've noticed that the majority of my sports wardrobe is now comprised of race T-shirts and skirts. Leah noted that I'm probably one of those women who only wears a skirt when I'm splashing around in the mud — and this observation would be true. But I spend significantly more time splashing around in the mud than I do at formal parties, so I might as well prioritize my cute attire (thus the tossing out of saggy-butt bike shorts.)

The temperature was 33 degrees when I left my house and warmed up to the mid-40s by late afternoon. Frost and ice lingered in the shaded canyons throughout the day, so the puffy, hat, and gloves were required for the longer descents. That's right, puffy in the 40s. I'm not nearly as thick-blooded as I'd like to believe.

 We made our way from Leah's apartment in the Mission to Mount Tam, and then worked our way back through the Marin Headlands on a steep and undulating network of fireroads and trails.

 It was a strenuous route but a mellow ride — fifty miles, 6,680 feet of climbing, over 6.5 hours. There was plenty of chatting, laughing, picnicking, and coasting down ribbons of singletrack so smooth and relaxing that they seemed to instantly erase the thousand-foot grunt we'd endured to get there. Some rides are just like that. No epic battles. No lingering pain. Just smiles in the sunlight.

I like to go outside and move through the world. If there's one central trait at the core of my being, it's this. And somedays, maybe most days, this one thing is enough.