Not quite superwoman

After Sunday's amazing bike ride, I'd wondered if I was in for a week of drug-boosted awesomeness as I finished my prescription of Prednisone. On Monday I set out to "PR" my favorite 10K trail loop, and blew up near the top with a dizzy spell and hints of a returning sinus headache. When I complained to Beat about yet another bad run, he said, "You did ride for ten hours yesterday." Well, yes, there was that.

The rest of the week has confirmed that I'm not feeling or performing at a different level than usual. Perhaps all of my energy and enthusiasm on Sunday was the result of several days of real rest, and the powerful juxtaposition of "feeling like death" and "normal." Besides the slight disappointment of discovering that I have no superpowers, this week was full of time spent hacking away at a book project and compiling supplies for Beat's Iditarod race. His expedition to Nome begins in just over two weeks, which is a disconcerting realization for me, too. More than general nervousness about the dangers he'll encounter daily on the trail, I feel a sense of disconnect about remaining on the periphery of such a major event in his life.

When it comes to big expeditions, Beat and I prefer to go solo. We both feel that way — the solo, personal aspect is an integral part of the experience we're seeking. Still, as this event creeps up, I admit I feel more wistfulness than relief. Of course I'm relieved I'm not staring down that pain tunnel right now — but perhaps a larger part wishes I could join him on the trek. What's also hard for me is the fact I can't even serve a minor supportive role. Once he sets out, he's on his own — which is also exactly the way he wants it. I imagine I'll spend my time in Alaska (at least when I'm not out on my own mini-expeditions) riding my Fatback on trails within cell-phone range and waiting for satellite phone calls. As much as I despise the uselessness of fretting, I'm all too prone to falling into that trap.

Wednesday was my friend Leah's birthday, the big 3-0, so we celebrated in style with a three-hour evening ride in the Headlands. Our mellow, scenic and chatty ride turned a little more pro when ran into a group of Leah's cross-racing friends. We rode back to the bridge with a man who is something of a local legend — someone who was carving out a niche on these trails during the dawn era of mountain biking. I forget his name; he was a cool guy, but his version of a mellow and chatty pace was noticeably closer to my own red line. Subtle hints of spring have arrived in this region, with flowers blooming and bright greenery popping up everywhere. As much as I love Alaska and look forward to returning to the serenity and intrigue of winter later this month, I will miss spring in California. February and March are my favorite months here.

And then there's training. I still want to continue building for the Homer Epic 100K as well as the fitness I'll need for my snow bike trips. Despite the inconsistencies and lack of focus in my winter training, I think my endurance is solid right now — a great place to be, because it makes me feel like I can say yes to any adventure. Because we rode fairly hard on Wednesday, today I opted for a "short but steep" type of tempo run. However, at my planned turnaround point I felt too good to stop. The sun was out after a cloudy day, casting rich afternoon light on the valley below, and a cold wind urged me higher. I ended up on top of Black Mountain, and finished with 10.2 miles and 2,700 feet of climbing in 1:55 ... likely my own best time on that route. Maybe Superwoman is lurking somewhere in there after all. 

Super Sunday

Beat joked about my first foray into athletic doping, but I was unconvinced. A low-dose prescription of oral Prednisone that was still battling the rash that had spread across my body? No, all it did was reverse the zombificition my body had descended into during the week, and allowed me to sleep more than 45 minutes at a time. I was feeling normal again, that's all. Saturday's slow run after a week of low activity let me breathe easy again, and I hoped I'd continue to improve enough to embark on the solo mountain bike ride while Beat organized his Iditarod gear on Superbowl Sunday. Since it had only been two days since I was unwilling to get out of bed due to the discomfort and pain of simply moving, I kept my expectations low.

I managed a 9 a.m. start but felt sluggish for the first two hours, trying to wake up reluctant leg muscles while my head swirled in a thick mental fog. Beat and I went to a dinner party the evening before, and stayed up well past midnight eating lots of dessert, which resulted in a mild sugar hangover. At one point I decided I was just going to ride to the top of Black Mountain and descend Steven's Creek Canyon, because a 25-mile ride was still a decent comeback from how downtrodden I have been feeling for much of the past two weeks. But then I reminded myself that it was Super Bowl Sunday, providing a rare opportunity to enjoy largely deserted roads and trails on a warm and sunny Sunday afternoon.

I made it my mission to ride as much (legal) dirt and trail as I could. I looped around the trails above Steven's Creek and veered over to Long Ridge to contour the hillsides on the other side of Skyline. It's all steep climbing and descending without a break, but I noticed that as soon as my head fog finally cleared, I felt great. Not necessarily stronger than normal, but incredibly enthusiastic. Suddenly it didn't make sense to do anything but ride my bike all day long. So I turned west and descended into the expansive forests of Big Basin Redwoods State Park.

This place is located less than thirty miles from the traffic-clogged Silicon Valley, a small spine of mountains dividing a narrow peninsula between the Pacific Ocean and the San Francisco Bay. And yet it's an wonderful wildland — rugged, densely forested, and largely free of development and motorized use. Given its proximity to the Bay area, it's also surprisingly uncrowded. I love Big Basin Redwoods, and every time I visit, I wonder why I don't spend more time exploring the extensive system of trails (where, sadly, mountain bikes are restricted. But there are plenty of opportunities for long trail runs.)

The routes where bikes are allowed are all extremely strenuous — a ripple of fall-line fire roads with 20-plus-percent grades. Even I could probably run these trails faster than I can ride them, given the number of 14- and 22-minute miles my Garmin was ticking off. But I was having so much fun, locking up my brakes through a rear-wheel gravel slide or cranking up a hill until my quads gave out, that I didn't care about my pace, the accumulating hours, or growing lateness of the afternoon.

Prudence was nagging at me to turn around when I discovered the McCreary Ridge trail, a sandy shoot that plunged down the spine of a narrow ridge, with big views on all sides. It cut so aggressively down the mountain that several sections were too steep for me to ride downhill, and I knew pushing my bike back up this trail was going to be a real grunt, but I was intrigued nonetheless. There are few activities I love more than exploring by bike.

I hoped to make it all the way to the coast, but evening was encroaching. I promised myself a 3:15 p.m. turnaround and stuck to it, even though the dense redwood forest of the lower elevations beckoned me forward.

Despite my sickness last week, and a reduction in cycling miles as I've tried to amp up training for running, I felt relatively little fatigue during this ten-hour, steep and strenuous ride. Fatigue started to catch up with me in the final hours because I didn't eat much during the day, but I was a bit baffled. Where did all of this energy come from? Is it really all contained in a 20 mg dose of Prednisone? I know the drug is a steroid, but it was still battling some serious inflammation (given my rash and swelling has not yet entirely cleared up.) I don't feel manic when I'm not biking, and have been sleeping just fine (worlds away from last week's insomnia.) But Beat has been teasing me for acting more "feisty" than usual. I admit I'm a little wary of this drug, but more than anything I do not want that debilitating rash to come back, ever, so I'll finish up my seven-day dose as prescribed and chat with my doc about the side effects.

And I also believe there's a good chance that my Super Sunday owes less to the side effects of Prednisone than the renewed joy of being alive, healthy again, and moving through a beautiful world under my own power. The sun set an hour before I made it home, and I was grateful for the nearly deserted streets. 49ers fans must be plentiful here. I wonder if their team won? (Just kidding. I know who won.) I turned on my headlight and descended toward a sparkling sea of city lights, swallowing a rush of cold air through a grin I couldn't contain. It was such a great day, doping or not.

Final stats: 74.2 miles, 11,273 feet of climbing, 9:54 total time, average speed 7.5 mph. Map and more stats are here for anyone interested in the route. 

Up for air

Not much to report on the "Jill Outside" front this week. But sometimes when about a week goes by without an update, I feel I should post something on my blog lest my family begin to believe I've disappeared into another adventure, or disappeared altogether.

Nope. I've been here all this time, and for the past 36 hours my activity mostly involved sitting quite still. This week has been a bemusing slump through a trifecta of infections that seem to be unrelated to each other. The sinus pressure and cough I accepted as penance. After all, it was my idea to get a flu shot last week, which is what I decided to blame when I felt slightly off but not quite sick for days afterward, and then I went for a hard bike ride and a 31-mile run. Then I really did get sick. Okay, I deserved that. But then I quickly slipped into a world of discomfort that culminated when a mysterious rash spread across my neck, arms, lower back, and hips. It flared up rapidly and then clamped down like a vice, making it painful for me to move my upper body.

Like the hypochondriac that I can sometimes be, I trolled the Web and convinced myself I had a systemic candida infection and I was either going to die or spend the rest of the week lying in bed slathered head to toe in diaper rash paste. But like the stubborn person I am, I resolved to self-treat my rash through the weekend and call my doctor if it wasn't better by Monday. I effectively didn't fall asleep until dawn broke Friday morning, and then resisted Beat's efforts to rouse me out of bed at 10 a.m. I was awake; I just didn't feel like moving. "Call the doctor," he urged. "This is what doctors are for."

The doctor told me I was likely experiencing a plain old allergic reaction, probably from either laundry detergent or food, or really any number of things that a person can suddenly become severely allergic to. He gave me a prescription that quickly downgraded my symptoms from "morphing into a statue" to "mildly itchy and uncomfortable." Yay prednisone. But it does leave me wondering ... if it is an allergic reaction and not a immune system hiccup as I previously suspected, what am I so allergic to?

I have friends who have banged their heads against the wall for years regarding allergies. One friend battled crippling skin outbreaks that kept her home from work, and eventually cut her diet down to about six different items of food. My own diet is simple and satisfying, and remains effectively the same foods I've eaten since my childhood, but it reads like a laundry list of typical food allergy suspects — raw vegetables and fruits, dairy, a whole lotta grain, some lean protein and legumes. And of course sugary energy foods. I tend to be defensive about my eating habits because they're so out of fashion right now (it's very much a 1990s low-fat, high-calorie marathon runner diet.) But I don't really enjoy eating meat or many foods with high fat content, because both upset my digestive system, and can't imagine how any low-carb diet wouldn't disrupt my endurance lifestyle. But if you'd asked me at 3 a.m. while I was lying awake and marinating in my own misery, I would have happily agreed to a diet of grass and twigs if I thought it would make the rash go away.

I remain optimistic that this was just a one-time occurrence or perhaps the fault of my compromised immune system that's been dragging me around all week. But experiences like this do make me wonder ... good health can be lost so easily and randomly. Just how much control do I have?

I'm happy Beat talked me into acquiring steroids before the weekend started. I feel so much better already, and hopefully I can get back outside and go for a run and maybe even the long bike ride I'd been planning on Sunday. The weather has been gorgeous, and it's true that even short dips into minor illnesses exponentially increase my appreciation of health.