Another long day in the sun

Beat had an "off site" with his Google team this week, and one of his co-workers, Jeff, convinced Beat and Liehann that they should ride to the retreat in Big Sur, a distance of about 120 miles. Liehann, who is still trying to regain fitness after recovering from his broken leg, decided he'd be more comfortable with half the mileage, so I was recruited to ride with the group and then drive Liehann's car back from the meeting point. I'll never turn down an opportunity for a long ride, but I was admittedly not quite feeling it. Saturday's 31-mile run took a lot out of me, more than usual because of the day-long heat exposure. Early in the season, when I'm not yet adapted, long days in the sun seem to suck the life force out of me. Although I finished the Ohlone run feeling energized, by Sunday morning I felt ragged and my lips were raw. Despite my best efforts to apply sunscreen, I had a patchy sunburn; and despite two-plus gallons of water consumed during the run, I had a throbbing headache that had yet to subside after 36 hours. Monday morning brought much of the same, and wondered if I'd even have the 50 miles to Watsonville in my achy quads.

But here's where I draw inspiration from my now-far away experience in the Tour Divide. I had so many mornings when I woke up feeling like I was about to collapse in utter exhaustion, and then I got on my bike and pedaled into a new day. There was always something there, some spark of life, and it's this something that I am forever searching for. That life spark was not readily apparent in this ride, with its 6:30 a.m. start, and the company of Jeff and Beat, who are both so much stronger than me. We began the gradual climb into the Santa Cruz mountains and rolled along the summit ridge as I struggled to keep up and often fell behind. "I'm doing the best I can," I wheezed, but Beat wouldn't accept this excuse. It's a fair assessment, I suppose, because I know it's not my "best." But then again I don't even know where to find my low-end "best." My legs were empty and my head was still throbbing, and I was openly hoping the boys would decide to drop me for good.

But then the earliness of the too-warm morning finally drained away, and we launched into the long descent into Watsonville. With speed tears streaming down my cheeks, I started to remember how fun it is to spend entire days riding bikes. With the addition of Liehann to the group, I thought we'd settle into a friendlier pace. Maybe I could hang on a bit longer. South we went, along the rolling sand dunes of Monterey, with a stiff ocean wind pushing at our sides. It was a strange sensation because the air was still warm but the wind was noticeably cold — like standing in front of an air conditioner on a hot day. We enjoyed lunch at a little sandwich shop on the shoreline and then I talked myself into a jaunt around the peninsula on 17-Mile Drive, reasoning that I've lived in California for two years and I've never even been to Pebble Beach.

Fog moved in as we fought a fierce headwind, and I lagged behind too much to draw any help from the small paceline. We reached Carmel at mile 93. The boys had less than thirty more miles to their destination, but I was becoming concerned about my own timing with sunset — while night itself doesn't bother me, I have little desire to ride on roads after dark. I reluctantly turned around and rode the quartering tailwind at a nearly effortless 25 mph.

By Monterey the tailwind turned back to crosswind again, and my legs finally started to feel strong. It only took a hundred miles.

I finished up in Watsonville with 145 miles behind me — a few more than I anticipated. I've ridden farther in one day on a mountain bike, but this qualifies as my longest road ride yet. And now, a day later, I feel so much better than I did on Sunday. The knots in my quads worked themselves out; and despite fewer hours in the saddle these days, my iron butt seems to have held up and there's no lingering aches or sores. Many applications of spray-on SPF 30 prevented my sunburn from getting worse. And thanks to flat pedals, my feet are as happy as ever. (I should probably address the platforms, because I know they look ridiculous on a carbon road bike. My issue is that I haven't found a pair of bike shoes that don't cause me excruciating toe pain after more than four hours in the saddle. I blame nerve damage from frostbite four years ago, but the truth is this happens on both feet. I like to wear comfy shoes and I like to move my feet around as I ride. The consistent switching between toe and mid-foot helps me ward off knee pain during long rides. And the difference in power transfer falls somewhere between negligible to nonexistent for me. I suspect I'm simply conditioned to riding platforms and don't "pull" on the upstroke regardless of what I'm pedaling.)

But I think the lesson here is, if you feel a bit burnt and sore from a long run, the best course of action is to go for a long ride. Sometimes that spark of life takes a while to light up, but it's wonderful when you discover that it's still there, and has been, all along. 

Layering up for summer

As we geared up for a 31-mile run on Saturday, I remarked to Beat that it takes longer to prepare for a summer run than a winter run, because summer running requires even more layers. First comes the anti-chafing layer on feet, arms, back, neck, butt, and upper legs. I like to use chamois cream but lately have been experimenting with a lard-like substance made in Australia called Gurney Goo. Then I apply a double layer of sunscreen, SPF 50, so there's three. Then comes the clothing layer — I generally favor a more robust combination of sleeves and three-quarter-length tights because it prevents the chafing I otherwise get on my thighs and armpits, and also adds more sun protection. Finally, during the run I add the inevitable layers of sweat, dust, bugs, and more sunscreen that eventually blends together into a coarse, disgusting paste. Altogether, I count four to six sticky, sweat-soaked layers on top of my skin. To be honest, I prefer fleece and Gortex.

 
Summer is the default condition here in the South Bay, with six months of solid summery weather followed by six months of indeterminate season that often resembles summer. Summer is also not a season in which I particularly thrive, what with my heat aversion, pale skin and sun sensitivity, allergic reactions to lots of green things and insects, and often voracious thirst. I won't go into the jealousy I feel at every photograph I see of more northerly and mountainous climes with their late spring snow, even when accompanied by less than cheerful captions. I get that most people prefer summer. I can work with it but it takes me a while to adapt.

 

Beat and I, along with our friends Steve and Harry, wanted to get in a longer run this weekend as a shakedown for the Quicksilver 50. Since we're missing out on the annual "spring" tradition of running the Ohlone 50K next month, we decided to set up an independent 31-miler on the Ohlone Wilderness Trail, which crosses the steep rolling hills that separate the East Bay from California's Central Valley. Although not wilderness in the John Muir sense, the area is relatively remote and some of the hills are nearly 4,000 feet high (actually, it's the Diablo Mountain Range, and reminds me a bit of the grassy ridges of the Italian Alps.)It's a great spot to stage a long run, except for there's almost no shade, and the weather forecast was calling for temperatures in the 80s. Some of those narrow windless canyons trap heat like an oven and make it feel at least 15 degrees warmer. I braced myself for full immersion into summer ... immersion by fire.

With plans for multi-day adventures this summer, Beat and I decided to test out the Jam 50-liter packs we just got from the 50-percent off sale at Golite. We wanted to load them up with a fair amount of weight to test the feel of the pack. I figured as long as I was packing a load, I might as well pack something useful — ice. I froze a three-liter bladder solid, and carried three 20-ounce bottles that were two thirds ice and one third water, along with one more 20-liter bottle of water just in case I drank all of the liquid water before enough ice melted. All in all, it was an obnoxious 180 ounces — or nearly 15 pounds — of fluid. And of course there was a day's worth of food, meds, electronic gadgets, trekking poles that stayed in my pack the whole day, and just because I could — a small windbreaker jacket, gloves, and hat.

In addition to being uniquely anti-summer, I also have a rare anti-lightweight mentality. I'm much more of a pack rat, or as I like to think of it, a pack mule. I love feeling prepared for all contingencies and will happily hoist a bunch of arguably unnecessary stuff if I believe it will make me more comfortable later on. At one point during the run we descended into a canyon where the lack of wind made it feel like it was a hundred degrees, which would normally make me feel uneasy about dehydration and heat exhaustion. But on Saturday, I was happy and relaxed — "I have 15 pounds of ice water; that's going to last me all day. Wheeee!" For me, over-preparation is freedom. Anything else is tempting fate. I often wonder how many outdoorsy people share my views in this day and age of extreme minimalism and ultra-uber-light backpacking. I feel like we should form a support group. "Maximalists Anonymous."

Of course, if I wasn't at disadvantage enough with my ability and speed compared to my friends, I had to go and pack 25 pounds of stuff and water. They set what for them was a friendly and relaxed pace, but it was often a struggle for me to keep up. Sometimes I was comfortable but often I felt like I was racing the Ohlone 50K, and avoiding stopping so as to not lose more ground. As a result, I didn't eat much for the first four hours. We didn't start our run until around noon, as we had another group of friends who were out for a very long run (a hundred kilometers), starting from the other end of the trail, and we hoped to meet them along the way. Due to daylight concerns we just missed them, but ensured a good long run on a tough trail at the hottest part of the day.

Still, it was such an enjoyable day for me. We climbed 2,000 feet to the saddle of Mission Peak, dropped into the Sunol Valley, and tromped another 3,000 rolling feet up the next ridge, maintaining a brisk but not painful pace. We took a long lunch break in the shade as I ravenously mowed through about a thousand calories of Goldfish, shortbread cookies, and granola trail mix. And I didn't even get sick. Whenever I started to feel a bit down or woozy, all I had to do was sip on my icy water bladder and the whole world became beautiful and good again. I only refilled bottles at the water stops, so the ice block in my bladder remained until late into the day, and I had cold water right up until the bladder was entirely empty. It was a wonderful treat, and felt well-earned. I'm going to start doing that all the time — freezing way more water than I need so I have a steady stream of cold water. As though my backpacks aren't already heavy enough.

It was also gratifying to get out for most of a day where the only thing I had to do was run. I've been spending more time working lately, which is good, but I've been missing the less structured, always-in-motion lifestyle I enjoyed during the month I spent in Alaska. It's been interesting as I've come to understand more about myself, to discover which aspects of life I find most fulfilling. Although I value many things that most people gauge success by, it's often these arduous, arguably fruitless activities like running 31 miles that I find most rewarding. It's nice to find balance, but I think I might always prioritize my time to wander.

Beat and I fell behind Steve and Harry when we started to dawdle even more on the final descent. It was a beautiful evening, with the sun setting over the Santa Cruz mountains and the San Francisco Bay surrounded by glittering city lights. "What's the rush?" I thought. Never mind our friends were probably starving because it was well past dinner time and my sense of urgency was tempered by the 2,000 calories I still had in my pack. I like being in a state where I know I can just keep going. I knew we were going to drop back into the valley because that was always the plan. But I had food, water, lights, and just the slightest desire to turn around and keep running. Just having the option to do that is freeing.

Monday: Road bike, 18 miles, 2,447 feet climbing
Tuesday: Trail run, 7.1 miles, 847 feet climbing
Wednesday: Trail run, 8.0 miles, 1,012 feet climbing
Thursday: Road bike, 18.2 miles, 2,451 feet climbing
Friday: Road bike, 16.3 miles, 2,114 feet climbing
Saturday: Trail run, 31.4 miles, 7,445 feet climbing
Total: 52.5 miles ride, 46.5 miles run, 16,316 feet climbing

Fighting disheartenment

Getting out for runs this week. 

So, I started this post a few days ago and decided not to publish it, feeling that people have already read enough about the Boston attacks from the running community. But I have to admit that this did affect my mood this week, and it's been helpful to hash out the emotions. 

I was one of those sentient children who occasionally became deeply affected by world events. Some of my oldest memories are framed by news images I saw on a television screen. I was 6 years old when the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster happened. My first grade teacher screened the live coverage in the background of whatever else we were doing that day. I remember distraction among my classmates, but my teacher was watching the news intently, and I also couldn't take my eyes off the screen. She remarked that it was a "sad day for America," but I remember my predominant emotion was fear.

Looking back, this visceral fear had less to do with scary images of burning debris falling from the sky, and more to do with the budding understanding that the potential for bad things surrounded me and everyone else, everywhere. No one had total control of a situation. From an early age I believed that safety was fleeting, and so I never felt safe. This fostered a growing entrapment in my own subtle fears, until one day I woke up in a cold sweat at age 22 and decided I needed to get a handle on this creeping anxiety — not by avoiding fear, but by confronting it.

So this week. Everyone has their own reactions to the predominant events of this week. Like many of my peers, I spent Monday morning tracking a few friends and family members in the Boston Marathon. I was particularly excited about my Aunt Marcia, who was a role model for me when I was growing up. She was my "Ironman aunt" that I'd brag about to friends long before I even remotely considered myself an athlete, and she was good at touting empowering sentiments to my cousins and me. For several years, she battled through a dark period of her life from which she recently emerged, and found comfort and renewed strength when she took up running again.

Last September, after reading one of my books for the first time, she sent me a thoughtful e-mail that I cherish: "There have been many, many days where I have been so empty and I have — not just thought but KNOWN — that there was no way I could go on. Yet, somehow, someway, I pull something from that innermost part of me and I just keep going. I don't know where that comes from and you did a beautiful job of describing it. When people tell me I'm crazy or how determined I am or what a bad-ass I am, I just smile and say "I can't help it, it's in my genes." Well, damn girl, I was and continue to be right. I am proud to swim in that gene pool with you and proud to call you family."

When she qualified for and went to Boston, I was excited for her. I checked her progress on the Web only minutes before I learned of the explosions. I knew she hadn't finished yet. I knew she was probably close or right there when the blasts happened. And I let that childlike sense of helpless fear creep back in. What if?

My aunt is among the lucky ones. She finished faster than she has ever finished a marathon, about ten minutes before the first bomb went off. She and a friend made their way beyond the impact zone — but still close enough to witness much of the chaos. Her friend who was waiting for her at finish line remarked, "Her training and speed may have saved us all. We started making our way to the recovery area after she passed by, and we got four blocks away from the blast zone."

Ten more minutes ... Monday's marathon is filled with hundreds of similar stories. With such a reduced degree of separation, it's difficult not to feel personally impacted by these bombings, even though I was not there and no one I know was physically harmed. At the same time, it's a reminder that catastrophes and senseless violence happen with astonishing regularity around the world. I've grown into one of those news junkie adults, so I encounter disturbing stories and images nearly every day. And I do ask myself why I should feel so much more shaken by the marathon attacks than I do about bombings in Iraq, or violence in Africa, or even the fertilizer plant explosion in Texas. They all strike at the heart of my childhood fear — that things can go bad for everyone, everywhere. Just as there's no way for us to completely shield ourselves from evil and disasters, there's no way to completely shield ourselves from this fear.

So I've been feeling a bit down ever since. Another act of terrorism — another act of senseless violence, and more calls to limit freedoms in the name of "security," which would be an illusion at best and oppressive at worst. There have been suggestions that cities should reduce or cancel big marathon events, or that runners should avoid congregating in large groups — even though it's highly unlikely that the attacks had anything to do with "running." Meanwhile, we're doing little more than fleeing from shadows.

But then I consider how I'd feel if my aunt wasn't one of those who returned safely. There are never definitive answers, which is why it's easy to feel so helpless or scared. But I'm reminded why it's important to refuse to give in to fear, no matter how big or small, in all aspects of life. And even though I know the attacks were directed at a high-profile event rather than runners specifically, I'm heartened by the meme my aunt posted shortly after she returned: "If you're trying to defeat the human spirit, marathoners are the wrong group to target."