Slow build

Beat "running" in the 2012 La Petite Trotte a Leon

Physically, this spring feels a bit like last year. There's an unfocused, largely inexplicable body malaise. In my outdoor pursuits, there are amazing high-energy "good days" interspersed with much-rougher-than-they-should-be "down days." Not much in the way of comfortable middle ground. I've never been one to stick to a nicely arching training pattern — and in all honestly such things don't capture my imagination — but payback comes in the way I still, after all these years, don't really understand my body.

Today I'm icing my left shin because I fear I'm developing a splint (thank you, road running. Yes, I blame you.) I had a similar dull ache in my right leg for most of last spring that continued to escalate until I hiked Mount Whitney in June, where it flared up to a full-blown shin splint that kept me off running for a couple of weeks and put a ding in my UTMB training that lasted through August. Injury isn't something I can well afford right now, so I'll take it easy this week, go for some bike rides, and maybe do a real kind of taper for the Quicksilver 50 on May 11.

Given that I haven't climbed out of my spring slump and have been running like crap for most of the month, this is probably for the best. But I wasn't going to "taper" the Quicksilver because it's just a training race to get my mind and feet ready for the rigors of the Bryce Canyon 100 on May 31. A hundred miles with 18,000 feet of climbing at a lung-busting average elevation of 8,500 feet? That should be enough to strike the fear of purgatory in my weak legs, but even that's just a training race for summer adventures — fastpacking in the Sierras, and a stage race in Iceland (!! Iceland has been on my "to visit" list since I was a teenager, so when Beat and I found out that Racing the Planet was putting on an 250-km stage race in early August, we signed up. I'm very excited.) Both are planned for the sake of an awesome adventure, but they're also geared to better prepare my mind and feet for the rigors of La Petite Trotte à Léon.

I haven't been ready to talk about PTL, but it's May now, and well, yesterday I found out I've been accepted into the 2014 Iditarod Trail Invitational as a foot racer. *That* is going to be quite a build but it's still a ways off. The PTL is closer and arguably even harder. As a physical endeavor, the PTL is probably going to be more difficult for me than the Tour Divide. It's shorter but relentless. For five-plus days of my life there will be nothing but crawling over mountains, up and down, up and down, along the steep and rocky spines of the Alps. After last year's shortened-course disappointment at UTMB, I wanted to try the less supported version — taking the "long" way around Mont Blanc through France, Switzerland, and Italy.

The numbers don't paint an even close to accurate picture of the difficulty, but they look burly on their own — 186 miles with more than 78,000 feet of climbing, for an *average* gain or loss of a thousand feet per mile. The route is often highly technical terrain that occasionally ventures into Class 4 scrambling territory (although in the Alps, the more exposed sections of established routes are generally assisted with fixed ropes and ladders.) Last year, when Beat was racing the PTL, I described it to my dad as hiking Lone Peak — one of the hardest established trails in the Wasatch Mountains — sixteen times back to back without stopping for more than a couple hours of rest per day, including eating and sleeping.

This is Ana, racing the 2012 Tor des Geants with a sprained
ankle. She's crazy. And awesome. 

Why, oh why, oh why? PTL started as the way most big ventures do for me — a kind of joking consideration that suddenly became real. A friend who lives halfway around the world was interested, and we both needed a partner (PTL requires participants to travel in teams for safety reasons.) Ana Sebastian is much crazier than I am; she's effectively a female version of Beat, and she's stronger than me too. Since she lives in Spain we won't be able to train together, so this partnership is a leap of faith for both of us. We will probably be one of the few if not only two-female team in the 2013 PTL, although Ana also recruited an Italian man to join our group, flippantly called "Too Cute to Quit." It's quite the international team and the language barrier is going to be large. We won't have the ability to carry on complicated conversations, although after day one, there won't be much to say beyond, "My feet hurt," "Do you want to stop now?" "I'm terrified of that cliff," and "Uh oh, that looks like lightning." Once I learn those phrases in Spanish and Italian, I'm set.

It's going to be beautiful and brutal, and it's been a couple of years since I got into something so completely over my head and beyond my pay grade. It's exactly where I prefer to be — perched on the ledge of a psychological precipice, knowing I'm either going to climb to new heights or fall hard, and likely both, but either way I'm in for a wholly submersive and memorable experience.

Some of my friends have asked me why I'm so focused on foot racing right now, especially when met with the surprise that after a five-year absence, I've opted to try the race to McGrath without my beloved fat bike. Part of it stems from all the bad runs, these pre-shin-splints, clumsiness, downhill side-stitches, and the suspicion that I'm just not biologically cut out for running of any sort. An act of defiance if you will, in my continuing experiments with mind over matter. PTL and the ITI are both arguably hiking races and do play to some of my strengths, but the fact is I'm going to have to get a much better grip on my weaknesses to see any kind of success in these endeavors. The confrontation with weakness is my reward — that age-old rationalization "to see if I can."

So here's to (hopefully) avoiding shin splints and staying healthy for the slow build. There's a big year ahead, and who knows? Maybe by summer 2014 I'll be ready to return to test my own speed limit in the Tour Divide. ;-)

Orange County

I went down to Huntington Beach to visit my baby sister this weekend. Some family members think that because we live in the same state, we must see each other all of the time. But HB is a solid six hours from where I live — and more like eight with L.A. traffic. Unlike most road trips, I enjoy very little about the drive, so it's tough to motivate to head down there ... but it's nice to see my sister. Beyond it being time for an annual visit, my brother-in-law is also something of a Craigslist pro and Beat and I wanted to sell two of our bicycles — my Rocky Mountain Element and Beat's Santa Cruz Blur. So I transported them down to Sara's with the hope that two Orange County riders will find value in these bikes. They're great bikes, they just don't see much use now that I have the Moots and Beat is angling for his own 29'er.

Sara and I had a great weekend, touring downtown Huntington and riding bikes to Balboa Island to eat frozen bananas (a Balboa-specific treat made famous by my favorite sitcom ever, "Arrested Development.") I sometimes tell people that Sara's and my most remarkable sisterly trait is how different we are. She's a California girl through and through, works at a high-end hotel, likes expensive purses and fashion, dislikes all things winter, isn't crazy about wilderness ventures, and can take or leave travel (unless it involves a tropical paradise.) But every time we see each other, we find new similarities. Sara recently signed up for a 30-day challenge at her Bikram yoga studio — a 90-minute session every day during the month of May. Having recently developed more of an interest in fitness, Sara wanted to know more about electrolyte supplements and fueling. It's telling of our differences that Sara's foray into an active lifestyle brought her to Bikram yoga — which is how I envision purgatory — but the 30-day yoga challenge is decidedly endurance and I'm excited to hear about her experiences.

While I was in Huntington, I tried to get in a couple of runs. Sara lives close to the Huntington pier and far from the hills, so the most reasonable place to go was the paved boardwalk that runs along the coast. I did a ten-mile run on Saturday and an eight-mile run on Sunday and struggled with both. There's something about road running that not only triggers nagging pains (such as shin pain) but also sucks the energy right out of me. I thought I'd be able to hold 9-minute-miles no problem but I lost my will and fell back to the 9:30 range. I have regular trail routes with singletrack switchbacks and a lot more climbing that I can average 9:30 on with considerably less perceived effort.

Just Wednesday, I had my best Black Mountain run yet — effectively bombed the downhill and wrapped up the 10-mile run with 2,700 feet of climbing in 1:58. Trail running on steep elevations and uneven surfaces is so much fun. The movements feel natural, and I rarely encounter the same repetitive motion pains and lack of motivation. I strongly dislike road running. Before, I believed I would just need to break my feet and body in to take it up, but now I suspect that I would rather quit running altogether than regularly run on roads. After all, that's what wheels are for. And walking. It's strange that I can enjoy a walk along a beach path and yet dislike running along the very same route. It's one of those reasons I continue to suspect that I'm not and may never be a "runner" — more like a hiker who's learning to move more efficiently over variable terrain. Or maybe I'm just annoyed with myself that I couldn't muster a decent run over the weekend. Oh well. It was a rather random week for outdoor activities, work and travel anyway. Perhaps I'm just tired.

Monday: Road cycling, 145 miles, 7,044 feet of climbing
Tuesday: 0
Wednesday: Road cycling, 17.5 miles, 2,725 feet of climbing
Thursday: Trail run, 10.1 miles, 2,750 feet of climbing
Friday: 0
Saturday: Road run, 10 miles, 95 feet of climbing
Sunday: Road run, 8 miles, 104 feet of climbing
Total: 162.5 ride, 28.1 miles run, 12,718 feet climbing

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.