Strava hubris

This was supposed to be a mellow pre-race spin up Black Mountain, but after just two miles I knew it was going to be a grind. My legs were empty, like an unseen force had drained out the muscles and injected them with gelatin. The week had been going great up to a point, but then it took a dramatic turnaround. What happened? "I blame Strava," I grumbled to Beat as I struggled to hold his wheel.

Speed. Most of the time, I prefer to pursue longevity-promoting balance. Do something at 100 percent of your capabilities and you might need a week to recover, but at 80 percent you can go for half a day, and at 60 percent exponentially longer. Eventually you come to the conclusion that if distance is your ultimate goal, speed isn't the way to go about it. Still, I admit that it's intriguing take something you do all the time and try to do it faster. Every once in a while, I get sucked into the temptation.

It started with the AMGEN Tour of California, and considering my own PRs on my favorite routes. I realized that just about every "record" I've set happened in the first year I lived here, between March 2011 and March 2012. I don't like to believe that I'm getting worse at biking, although every statistic and intuition I have points to the likelihood that this is happening. But I like to think that the abilities are still there, somewhere, hidden deep inside me, and they just need a little coaxing to come out.

For the record, I think Strava is ridiculous. I do. I did enjoy the record-tracking program right up until I started to receive those "uh oh" e-mails three times I day, informing me I lost the queen of the mountain / course record on yet another 0.2-mile segment. I was able to ignore these e-mails until a segment came through that was in Fairbanks, Alaska. My interest was piqued enough to check it out. This particular segment was none other than the Wickersham Wall, the seemingly vertical snowmobile trail up the Wickersham Dome that starts at mile 94 of the White Mountains 100. If I'm ever achieved a speed faster than 0.5 mph while pushing my bike up that thing, I'd be surprised. Queen of the Mountain? Bah. Strava's ridiculous. I pretty much stopped using it that day, although I do go back from time to time and mass-upload the Garmin data on my computer.

But there is one Strava segment I do care about, even if I don't like to admit it to myself — Montebello Road. At 5.2 miles with 1,941 feet of climbing, it's my go-to road climb and one of the few things I do that I can benchmark around every turn. My best time on this segment, according to Strava, is 39:08, achieved on February 6, 2012. It's good enough for 16th out of 163 women, and I'm fairly certain I can do better if only I tried. Okay, maybe I should do some road-cycling specific training first, but isn't trying enough? No? Well, on May 17, 2013, I set out to try.

The segment starts at about mile 3.4 of my regular ride from home to the Montebello gate and back. I always forget to check my watch at the turn, but it usually happens between minutes 12 and 15 depending on traffic lights, which means I need to hit 51 minutes or better to assure busting out a sub-39. This is the easiest thing to track, although I also have this notion that I need to keep my minutes-per-mile pace above 9:00 at all times. This is about the slowest I can go over the toughest mile to actually achieve the 8 mph average I need.

So that's the basic tracking system. The first mile is the steepest, though, and after that I'm too maxed out to understand my watch anyway. That's why I cling to the 9-minute-mile thing, because I can always look at that number and understand whether I'm moving faster or slower. So there I was, churning pedals, unapologetically gasping for air and shooting snot rockets, with eyes fixed solely on the prize — avenging 15 months of Strava mediocrity. I made it through the hard climb, raced over the flatter miles three through four, and tucked my head for the final climb when the numbers shot skyward. 9:10 pace. Then 9:34. Then 10:02. Oh no! I was melting down. My legs felt like they were shooting flames, and I couldn't imagine where I was going to find the overdrive to maintain my pace. And somewhere in the back of my mind, that little trail running angel came to sit on my shoulder and said, "remember that little training race you have on Sunday? The Horseshoe 50K? It's on Sunday. What are you doing?"

"I don't want my legs to die," I thought, so I gave up. I kept pedaling but I stopped looking at my watch. At the top, it read 53:41. "Hmm, if it's minus fifteen minutes to the bottom of Montebello, than it just might be good enough. Even if it's just minus twelve, it's not bad. But no, I stopped trying. It's not good enough. It's never good enough if you don't try."

I admit I haven't uploaded the track yet. Part of me does not want to know, at least not until Sunday's race is over. I can't believe I roped myself into a silly Strava race and now my legs admittedly feel pretty tired, when they were just fine for Wednesday's double-header and Thursday's 7.5-mile hill run on the Black Mountain trail. Speed. I get why it's needed to, you know, actually get faster. But it is hard on the body and in the face of longer distances, it seems like a bit of a waste. When you're trying to maximize gas mileage, it's probably not the wisest move to keep the pedal pressed to the floor.

Speed is fun, though. Oh, sub-39-minute Montebello. I will get you, and prove to you I can still ride a bicycle. Someday.

Over the slump?

Recovery is a difficult equation to solve. For most of April I felt blah. I had a difficult time with regular running routes, acquired hints of a minor injury, took it sort of easy but not really, and then ran a fifty-mile trail race. And this week, ever since the morning after the fifty miler, I've felt great. Minimal soreness, no new aching in the shin, and an abundance of energy. It seems all it takes is one fun endurance adventure to reset my psyche — "Oh, right, we really enjoy this stuff. We're not tired, not tired at all. Carry on, body." And my body, since it's way stronger than my mind regardless of what my egotistical mind likes to think, just shrugs and says, "Oh, okay." And off we go.

I have continued to take it easy for the sake of my shin. There's also the matter that I am decidedly in taper mode now. I have one more long run this weekend and then I have to focus on being prepared for the Bryce 100 on May 31. There was a miniature scandal this week when the race director decided to reroute the course to hit more singletrack and more scenic areas around Bryce Canyon. After measuring the new course with his GPS, he shifted the elevation profile from 14,000 feet to 26,000 feet climbing — a *significant* difference. Panic ensued. And just as I and other participants were coming to terms with the change and getting excited about the climby new course, the RD returned with an "oops, my bad, I had some other people analyze it with mapping software and there's only 18,500 feet of climbing." So ... who knows? In a way, it doesn't matter. I've attempted hundreds with 2,000 feet of climbing and 18,000 feet of climbing and 23,000 feet of climbing and they were all really, really hard. Usually climby courses work out in my favor, because I'm a much stronger hiker than runner.

But I had a great run today. Headed out at 1 p.m. and it was actually somewhat cool, about 75 degrees. I kept my effort level just below "zone out" (when I am working too hard to think about anything) and wrapped up 9 miles and 1,800 feet of climbing in 1:29. Then I saw an e-mail from my friend Leah about going riding in the evening at Skeggs. Sure, why not?

Every time I ride at Skeggs, I wonder why I don't spend more time there. It's beautiful, steep, often misty and damp from coastal fog, and full of flowing singletrack. But then I come to a technical section like this and narrowly avert disaster doing something silly. I am starting to come to terms with the reality that I am not hard-wired for technical mountain biking. I've always felt a disconnect with my sense of balance (i.e. clumsiness) and these movements don't come naturally to me. It would take a lot of practice to gain the proficiency I need. Technical running trips me up too, but at least at running speeds, when I fall (frequently), I just get banged up. When I make a mistake at mountain biking speed, (less frequent) falls have sent me to the hospital. Leah disagrees with my assessment and thinks I just need more practice.

But we had a great ride. Some of the climbing sections put me deep into the red zone, so when I checked my GPS, I was surprised to see that our route was only 9 miles with 1:48 riding time. It did have 2,300 feet of climbing, and a decent amount of downtime (while I played with my new camera.) Still, it makes me smile that I was able to run 9 miles faster than I could ride 9 miles today, and the ride felt considerably harder. Maybe Leah is right that I don't practice mountain biking often enough.

But yes, I received a new camera yesterday. Beat gave it to me as a surprise, for no real occasion — so it was a very nice surprise. It's a Sony Nex-5R. I've been using a Sony Nex-3 as my primary camera for three years now, and have been really pleased with it. Although it doesn't come on all my adventures, it has taken its fair share of abuse in the past three years. I've used it in dust storms and rainy days and temperatures down to 25 below. But it's not one of those tough cameras — it's a medium-sized point-and-shoot with several near-DSLR capabilities, and interchangeable lenses. The Nex series is a good choice for anyone who wants some of the features of a DSLR without the expense or bulk. It's been a great camera for me.

I'm still getting used to the Nex-5R so I didn't necessarily have it on the best settings for my "shoot" this evening. I also couldn't figure out the macro settings, so you don't get to see a picture of the cool wasp exoskeleton that Leah and I found. But I had fun playing with my new camera today, and hope it will see its fair share of adventures.

Looking back toward Skyline Ridge and Skeggs during the drive home. You can see all that fog we were riding around in. It was decidedly cool — around 50 degrees with some fierce winds — and felt wonderful. A great day for a 9-miler-times-two run and ride. 

Bustin out at the Quicksilver 50M

For what was supposed to be one of the early and therefore "easy" efforts in a succession of test runs before PTL, I was feeling an inordinate amount of dread for the Quicksilver 50-mile. Its "early test run" status is what made it so scary — I really needed Quicksilver to go well before I can approach the big efforts in front of me with any sort of confidence. If I couldn't hold it together for a fifty-mile race in May, what hope do I have for 200 miles in August?

It felt like fate was conspiring against my tenuous confidence. I'm already daunted by the 50-mile distance — it's effectively a 50K-level effort for nearly double the amount of time. But I'd been having a tough time finding consistency in my running this spring, even before I felt hints of a shin splint in my left leg. I played it conservative for a couple of weeks, but my shin was still bothering me after a short run on Monday. I effectively took the rest of the week off — bike ride on Wednesday, and nothing on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. I did all the little things I could for my shin — massage, ice, compression. But on Friday I was still feeling occasional sharp pains, and knew I'd have to take it easy on the descents to avoid aggravating it. In order to keep the consistent pace I'd need to finish, I thought, I'd have to push a little harder than usual on the climbs.

Saturday's weather — with its forecasted high of 92 degrees — did not instill confidence for a hard push of any sort.

The race started at the brutal hour of 6 a.m., just to add to the physical stress. We were standing around the start at 5:30 wearing only T-shirts and shorts and feeling completely comfortable. Harry said, "The last time I was at a race that felt this warm in the morning, it got up to 95 during the day." My friends teased me because I had frozen two liters of water to a solid block of ice, and then brought an extra bottle of liquid water to drink for the first few miles. They passed around my backpack and laughed about how heavy it felt, but I insisted that it was worth it. I'm a psychological racer through and through. Any physical disadvantage of an unnecessarily heavy pack is more than overruled by the mental boost of a shot of icy cold water during a climb into a 90-degree breezeless oven of a canyon. (As it turns out, Quicksilver is a luxury trail race and had coolers full of ice cubes at most of the aid stations, which were spaced an average of five miles apart. Once again, I remind myself that I should read race packets more closely.)

My week of rest left me feeling pretty sharp, but I could not escape the electric shock pain in my shin if I landed too hard during a descent. One of the issues with my downhill running form is that I tend to land directly on my forefoot while simultaneously braking hard. On steep descents my heel hardly touches the ground; I'm effectively running on my tippy toes. This puts a lot of pressure on the front of my legs, which I think is what makes me more prone to shin splints and also raises concern about stress fractures. During Quicksilver, I tried to make a conscious effort to land more directly on my heels and spread the impact. I can't say running like this feels good to me, but it did have the needed effect of holding me to small steps and slowing me down, reducing impact all around.

The Quicksilver race is one of the older trail ultra races in the Bay area, and thus is one of the more popular events. As a newcomer to the sport and the region, I tend to carry a bit of prejudice about the "old school" trail races in California — a belief that they remain hugely popular due to their history alone, and usually don't offer the most interesting courses. This is apparently a misplaced prejudice, as I've always enjoyed the ones I've tried — the Ohlone 50K, and now Quicksilver. The 50-miler makes three big loops around Almaden Quicksilver County Park, which is yet another one of those parks that is fairly close to my house, but which I've never explored. The sheer distance of the race makes Quicksilver effectively a grand tour of the park — we covered nearly every trail, passing by intriguing old mining equipment, bright yellow corridors of field mustard, and big views of Mount Umunhum and fog (okay, haze)-shrouded San Jose. It's a nice way to spend the day — feeling like I'm covering ground and making compelling new discoveries, rather than just plodding out miles for the sake of miles. It keeps my brain engaged, and my body is less likely to make whiny protestations about the effort.

I admit, I still insert the "well, it ain't Alaska" disclaimer into my outdoor experiences here. But this is a beautiful place and it does make me happy to spend a whole day chasing the dappled shade of these oak trees, even if it does have to be 90 degrees.

I'm not sure how high the temperature rose on Saturday afternoon. We checked the current temperature in the valley at 5 p.m., when it was 92 degrees. In some of those windless, heat-trapping canyons, I was convinced the ambient temperature topped 100. Heat is not my friend in any capacity, but it reached a tipping point where misery poured over into ridiculousness, and I am actually more okay with ridiculous. I kept a steady pace on the climbs, sipped my ice water, and snacked on Honey Stinger Chews that I carried with me, as well as a few choice morsels from the aid stations (jello cubes and quartered turkey-avocado sandwiches. The turkey sitting out in 90-degree weather was a risk but so tasty.) My skin was so drenched in sweat that I could wipe my hand over my forearms and flick visible droplets onto the dirt. The two liters of ice water went fast and I continued to chug nearly a liter between aid stations. I am a water hog. It works for me. (When I run out of water, though, I am a sad case indeed, which is why I'm inclined to carry more than I need.)

Photo by Chihping Fu

Beat and I shared a fun moment on the eight-mile spur. I was about two miles behind him at that point, but still moving better than either of us thought I would. We were both buzzing on endorphins; grinning like idiots as we loped along the dusty gravel road. He reached out for a sweaty kiss, and then told me they had popsicles at the mile 42 aid station. Popsicles! The very notion sent a surge of desire through my cooked heart. I picked up my pace as the grade steepened, thinking only of the pure joy an icy chunk of sugar water would bring. Popsicle, popsicle, popsicle. My heart was racing and my vision was blurring by the time I reached the aid station. I really should have passed out or at least become nauseated from the hard push, but instead I grabbed a handful of grapes and panted "popsicle?" The friendly volunteer reached into a cooler and handed me a small icy treat, and it was purple, my favorite. I took a big bite that instantly numbed my mouth and gasped, "Cold, so cold," as though completely caught off guard by the effect (which I was.) Even now, no longer addled with endorphins, it's difficult for me to understand why I was so blissed out by a popsicle. Deliriously happy would be one way to describe it. The feeling seemed to carry me almost effortlessly through the next five miles. I wasn't moving particularly fast, but no slower than my usual fun pace. And I was having fun, even with nine hours on my legs already.

The final 2.5 miles was a roller coaster of predominantly steep descents, which brought back shin soreness and killed my buzz, leading to a slightly grumpy finish. It was short-lived, however, because I soon discovered the shaved ice station at the finish. For whatever reason, the snowcone didn't have the same life-affirming effect as the purple popsicle, but it was delicious nonetheless. My time was 10:50, with a 50K split of 6:23. The 50-mile course has about 8,800 feet of climbing. At the finish, I received a framed print signed by a local artist, and learned I was first in my age group. It was surprising, as usually the 30-39 age group is more competitive, but I'm not sure how many people dropped due to the heat. I wouldn't be surprised if the attrition rate was higher than normal — it wasn't a perfect day for fast. But it was a decent day for a steady run slightly slowed by a bum shin. I feel great a day later and slightly more prepared for the summer ahead.