Such a beautiful nightmare

On Friday afternoon I dropped from La Petite Trotte à Léon in Morgex, Italy, officially 182 kilometers and about two thirds through the loop course. My teammates, Ana and Giorgio, came in within minutes of the checkpoint cut-off and were able to continue. I did not manage to make this cut-off, and not sure I could have kept going if I had. Sleep deprivation issues, including some downright frightening problems with my vision, impacted my ability to keep a necessary pace. During the descent into Morgex, I asked Ana and Giorgio to continue without me if I could not reach Morgex by 6 p.m. They elected to continue without sleeping, which I wasn't willing to do.

This race was unlike anything I've tried before. To say it was an ordeal would be an understatement. I had expectations based on what Beat told me that were completely blown apart. In running terms, the PTL course is highly technical, involving a significant amount of scrambling, aided climbing, exposure, and poor footing. I don't have a lot of experience with scrambling, and took several painful but ultimately lucky (because I wasn't seriously hurt) falls on rocky slopes and cliffs. My teammates were similarly inexperienced, and we quickly had to accept that the limit of our abilities would net only 2 to 3 kilometers per hour. We also had to accept that this meant staying under the time cut-offs necessitated 22-plus hours of movement in any given 24-hour period.

We only slept between 20 and 65 minutes each day. I dealt with hallucinations, anxiety attacks, brief psychotic episodes, and even worse motor coordination than usual. Keeping my eyes open and often intensely focused for 23-plus hours each day affected my vision in frightening ways. There was constant blurriness, visual "wobbling" of objects, inability to focus, and occasional blind spots. The longer I was awake after my brief naps, the worse my vision became. I told Ana and Giorgio that if we could not nap in Morgex, I was not willing to continue into another night on technical terrain with my vision as bad as it had become. When it became obvious that we could not find time to sleep, I knew my race was over. I am amazed with Ana and Giorgio's determination to continue on in that state. I would love to see them finish this thing, but much more than that, I hope they stay safe. They were great companions, and helped me push myself much farther than I could have on my own. Despite the often humorous language barriers, we were a good fit as a team.

 All endurance events I participate in are their own unique combination of mental and physical challenge. The PTL was more parts mental than anything I've taken on yet. Physical issues almost did not matter. We moved on average for 22 hours in any given 24-hour period, sometimes dealing with climbing maneuvers that demanded a significant amount of untrained upper body strength, and yet my muscles were only marginally sore. My arms and hands are cut up and bruised from many falls, my tights are torn apart from sliding on scree and snow fields, but I didn't get a single blister on my feet or chafing from my rather heavy backpack. My bad knee and shin, which have been causing various levels of pain all summer, never bothered me. I would run out of water, sometimes for hours, and not even feel concerned even though thirst usually drives me into a mild panic. Based on Beat's recommendation, I only carried enough food for about 2,000 calories per day, thinking we'd stop for meals. We did not have the time to stop and rarely any chances, as the few refuges we walked past were usually closed. My meals during the 92 hours I spent in the race included two plates of pasta and two bowls of noodle soup with crackers. Even still, I ate only about half the food I carried; probably in total about 1,600 to 1,800 calories per day. As Giorgio put it, "We need no sleep, water, or food. We need only to walk." Obviously this wasn't entirely true, but it is amazing how well the body adapts to the things it needs to do to survive.

I did not finish the race, but right now I do not feel disappointed about that. I wanted a great adventure and I certainly got one. For as tough as this race was, there was equal amounts of intense beauty and appreciation of the gift of life. We always managed to be somewhere absolutely spectacular at sunrise. The Alps have become a special place for me, and I'm always grateful to travel through this mountain range and culture. I wish I could have seen the rest of the route, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that I'm glad it's over. I gave this race everything I had, absolutely everything, and it simply wasn't enough. Could I ever become strong enough for the PTL? It's tough to say. In many ways, it was one of the most stupid things I've done to myself, and I really shouldn't go back. But even now, fewer than 18 hours removed and still intensely sleep deprived, I wonder, "What if?"

Beat is still out there, of course. I have not heard from him and do not know how the race is going for him. I am, knowing what I know now about PTL, very worried about him. But I have confidence that he and Dima will finish strong and I hope to see them at the finish in Chamonix on Sunday afternoon. With any luck, Ana and Giorgio will be there, too.

 I have stories to tell about the PTL, and photos, of course. My memories right now are spotty but I hope with sleep they'll come back to me. For now I will hobble over to the race headquarters to watch UTMB finishers and hope to catch the occasional PTL team coming in. I have extreme respect for anyone who can finish this race. It's a monster.

On to the PTL

Biking the Grizzly Flat trail with Liehann on Sunday. 

Well, it's time. Late last year, I got this inclination to plan something more "nutty" for 2013. Something that went far beyond the edge of my comfort zone to those untested outer limits where anything can happen. 2012 had been a fun year, full of challenging events. But none of them were beyond my known abilities, and I ended the year hungry for an outlandish goal.

Many athletically inclined people prefer to take incremental steps forward. I like to take big leaps over chasms without knowing exactly how far I can jump. In most aspects of life I'm a fairly conservative person, but there's a primal allure in physical endeavors that shoves all common sense aside. I want more of it, and have ever since before I understood anything about what "it" is. Case in point: The very first race I signed up for — as in first competitive event of my adult life — was a 100-mile winter bicycle race in Alaska that took me 25 hours to finish. Contrary to popular opinions on the matter, I didn't attempt this for accolades — back in 2005, you really couldn't find a more obscure sport than snow biking. No, I just suddenly got an itch to try something big, and went for it. I've taken three similar leaps since — the Iditarod Trail Invitational in 2008, the Tour Divide in 2009, and the Susitna 100 on foot in 2011 (a big jump because I was technically not yet a runner when I signed up five months before the event.) And now, another rather insolent launch into the unknown — La Petite Trotte à Léon.

Why take these leaps into endeavors where chances of success are slim and even failure falls on the favorable side of the spectrum of possible outcomes? I seek them because of the intense experiences they promise. Much more than failure, I'm afraid of becoming complacent, of coasting through each day without even noticing how much life is passing be by. Scary goals fire up all of the synapses and rejuvenate passions that tend to become wilted over time. I am never more alive than I am on the precipices of livability, mind and body stretched beyond the cusp of who I thought I was, grasping toward something more.

Although finishing is not my sole aim in such endeavors, I do make an effort to increase my chances. Ever since that fateful after-midnight Facebook conversation with Ana back in January, I've kept a singular focus on PTL. In March, I raced the Homer Epic 100K on foot with a sled — when actually I was in more of a snow-biking mindset at the time and came close to switching to the bicycle division at the last minute — because a sled-dragging 100K would provide solid mental training for PTL. I ran the Quicksilver 50 in May so I'd be better prepared for the Bryce 100 so I'd have a good base for Racing the Planet Iceland, which happened to be well-positioned for a high-mileage "peak" three weeks before PTL.

I had some setbacks during training, as most do. Pain in my left shin kept my mileage low for most of the spring. The elevation at Bryce hit me hard and I did not recover well from that race; trying to run the Laurel Highlands 70-miler one week later was a poor decision (great mental training, but my confidence and health took a hit.) Then there was the San Lorenzo 50K faceplant debacle in June and mysterious knee injury (speculated to be a minor MCL tear) that limited running and hiking for a month. Actually, broken down like that, it was a terrible year of training. What have I gotten myself into?

Racing the Planet Iceland went well, though. I don't feel like spotty training undermined my enjoyment of that race in any way, so perhaps my fitness is not as inadequate as I fear. Despite my satisfaction with RTP, it was inevitable that anxiety immediately took over. The two weeks we've spent in California after returning from Iceland have been a whirlwind of unpacking, work catch-up, planning, stress, packing, and low-level panic.

I've been taking the taper quite seriously, and along with recovery from RTP Iceland, my stress-relieving outdoor time has been limited. I did make an exception for one wonderful mountain bike ride up Steven's Creek Canyon with my friend Liehann last Sunday. It was a surprisingly tough ride; temperatures climbed into the low 90s and my heat acclimation had taken a substantial hit in Iceland. My two-liter bladder of water was gone by the top of the climb out of Grizzly Flat. At Skyline Ridge, mile 16, Liehann continued on to more fun trails while I reluctantly held to my "no-more-than-four-hour ride" halfway cutoff, and turned around. My throat was dry, my water bladder was empty, and my quads were nicely toasted from hard pedaling — and still, I was itching to stay out for a much longer ride. Endurance cravings are high right now — which gives me a small spark of confidence, because at least there's something there for PTL to beat into submission.

Also this week, I turned 34. Besides feeling the usual unease about the relentless march of time, I had a quiet birthday mostly spent working on newspapers. It was nice — a kind of tranquil, bland milestone to buffer these two big international adventures in August. I'm meeting friends tonight to actually celebrate the thing, and then tomorrow (Saturday) we fly to Geneva en route to Chamonix. La Petite Trotte à Léon begins at 10 p.m. Monday (1 p.m. California time.) I wrote a bit more about what PTL is for my Half Past Done blog, but I wanted to include the links where folks can follow the race here:

More information about PTL is available at this link.

A Google Earth tour of the entire course is available at this link.
(To my dad: I hope you can get this link to work; I think you will enjoy this.)

PTL updates during the race will be available at this link.

Updates from my team.

Updates from Beat's team. Use the icons in the upper right to switch between elevation, list and map view.

My team is called "Too Cute to Quit." I know, I know. It was a flippant name given our original status as a "girl" team. Giorgio joined on later and got stuck with being "Too Cute" as well. Ana is technically the team captain and as far as I know, the only one actually incapable of quitting. Beat recently lost one of his team members, Daniel, due to a death in Daniel's family. His team now consists of himself and Dima Feinhaus, a Russian friend who Beat met at the Tor des Geants — also where Dima earned his nickname, "Crankypants." We'll likely be far behind Beat and Dima, which is a shame, as the two of them together are sure to provide comic relief in tough times.

It's unlikely I'll post again before the race starts. I wanted to say thanks to those who check in on this blog, especially anyone who was around in the early days of "Up in Alaska." For all of my strange leaps over the years, I've really enjoyed sharing adventures here, and I appreciate the connections that form. Thanks for reading.

Past the ones that I used to know

Needles of rain drove in through the small opening in my sleeping bag as the plastic walls of the dining shelter reverberated a howling wind — fwap fwap fwap fwap. I'd made a midnight escape from Tent Fjallfoss after being elbowed several times by one of my tentmates. It wasn't his fault, really; most of the occupants arrived after the storm set in, and it was soaked inside. There wasn't enough dry floor space for all of us. I decided sleep was better than walls and retreated to the three-sided group shelter. Unfortunately, the open side was facing the direction of the wind, and I couldn't find a square foot free from errant daggers of rain. The temperature couldn't have been more than a few degrees above freezing, and the wind forced cold air directly into my bag. I curled up in the farthest corner on the grass and shivered.

 "This is good training for Alaska," I thought, and the notion softened the knots of stress that had been building in my gut. Thoughts of Alaska, and specifically Alaska winter racing, often do. "I'm cold," I'll think, "but not nearly as cold as the time I bivied on the Farewell Burn." "I'm scared," I'll think, "but not nearly as frightened as the time I pedaled onto the hard ice of the Kuskokwim River and into that black abyss beyond." I was okay then, and I'll be okay now. It's interesting that something that happened more than five years ago still resonates so deeply, and everything I've been through since has become doable because of it, so far.

As I tossed and shivered, the cold, gray night changed imperceptibly into a cold, gray morning. Others began to emerge from their tents with similarly ashen faces. Today was the day of "The Long March to the Arctic Ocean," slated at 41.6 miles of tired-leg running in weather that, realistically, couldn't have been much worse for an August day in southern Iceland. The race organizer told us the forecast called for similar conditions to day two — meaning temperatures in the low 40s and 30- to 50-mile-per-hour winds — the only difference is today's storm would include significant amounts of precipitation. Wet and frigid weather, and a distance that would keep the majority of the field out there for more than ten hours. Misery, or adventure? Clearly, attitude was everything on this day.

Before we set out, I decided to embrace the latter — adventure, with a dash of farce. This attitude was actually made easier by sleep deprivation and the silliness it evoked. The race organizers also contributed by insisting on busing everyone fifty feet across a river, with a goal of letting runners start the race with dry feet. It was a noble gesture, mostly lost on the fact it was raining sideways and the process with two small buses took more than half an hour — meaning everyone was soaked at the start anyways, and also chilled from standing around in the cold wind. Most agreed that crossing the river on foot would have been preferable.


The early miles of the Long March took us through the industrial infrastructure of a geothermal plant, giving the start a kind of apocalyptic feel as the fierce storm raged overhead. Beat and Dan had run ahead, so I joined a group that included two friends from Cleveland. Lee and Gabe are significantly faster runners than me — Lee actually received an unexpected and last-minute entry to the 2013 Western States race after winning a prominent 50-mile race — but had been running close to my pace in Iceland both because "backpacks are the great equalizer" and because they had come here with a goal to have fun no matter what. This attitude made them great running partners, and I made an effort to stick with them as long as I could hold on. We tore through the driving rain singing the theme from the children's show Lambchop: "This is the song that doesn't end ... yes it goes on and on my friend ... "

Being better runners than me, Lee and Gabe were also more adept on technical terrain, so I eventually faded on the horse track leading over the last pass before the coast. Sleepiness enveloped me like a warm blanket, pulling my thoughts away from the physical discomforts of sloshing shoes and stinging mist, to the dreamlike landscape beyond — fog-shrouded valleys, vanishing mountains, and soft, bumpy carpets of moss on top of jumbled rocks.

As the tide of fatigue drew my thoughts deeper into the past, time and space became more vague. Miles would pass in what felt like seconds, and yet minutes would stretch out like hours. I took quick breaths from my flickering awareness of the present as I swam through an ocean of memories. What developed was a kind of melancholy, sparked by close visual proximity to places I once loved, places I no longer know. Although it's positioned on the other side of the globe, the mist-shrouded slopes of Iceland held a strong resemblance to alpine ridges I used to wander in Southeast Alaska. It's true that occasionally I miss Alaska so much my heart aches, in the same way one might miss a good friend who moved far away. I know it's still out there; I know I can still visit. But a disconnect has been established, and the void is an unsettling reminder of the impermanence of time, the truth that you can't go home again. Psychologically pulling myself back into a semblance of "home" while I traversed the rocky tundra of Iceland was both jarring and comforting — another reminder that "home" can be everywhere and nowhere at once.

Inevitably, my journeys down memory lane met a roadblock of physiological distractions — tender sprained toe, irritated eyes, windburned lips, and of course sleepiness. For the length of the trek and the conditions so far, being blister-free and not too sore was cause for celebration, but it is easy to focus on discomforts.  As we drew closer to the coast, the route turned directly into the wind, which was cranking at a velocity that all but prohibited forward motion. Curiosity eventually got the better of me and I pulled out my GPS — confirming a strenuous pace of 2.4 mph. I groaned. At least steep climbs provide visual confirmation of effort; walking into a strong wind is simply interminable.

Eventually we reached the beach, where shards of black sand took to the air with similarly painful velocity. Despite the exciting weather conditions, I was losing my grip on consciousness. I was just so sleepy, and that sharp volcanic sand on the beach somehow looked so soft and inviting for a nap. Even an advanced ration of Sour Patch Kids did little to cut through the descending fog of fatigue.

We climbed up sand bluffs and crossed through the village of Þorlákshöfn, where I took not one but two caffeine pills — a too-high dose I always vow to avoid, but too often find myself resorting to in moments of weak desperation. I thought we were in for more monotonous sand slogging, where staying awake on my feet was a genuine concern. It was at this point that the route veered onto the lava cliffs, traversing over loose boulders and extremely slick ledges.

I caught back up to Lee and Gabe on the cliffs and attempted to keep their pace as they danced gracefully over the terrifying terrain, arms raised to the howling wind. Directly below us, waves crashed against the cliffs and roiled in eddies, flinging sea foam dozens of meters over the rocks. Iceland sits at the confluence of the Atlantic and Arctic oceans. I was never clear on whether this meant the southern coast was the Atlantic and the northern coast was the Arctic, or some other variation. But either way, the sea was angry that day, my friends. With the fierce wind swirling in seeming every direction, it was difficult to feel stable standing still, let alone attempting to "run" over a minefield of slippery rocks.

Now hopped up on both caffeine and adrenaline, I was a overtightened bundle of nerves, at times clinging precipitously to some small ledge I was scrambling down, and other times skipping far too confidently over rain-slicked boulders. I still lost ground on Gabe and Lee, who seemed impervious to technical obstacles, but I did catch up to my friends Harry and Martina. Harry had come down with a horrible cold and looked even more exhausted than I felt. Martina wasn't thrilled about lava scrambling, made much more dangerous by the wet conditions and wind. But the excitement of the rocks injected some new life into my tired blood; once we returned to solid ground, I was running well again.

The final 18 or so miles of the stage were fairly uneventful, if you consider rocky beach running, driving rain and 30 mph crosswinds to be uneventful. It is interesting how quickly minds and bodies adjust to new routines — the thru-hiker mentality. I had a specific ration of food each day, and that was just enough. I had a certain number of miles to cover each day, and whether it was 6 or 40, it felt like the right amount. The climate was very different from anything I'd trained for in California's summer. But because I'd adjusted my expectations, the rough weather didn't feel like a hardship; it was just another aspect of running in Iceland, same as the hills and rocks. My main difficulty was the bout of insomnia; but while this was mentally frustrating, it wasn't physically unworkable. I think what I found most satisfying about my experience at Racing the Planet Iceland was discovering a level of enjoyable sustainability within a demanding routine. Could I run like this every day, for weeks or even months? I'm not sure, but I miss it already. The other day I found myself sighing happily at a package of freeze-dried Chicken and Rice that I found in Beat's luggage. That stuff is horrible, but it reminds me of Iceland.

Crossing the finish line of stage five. Photo from Racing the Planet. 

The format of Racing the Planet events is strange, in that after the long stage there's a mandatory zero-mile "rest" day followed by a very short (10-kilometer) run to the finish. This means the race is effectively over after stage five, but there are still two nights and one and a half days left of living on backpack rations, sleeping on the ground, and waiting for the actual finish. Because the weather was so wet, the race organizers put us up in a community gym in Þorlákshöfn rather than relegate racers to their wet tents for an entire day. The gym itself had the feel of a Red Cross disaster relief center, with two-hundred-plus people and all of their wet gear strewn everywhere — but it was nice to get out of the rain. We lounged around and bought passes to the swimming pool and spa to while away the wet afternoon. We even set out into the storm to hike back to the lava cliffs, just to spend more time gazing into the roiling sea.

Stage six took us six miles over moss and rocks to the Blue Lagoon, an iconic thermal pool and luxury resort. After watching many of my fellow competitors limp around the gym all day on Friday, I was a bit shocked how fast people ran this stage. People who were barely walking at the end of stage five were busting out sub-hour 10Ks on terrain that was quite hilly and technical. I was impressed, because I can't dig that deep in the name of speed, even with the promise of a relaxing soak and a tasty sandwich at the end. But the Blue Lagoon was a great spot to finish the race. I'm glad we had a chance to go there.

Final race results are listed here. I pulled my GPS tracks into Strava, so a map of the route with a few discrepancies is posted here. I finished 13th out of 64 among women finishers and 76th out of 228 overall with a time of 40:05:21 for 250 kilometers over six stages. Beat finished in 36:56:20 and was 56th overall. I was pleased to log a decent result after running my own race, slow and steady.