Fun in the pre-season

Even amid frigid winds and fog so thick it was visibly streaming sideways, I felt a tinge of disappointment when Leah suggested we skip crossing the Golden Gate Bridge and instead keep our Wednesday evening ride on trails within San Francisco city limits. She was feeling under the weather and I understood her reluctance to go out for hard climbs and descents on the exposed ridges of the Marin Headlands, but urban trails? How fun could those be?

We wound through the forested corridors of Golden Gate Park on sandy singletrack, then cut south toward Mount Sutro, a small greenbelt beside the University of California San Francisco. Foggy daylight faded to blue-tinted twilight as we climbed a narrow trail through a dense eucalyptus forest. Drooping branches and frayed bark captured the fog, which rained down on us as fragrant precipitation. It was a seriously spooky place, made more so by the fact that we were bound on all sides by urban jungle. I couldn't help but imagine creepers lurking in the shadows. We rolled over the 908-foot peak — one of San Francisco's "seven summits" — and descended back into the dark and spooky woods on a muddy, rocky, twisting trail.

It was so much fun. I admit I headed out to the city hoping Leah would put the hurt on in the Headlands, and I'd have to burn up all my matches keeping up with her. That would have been a great training ride. But I'm glad we went on an adventure instead. After all, what is training besides an excuse to continue having adventures?

I've had a lot of fun with my "training" this week — doing what I felt like doing, plugging into Strava, making efforts to crack some PRs. On Sunday I was especially sore after the Coyote Ridge 50K — which was the most I've run, actually run, in quite a long time. Beat and I set out for a "post 50K" Montebello climb where he nearly broke his own PR and I struggled, rolling up about 10 minutes later. That was not what I wanted; I wanted to be more like Beat, who by now thinks a 50K run ain't no thing. For the next few days, I set out to do better.

On Monday, I had a decent 18-mile road ride around Mount Eden and Redwood Gulch, and cracked a few Strava PRs. But on Tuesday I only had time for a run. Every Tuesday, I'm working on deadline and lucky if I can squeeze in an hour from door to door. I have a 5.5-mile road and trail loop that I often run if I have time, and it's become my Tuesday routine. This Tuesday was the first in a while that I managed a run without IT band pain flaring up. About a mile and a half from home, I realized I was making sort of good time, so I decided to tack on an extra 0.7 miles and try to break my 10K "personal record."

My PRs for short distances are all embarrassing. I feel very awkward when I try to run "fast" — for me, this means anything in the 7:xx-minute-mile range — and since I'm convinced forced speed is a quick ticket to injury for someone like me, and it doesn't really enhance my goals of developing longer steady-state endurance, I never try. My 5K PR is still 31:52 (!!), established in the only 5K event I've ever run, back when I was not even remotely a runner, at the 2006 Sea to Ski Triathlon in Homer, Alaska. I've since run five consecutive kilometers faster than that, of course, but never as an actual 5K distance, which I think is a prerequisite for a PR.

Anyway, my 10K PR was 57:14, the fastest I've run my favorite 6.2-mile trail loop at Rancho San Antonio (which has 960 feet of climbing, I might add, if that makes this 10K time any less pathetic.) The goal for the last 3K of this Tuesday's loop (which has 680 feet of climbing) was to get that time below 55 minutes. I ended up running a couple of laps around my apartment complex at 7:30 pace but just missed it — 55:05. It was all quite silly but fun. It doesn't mean anything, but I was really enjoying myself.

On Thursday I set out on a double-climb of Montebello Road. I have this long-term project in mind that I call "One Hundred Miles of Montebello" — ten consecutive climbs and descents of a local road that climbs 2,000 feet in five miles, for a century with 20,000 feet of climbing. Everyone I tell about this dream thinks it's a horrible idea, but I'm determined to see it through someday, even if I can't con anyone into joining me. It would be at least a twelve-hour ride, so more daylight is needed, and it also would be more likely to motivate for if I'm engaged in focused bicycle training — I'm thinking it's a project for next April or May. So the hundred-miler is a ways off, but I've never even done a double-back of Montebello Road. Today was as good a day as any to start practicing for my project.

The double went really well. I tapped into my steady-state endurance, kept a good pace but didn't push into the red zone, and wrapped up the ride with 28 miles and 4,400 feet of climbing. Later I plugged my GPS data into Strava and learned I cracked my own all-time top ten list on this climb that I ride all of the time — twice! No PRs, but I'm stoked about how generally strong I feel right now.

This whole long training post was really supposed to be a lead-in to a question that some have asked me — what's next? Recently, I was reminded of an essay by Terry Tempest Williams. For the life of me I can't locate the direct quote, but to paraphrase, Williams wrote, "For every person there is a land with which one resonates above all others." For me, this is that land:

Alaska. Winter's Alaska, with all of its wild, white, open space. This, specifically, is the Iditarod Trail. Or even more specifically, it's a perfectly groomed segment of the Iditarod Trail near Finger Lake that I had the pleasure of riding in February 2008. A lot has changed since then, but one thing that never seems to change is how deeply this imaginary line has needled its way into my identity. I dream about it often; I find it entering my thoughts when I am scared or elated, joyful or lonely, inquisitive or bored. For a number of reasons, I haven't attempted to return to the route over the Alaska Range since I contracted frostbite on my foot in 2009. Nearly five years have gone by. I kept my runaway dreams at bay with patches: two amazing runs in the Susitna 100, three exhilarating rides through the White Mountains north of Fairbanks, a reluctant but beautiful sled run in the Homer Epic 100K. Next year, 2014, it's time to go back to the 350-mile journey to McGrath. And this time, I decided to attempt the route on foot.

I made this decision back in April when I signed up for the Iditarod Trail Invitational. I've since wavered back and forth on this. For the entire month of September, I was so demoralized by my experience at the PTL that I wasn't sure I wanted to go to McGrath at all. Then October came, my attitude and strength flipped a 180, and Beat started prodding me about the prospect of going to Nome on a bicycle. "You will love it so much," he said, and I suspect he's right. But I'm not ready, not yet. And yet, if I do aspire to ever ride a bicycle beyond McGrath, I should probably practice by riding a bicycle to McGrath once more.

Before PTL, I was much more confident about my decision to try this route on foot. It's not that I don't love snow biking or that I'm not a significantly stronger cyclist than I am a runner (I do and am.) What I was looking for in this endeavor was authenticity in the experience. It's difficult to describe, but on foot everything seems to happen more immediately and directly. There's nothing else to lean on, nothing else to blame, no mechanical boosts, no imaginary companions (I admit I become emotionally attached to my bikes.) It's just me. Taking a bicycle to McGrath remains one of the most difficult things I've ever done, and I can't even fathom how much harder it's going to be on foot. But a large part of me really wants to find out. Finishing the 2012 Sustina 100 on foot, alone, on my terms, has been my most rewarding running accomplishment yet. I had an incredible experience in that "short" race two years ago, and want to pursue a similarly raw and authentic experience in 2014.

However, I know that the rewards in a walk to McGrath are going to largely reside in post-race reflection. Walking to McGrath stands a good chance of being awful while I'm doing it. The ride to McGrath can be just as awful, but it also has a better chance of being a lot more fun. As Beat likes to joke, "Bikers complain about bad trails but that's the only time it sucks for them. It always sucks for runners." That's obviously an overly simplistic way of characterizing biking versus hiking — but there's some truth to this as well. Dragging a sled to McGrath is a lot like pushing a bike for 350 miles.

Beat says I need to decide soon, and he's right about that. The "pre-season" officially ends after the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow, which is just over a week away. Then I really have to buckle down and start preparing for winter. It's scary and exciting ... and I'm glad I rose out of my post-summer malaise in the nick of time. 

Running just because

Last weekend, after another hard rally up a mountain in Utah, I returned to find a text from Beat: "Yo, I'm signing us up for the 50K next weekend. That's what you get for not picking up your phone."

It's true that I'd expressed regret about skipping out on the Diablo 50K, and maybe I would enjoy going out for a long run in the near future. But in the very next breath, I reiterated our need to put in some more cycling miles ahead of Frog Hollow, and reminded Beat that my actual running mileage (as in, not hiking or scrambling or crawling) has been low since I injured my knee during the San Lorenzo 50K in June. My Iceland and European experiences were a different beast entirely, but running has remained on the backburner ever since. I've averaged one run a week, in the six- to eight-mile range. Not one of these runs has gone well. I felt sluggish on the climbs and tentative on the descents, got side-stitches and ITB tightness, became frustrated about my pace. "I'm super slow right now," I warned Beat.

Meanwhile, my cycling efforts have been on an upswing — I'm feeling stronger, climbing faster, descending with more fluidity and confidence. Hiking is still great as well. But for whatever reason, I open up my stride into a run and everything starts to fall apart. While most of my athletic abilities were hard-won over years, running especially seems to just not come naturally. "Running is really hard for me," I've told friends. "I think that's why I want it so much."

So even though cycling has been going really well, and just one good, half-day mountain bike ride would probably work wonders to improve my confidence for the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow, I showed up at the start line for the Coyote Ridge 50K on Saturday. Looping through the recently opened Golden Gate National Recreation Area in the Marin Headlands, the Coyote Ridge 50K is a deceptively difficult course. It looks tough on paper, too, with an advertised 7,300 feet of climbing (I Strava'd closer to 6,100 feet of climbing, but it's still a healthy dose of ups.) But what makes this course tougher than most I've run is the fact that much of the climbing and descending happens on very steep fireroads and trails, with flattish sections in between. Less variation in grades usually translates to a consistent pace, while transitioning from steeps to flats always throws me off kilter.

On this day, I was comfortable marching fast up the climbs that nearly everyone hiked (after PTL, I've developed a new mantra — If you're not using your hands, it's not steep.) Same with the descents — it's the dry chunder time of year and trails were loose and slippery, but take short, quick steps and it's fine. But the flatter, runnable grades? Argh! My IT band locked up early and knee pain thwarted attempts to open up my stride. It was a gorgeous day, with flawless blue sky, coastal cliffs sparkling in the sunshine, and low fog wafting in from the Pacific. I was thrilled to be out there, and wanted to do this awesome day justice by putting in the best running effort I could. The IT band was grumpy but I found I could break up the tension by rubbing the side of my leg as I walked. This relief didn't last long, but was often enough to earn me several minutes of pure running bliss, prancing along the edge of a cliff high above the shrouded ocean waves in a place that seemed miles away from any notion of pain or fatigue.

The leg was back in lock-up phase as I shuffled into the finish at 6:43, which I found disappointing. I'd run the first 15.5 miles in three hours flat and thought I could even-split this race given how solid my endurance feels right now. But, no, running wouldn't let me, because running is hard. The time doesn't matter, but in racing — even spontaneous "for fun" races — most of us trick ourselves into believing time is important. We do so because this belief motivates us to try our best, which enhances the experience. This is what I love about racing. But sometimes I finish and I'm disappointed. Several of my races this year have been like that. This race was like that.

Beat and I had set a "cut-off" time of seven hours, as our friend Martina's birthday party was that evening, and we were helping with the hosting at our apartment clubhouse. We had to leave Muir Woods by 3 p.m. so we would be home in time to start setting up. Beat was trying to usher me out of there, but I demanded a snack because I was feeling ravenous. As I was standing at the table gnawing on a chicken leg, a Japanese man who was participating in the marathon distance ran into the aid station. I thought he was finishing the race, but as it turned out he had only completed the first loop and still had seven miles to go. The race director, Wendell, informed him that the cut-off had passed and the sweeper had already been sent out. But he could continue if he wanted to, knowing that the trail markers might already be taken down.

"Will you still be here when I get back? Will all of this be here?" the Japanese man asked as he gestured at the food on the table.

"I will be here," Wendell said. "I'll even make you a burger when you get back."

"I will do it," the man said. "I will run for hamburger."

"I ran with that guy for a bit," Beat told me. "He directs a race in Japan, called the Eco Slow Marathon. People carry bags to pick up trash along the way, and they're given as long as they want to finish. He has this philosophy of slow running."

Hahime Nishi. Photo from Dreamcatchers.

This trash-collecting race was intriguing, so I looked him up. As it turns out Hajime Nishi is an extremely dedicated and enthusiastic marathoner. He's chasing a life goal of running 1,000 marathons in 250 countries, and he's already up to something in the mid-600s at age 64. He held (and possibly still holds) an official world record for running seven marathons on seven continents in seven months. He started running after his wife died of cancer in 1990. He touts enjoyment, connection, and savoring experience above all else. He takes a lot of photos and stops to absorb the scenery whenever the urge hits him. But he loves the challenges and constructs of a marathon. A marathon, he says, is about learning more about people, cultures, and himself. According to a Runner's World article, his "worst marathon time" is 3:45 and his "best" is 10:32.

 “Because I am free from running for time, I have a wonderful time every time," he told Northwest Asian Weekly." The blood circulation just brightens my mood. It frees me from whatever family issues, personal issues, or work stress I have. That’s the great benefit of slow running.”

Of the Ecomarathon Inba, which disqualifies participants if they arrive by vehicle, gives prizes for those who pick up the most trash, allows only reusable water containers and locally produced food, and isn't timed, he said, "The idea is to lower the bar of the marathon — to make it more inclusive to society —and to increase the winnings of the environment. Before, I thought, 'Winner takes all. It's very important to win.' And now, I realize this is wrong. Everyone has value, not just the winner. Marathons should respect participants, the environment and local culture, and that is what I am trying to do."

He wrote a book, published in Japanese, about his anti-competitive philosophy called "Losing is Winning." It seems Hajime goes to lengths to promote his worldview, which is an intriguing development for a man who admits that, until his wife died, he was committed to accumulating wealth and power, and quite successful in that regard. It's also interesting to consider in a time when the divide in running culture is widening. On one side of the gap you have what many view as "easy," ecologically dubious but hugely successful Color Runs, and on the other there are people who think everyone should be competitive in the same old ways with no consideration of the vast diversity of abilities, values, and passions among runners.

I'm not saying I agree with or disagree with Hajime's message. The dichotomy between competitiveness and anti-competitiveness is something I struggle with myself. And it is problematic to promote eco-sensitivity and minimizing one's footprint while traveling all over the world to run races. But I wholly embrace Hajime's zeal for life and desire to share his passion with others. The world definitely needs more of that — zeal for life.

And this is another reason I love running races — an opportunity to meet, even if only briefly, people like Hajime.

Wasatch mountain bender

Well, I'm back in warm and sunny California after a great five days in Utah despite the disruption of my family's annual Grand Canyon tradition. I visited a couple of friends from college, did dinner and a movie with my best friend from high school, ate a few pounds of my mom's homemade pumpkin cookies, and binged on Wasatch mountain scenery just as autumn began its stark transition to winter. I got in 20 hours and 37 minutes of hiking over my five days in town — much of it at a similar effort level to the trail running I do at home, so it was a solid week of training, too.

Dad was coming down with a nasty cold but he rallied for a Saturday outing up the Cherry Canyon Logging Trail. This trail begins at a nondescript city park on the edge of Draper, about two miles from where my parents live, and climbs straight up the steep face of a mountain. On a good day one can ascend 7,000 feet to the top of Lone Peak, but we knew snow and ice conditions would prevent us from attempting the technical scrambling up the summit ridge, and also that route finding would be more difficult under fresh snow. We set our sights on the "Outlaw Cabin" in the pine forest at 9,500 feet elevation. Still a 5,000-foot climb.

It was a gorgeous day, but the wind was fierce and above 7,000 feet we were soon slogging through shin- and knee-deep powder. Temperatures climbed just above freezing, but the wind made it feel much colder.

Lone Peak and its drainages remain my favorite section of the Wasatch Mountains. The massif towers over my childhood house (where my parents still live) and I consider it my home mountain. I always love the opportunity to return here.

The Outlaw Cabin, built in 1960 by the Allen Brothers, was constructed before the pine forest where it's located officially became part of the Lone Peak Wilderness Area. I admit backcountry cabins like this creep me out; I half expect to find the bones of a long-dead miner or the bloody victim of a chainsaw murder inside. Dad pulled back the wooden slab of a door and peeked inside, but I couldn't bring myself to do so. We brushed the snow off a log and enjoyed a shivery lunch outside. Then we started down the 5,000-foot descent that always seems so much longer than that.

On Sunday I squeezed in a quick trip up the West Ridge of Grandeur Peak. Another cold storm had moved in and the mountain was shrouded in thick fog and pummeled by wind, stinging rain and sleet, so I pulled my buff over my face, put my head down, and marched. Although it's not the most scenic route in the Wasatch, if I lived in Salt Lake City I would probably climb this trail often. It's a great training "run." In five miles there is 7,400 feet of elevation change (3,714 feet in 2.5 miles, and both the climb and descent are pretty much equally difficult at those grades.) On this hike I managed to shave twenty minutes — four minutes a mile — off my pace from when I hiked it back in May. I like to think that maybe I'm actually in better shape now than I was in the spring, but mostly this just demonstrates my tendency to do better when the weather is awful than when it's nice. Also, I love the kind of terrain where 29-minute miles feel like a hard effort. If I had a steady supply of steep mountains to climb or snowy tundra to traverse, I would be a happy hiker. I wouldn't miss running one bit. But I do enjoy trail running, of course, for the way it's taught me how to move more efficiently over variable terrain and cover more distance in one go. Come to think of it, I really need to start running again soon.

The clouds moved away for several minutes just as I arrived at the 8,300-foot peak, affording me a brief but nice view of the surrounding mountains.

 On Monday I had another short window of time, so I decided to head up Little Cottonwood Canyon to climb to White Pine Lake, which sits in a rocky basin below Red and White Baldy peaks at about 10,200 feet altitude. Right before I left the house, my dad suggested that I borrow his snowshoes because Little Cottonwood always gets "slammed" when there's a storm. The suggestion surprised me. Sure, these fall storms had dumped a few inches of snow, but surely not enough to be snowshoe worthy?

Dad was right; there was a lot of snow up there, starting with about three inches at the trailhead and building to nearly two feet at the lake. Many of the aspen trees still had their leaves in tact, creating a cool spot-color effect on the black-and-white landscape.

Light snow continued to fall throughout the climb, which was a genuine trudge. Dad's snowshoes are a bit heavy and the snow was wet and cement-like. I logged one 38-minute-mile to the top that was an all-out, gasping effort (being at 10,000 feet could have had something to do with that. I actually do okay at altitude for the first few days of acclimation, and tend to start struggling with it more later in the week.) I had plans to visit my sister in the afternoon, and was trying to keep the hike to three and a half hours. It took me 2:30 to reach the lake, only five miles and 2,600 feet of climbing from the trailhead. Luckily I was able to take the snowshoes off and jog most of the last three miles, keeping the hike to 3:40.

Despite my efforts to rush through this outing, it was soothing and peaceful. I broke a fresh track all the way to the lake and only saw two other people on the return. Fine grainy snow fell and thick fog streamed through the canyon. Above treeline I encountered full white-outs, which were deeply unsettling in their complete sensory deprivation. On two occasions I stopped walking and gazed into the gray silence, grasping to regain some feeling of reconnection to Earth. I felt like I was floating in outer space (a sensation probably sparked by the fact my friend and I saw "Gravity" at the movies on Saturday.) The tiniest sparks of panic would creep in, and that was always the moment when the clouds moved through and I could see the outlines of rocks and ridges in front of me. I can see! These moments of sensory disconnect continued for most of the last painfully slow mile, and I was happy to have my own tracks to follow down.

And that's my trip to Utah. I flew home on Monday evening, back to bikes and 80-degree weather. But it's time to start gearing up for winter. Beat and I have lots of good things coming up, and as my PTL shellshock continues to diminish, I feel more excitement about all of it — 25 Hours of Frog Hollow, Alaska, Iditarod, snow bikes ... many good things. Although I was roughed up by my summer adventures, I feel like I've grown stronger because of that. Twenty hours of time in the winter-kissed Wasatch Mountains was a solid jumpstart for the mojo I feared I'd lost.