Week 4, Dec. 2 to 8

Monday: Run, 1:27, 8 miles, 1,342 feet climbing. I flew out of Salt Lake City in the early afternoon, but was able to squeeze in a 90-minute trail run with my dad before I left town. We ran an out-and-back on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail in Corner Canyon, which he'd never run or hiked before. Despite spending the rest of the week in California, Monday was by far my warmest day, with temperatures near 60 degrees and a strong warm wind out of the east.

Tuesday: Run, 0:54, 5.8 miles, 614 feet climbing. The standard Tuesday run — Monta Vista loop between 4 and 5 p.m. I like having one workout that's exactly the same every single week. In future weeks I might try to designate Tuesday as a rest day. I finally changed out my shoes this week, a pair of Hoka Mafate 2s that I've had for a while but were nearly new. And the pain on top of my left foot went away entirely. I suppose I was right about the theory that my Mafate 3s were worn out.

Wednesday: Road bike, 2:27, 33.5 miles, 3,719 feet climbing. I was woefully underdressed for this ride with temperatures in the low 30s and a downhill windchill that must have approached 20 degrees. I know I'm California soft now, but this had all of the hallmarks of extreme cold training, with numbness slowly creeping all the way up my extremities, involuntary shivering, and a dramatic drop in core temperature that took most of the evening to recover. I forget just how exhausting this process is — the rewarming took more out of me than the ride itself. It was a useful reminder for real winter conditions, to always stop and deal with body chill before it gets out of control — it's not only dangerous, but it's also a massive energy drain.

Thursday: 0:57, 6.3 miles, 942 feet climbing. For this run I met up with Chris, who is a San Jose local that I met on the flight to Salt Lake City last week. We spent the whole 2.5-hour flight talking about Bitcoin and growing up in Utah. Yes, I sat next to someone on a plane and actually made a new friend. I am not a chatty person, so this was a new experience for me. Chris is a triathlete and mainly a road runner, and I was hoping to draw him to the light side of trail running with my favorite 10K loop in Rancho while heavily talking up a 50K race in Woodside. Maybe I'll see him there on Sunday.

Friday: Run, 1:55, 10 miles, 1,988 feet climbing. I drove out to El Cerrito to meet with Ann Trason, and before our coffee date we went for a run in the Berkeley Hills. She's laid back and a lot of fun to

run with, especially after we got lost and had to crawl up a super steep, cow-stomped slope. She told a few great stories during the run but then admitted she doesn't like talking about herself later that afternoon. If we ever end up doing formal interviews, they'll likely be best on the move.

Saturday: Run, 6:27, 23 miles, 5,232 feet climbing. Pacing for 9 miles and then rambling on my own for another 14 in the Marin Headlands, at a mellow pace all around. But after standing around for much of the morning at the Stinson Beach aid station, it was a decent day on my feet, which I think is the best kind of physical Iditarod Training. There was even a strong, cold wind on the ridge tops to simulate Alaska just a little.

Sunday: Road bike, 1:46, 17.7 miles, 2,495 feet climbing. Beat played with the Snoots and I enjoyed a leisurely climb. It was another clear, cold day, with near-freezing temperatures on top of Montebello. Beat and I both brought our windproof fleece jackets to test on the descent. I admit I had to put mine on two thirds of the way up the climb, because I was too cold. We still didn't wear adequate gloves, tights, or footgear, so we still froze on the descent, although not to the extent of Wednesday. I'm definitely California soft now, but I feel like I got some real cold-weather training in this week. I also had a chance to run with several new and interesting people, which was a fun diversion from my usual solo style.

Total: 15:53, 53.1 miles run, 51.2 miles ride, 16,332 feet climbing

Beat is traveling to Germany this week to attend his step-father's funeral. My goal for this coming week is, of course, the 50K trail run on Sunday, and then perhaps a long ride on Monday. I want to start incorporating some back-to-back long efforts without the risk of ramping up running mileage too much. I'm also giving more thought to the whole tire-dragging thing, but I don't think I can deal with being that conspicuous on local trails. I wish there was a way to simulate sled dragging in a snowless climate without looking like an idiot. A heavy backpack on hills might work.  

A distant goodbye

Just as a corporate championship race with more than a thousand participants was drawing to a close, I was a half dozen miles away on the Coastal Trail, a solo runner among the otherwise stoic cliffs. Earlier in the day, I hopped a shuttle bus and spent several hours among the crowds at Stinson Beach, cheering for runners in the North Face 50-mile Endurance Challenge — because it's fun to spectate a big race. Then I helped pace an acquaintance from Colorado who unfortunately was having a bad day and missed a cut-off at mile 36. After that, there wasn't much left to do but run back to where I started, so I took a long way, meandering along the high ridges of the Marin Headlands.

A cold wind blasted the cliffs, carrying a salty mist hundreds of feet above the crashing waves. The setting sun rendered the hillside in purple light and sharpened the chill, which, thanks to the wind, felt more threatening than the mild temperature might imply. I rounded a corner and caught a gleam from the last light of the sun in the eyes of a young bobcat, who stared at me for a long second before turning around and sauntering down the trail. Bobcat was running but with no real urgency, its long legs and big paws stirring a fine layer of dust that had been kicked up by hundreds of runners early that morning. A couple of times, the bobcat glanced back as if to say, "Are you still following me? This is my trail." I love spotting bobcats in the hills; they remind me of my imagined spirit animal, Lynx, which I conjure for comfort in times of fear and pain. After the bobcat finally darted back into the brush, I decided our brief run together was a good omen.

A few hours later, Beat texted to tell me that his mother's partner Peter had died. It was not unexpected; he had terminal cancer, but the quickness of his passing came as a surprise. And regardless of the circumstances, it's never easy to accept that someone you knew and appreciated is suddenly, simply, no longer there. When Beat and I visited his mother in Germany, Peter and I would occasionally take long walks on the paths and trails of Bielefeld. He spoke only a little English and I speak even less German, but he used our limited shared vocabulary and enthusiastic gestures to piece together a compelling portrait of the city and his life there. He was kind and intelligent and always had a sparkle in his eye, a zest for life that even a crescendo of near-constant pain couldn't dampen. He was fond of aphorisms and walking. Peter was once a very quick marathoner but unfortunately a longterm smoker; complications of smoking nearly took his legs, but he was able to save them through sheer determination and exercise. He walked nearly every day, sometimes 20 or 30 kilometers, and it was difficult to watch as cancer took this joy away from him as well. He was always supportive of Beat and me and enthusiastic about all of our crazy adventures; he treated me like a daughter-in-law despite the lack of legal definition, liked all of my Facebook posts, and greeted me with a long-armed embrace whenever we visited. And Peter absolutely adored cats. I thought about the running bobcat when I learned he was gone. Peter would have loved that story.

I will miss him.

Saturday was a beautiful day. After a deluge of rain on Friday night, the morning dawned clear and cold, with pre-dawn temperatures again hovering near freezing. I headed out to the Headlands to meet up with Shelby, a woman from Colorado who traveled to San Francisco to take part in the North Face 50, which is largest and most prestigious trail race of the year in this region. I think they have something like 500 sign-ups in each of the 50-mile, 50K, marathon, and marathon relay races, including a large number of elite and international runners. If you add in volunteers, pacers, crew, and sponsors, you have well over 2,000 people involved. Those are big numbers for trail running, which is the main reason I never sign up for this event. But then December rolls around and all the excitement drums up and I want to get involved. Shelby invited me to pace her from Stinson Beach to the finish, about 22 miles. Sadly, her stomach turned shortly before we linked up and there's not much I could do to help but sympathize. We reached the Muir Woods checkpoint just five minutes late, but it was a hard cut-off. Shelby, who's a little burnt out after a long season of racing, was cheerfully accepting of the outcome, and grabbed a race shuttle back to the start. Since my car was parked at Tennessee Woods, I decided to continue on the course and added a bonus loop after the stars came out and the cold wind really started cranking. I loved it, even though I missed most of the race action.

Also on Saturday, I was drawn in the lottery for the Hardrock 100, a 100-mile mountain run in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado next July. That text from Beat came a couple of hours before the one about Peter, as I was cheerfully running down the Marincello Trail to wrap up my long run. My response was a blunt but succinct "WTF?!?" Because of the way Hardrock divides up their entries, there were 1,010 people vying for 35 spots. Every year a runner signs up for the lottery, they're given an exponential increase in the number of "tickets" they receive. This was my second year giving it a go, so I had two tickets. People who have tried for years with no luck can have upwards of 128 tickets. Needless to say, I did not have a high chance of "winning." And if you want to increase your chances each year, you have to play the game. With only two tickets and the possibility of increasing that to four next year, I threw my name in the hat.

It was drawn. I very much want to run Hardrock. I would be a great adventure run, in one of the most spectacular mountain ranges in the United States, and the organization itself creates a family-like atmosphere that one can't help but embrace. And its very inaccessibility in terms of entry has contributed to Hardrock becoming perhaps the most widely coveted 100-mile mountain run in the world. All that said, I was forming other adventure ambitions for the summer of 2014, and Hardrock just doesn't quite fit. I might be able to make it all work with excessive adventure greediness, perhaps demanding the impossible from myself, and of course even that would be a grand experiment. Either way, I'll have to do some serious soul searching about this in the coming weeks. It would be unwise to give up what will likely be my only chance to run Hardrock. Just qualifying for this run is a whole lot of commitment that I'm not willing to wedge myself into — training for and running the same 100-mile races every year.

This has certainly been my year for race lotteries. A few months ago I applied for the White Mountains 100, thinking, "I don't really want to take on a 100-mile snow bike race so soon after the ITI, but it's my favorite race ever and I'm not going to get in anyway." I got in. Now Hardrock. It's almost as though the so-called "lottery gods" are testing the conviction I had back in September that maybe I should dial back the whole adventure racing thing, that maybe it's getting out of control ...

It's a good problem to have, of course — too many things I really want to do with my time. The problem lies in wanting to have it all.

Simulated cold

Like many, I am a creature of habit. I have the daily work routine, the foods I like, the diversions I enjoy, the routes I ride or run, the clothing I wear. Like many, my habits bring comfort, but comfort in turn brings complacency. I didn't give a second thought to my attire when I set out for a ride on Wednesday — jersey and shorts, ultralight Pearl Izumi pullover, and a day-glo vest. Roadie layers, designed for what passes for winter here in the Bay Area. Outside there was a nip to the air, and a confirmed temperature of 42 degrees at 300 feet. But it felt pleasant, pedaling hard up Highway 9 and working up a lather of sweat. Just as I crested the hill at 2,700 feet, the sun slipped below the ridge line. Suddenly the air felt ten degrees colder than it had in the shaded canyon. Condensed breath swirled around my face. I reached in the pocket of my now-soaked jersey and pulled out the only extra layers I brought with me — a knit cap and a thin pair of gloves. In front of me was seven miles of fast rolling followed by a ten-mile, winding descent. There would be no more lather of sweat, no more body heat generated by hard work — only wind chill, and the inevitable law that what goes up must come down.

The experience of cold is relative. I've felt toasty at 30 below and near-hypothermic at 45 above. It all comes down to expectation and preparation, and here in California, there's always at least one cold day in December that catches me off guard and re-teaches me that hard lesson. Wednesday was that day. The fingers went first, followed by feet, clad as they were in only well-ventilated shoes and thin socks. Then my face joined my limbs in wooden rigidity. Tingling numbness crept up my arms like a spider, until it became difficult to steer and I involuntarily maneuvered the handlebars into scary jerking motions because my muscles were no longer sending the right signals to my brain. The flash freeze. I am a cyclist prone to complacency, so I know it well.

But I've also accumulated enough cold-weather experience to know this is not the end of the world, at least at these still-forgiving temperatures near freezing with an end close in sight. At 10 degrees or 0 or 30 below, you'd never catch me venturing outside in roadie clothing. "Leave it to cycling companies to make the most useless warm gear ever," I laughed to myself as my teeth chattered audibly. My ears began to burn. My feet grew heavy. My legs felt like they were wrapped in cold meat. The capillaries on my skin tingled with electric sharpness. It was painful and yet it felt so lively, so invigorating, so real. I smiled in spite of myself, a lopsided grin that had to chisel its way through ice-hard cheeks. "This is awful. I can't wait to go to Alaska," I laughed again.

Back in the relative warmth of the valley, I jumped off my bike at a red light and started running in place. A well-bundled bike commuter rolled up beside me. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine," I said, teeth still chattering. "My feet are cold, just trying to get the feeling back."

"It's supposed to freeze tonight, 28 degrees," she said. "That's cold for around here."

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

Elsewhere, winter abides. Single digits in Utah. Deep subzero in Montana. Freezing rain in Alaska. Here in California, I cuddle up in my fleece blanket and daydream about the cold, the hard-edged kind that draws every life force to the surface and sharpens the senses with renewed vitality. Habits and comfort are often good things; hubris and mistakes often are not. But when the latter gives way to the former, a beautiful cycle of experience begins to happen.