ITI training, week 1

I only got one photo on Saturday before my camera battery died. Not my best work for a week of outings, I know.

So, there are about 19 weeks until the start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational on Feb. 28, 2016. I wanted to revive my weekly training log from winter 2013-14 because it proved to be a useful record. Since the Firetrails 50 was a re-set of sorts, I'm starting with the following week — Oct. 12 to 18.

I'm a little embarrassed because I haven't started a weight training routine yet. I decided to join a small gym near my neighborhood, and it's been a frustratingly slow process. But my membership is set to start on Wednesday, so I hope to report back next week. The benefit of this gym, besides being relatively inexpensive, is there is one trainer there for a few hours each day who can work with me as long as they're not already occupied with other clients. It's not as good as personal training, but at least I can ask questions and receive feedback. This is all new to me, so obviously the first few weeks will be about treading lightly and focusing on form. Hopefully once I get the exercises down, I can start loading my weak little arms and shoulders more heavily so they adapt into something more useful.

Beyond that, I plan to continue with both riding and running/hiking, and if I can stay disciplined, start to add more weight to both my bike and back on these outings. There will be rides where I purposefully push my bike up a steep hill again and again. I may even do a few cart-dragging "runs." Whether I'll manage any snow training is still in question. El Nino heat may bring another snowless winter to the Sierras. I feel strongly that I need at least one week of real cold-weather camping practice, so I'm hoping to make a trip to Alaska in December. Also, Beat and I signed up for 200-mile version of JayP's Fat Pursuit in Idaho in January as a shakedown tour.

Monday: Road bike, 1:29, 16.2 miles, 2,232 feet climbing. My next big "event" is a nutty little outing that I proposed as part of Elden "The Fat Cyclist" Nelson's annual 100 Miles of Nowhere charity ride. On Nov. 7, people from all over the world donate money for the privilege of riding a century either on trainers at their homes, or on an outdoor course that effectively goes nowhere. For several years I've wanted to attempt "100 Miles of Montebello Road," which is ten climbs and descents on my go-to hill climb. The end result is a road century with 20,000 feet of climbing. As you can imagine for any stretch of road that squeezes 2,000 feet of climbing into five miles, there is nothing flat about Montebello Road. As I was grinding up the pavement on Monday, there may have been a few swear words uttered. (#$%! How am I ever going to get through two of these, let alone ten???) It will definitely take some work to get my cycling legs back. It's good I set this impossible standard for myself in three weeks.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:59, 5.6 miles, 696 feet climbing. Running! Now that's more like it. I'm definitely better trained for running right now. My IT band was still bothering me after Firetrails, so I shuffled the descents.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 2:22, 23.4 miles, 3,184 feet climbing. Moots is still covered in clumps of mud that are almost certainly from the Tour Divide, and Beat finally became annoyed with the rear tire that has been consistently flat for three months, and added sealant himself. My mountain bike has been neglected. As I pedaled over Black Mountain and began to descent into Stevens Creek Canyon, I realized I hadn't visited my home trails since May. May! It's been wonderful to get back on my bike, but I can definitely feel the burn in my butt and legs. It's been a while.

Thursday: Trail run, 0:57, 5.6 miles, 702 feet climbing. I got a massage on Thursday morning, and suddenly my IT band felt 100 percent better. Even though I ran this loop at an easier pace than my Tuesday run, I finished it faster simply because I wasn't protecting the descents.

Friday: Road bike, 1:18, 15.5 miles, 2,073 feet climbing. This is another cheater Montebello ride where I wanted to practice my "100-mile pace" and didn't even ride all the way to the top. I don't remember why. But this 100 Miles of Nowhere thing is really starting to freak me out. Also, if you're a Bay Area cyclist and think this nutty century sounds at all fun, please considering joining us. There are at least six people right now who say they're going to show up at 6 a.m. Saturday, Nov. 7. We may even have a bit of an aid station at the bottom of the hill. (However, this is a fully self-supported, unofficial, untimed group ride.) If you want more information, e-mail me at jillhomer66@hotmail.com.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 3:58, 34.8 miles, 5,212 feet climbing. My friend Liehann recently started training with Coach Lynda, but he found a way to work me into his Saturday plan. We pedaled trails toward Russian Ridge, and I managed to keep a solid pace up until the final climb, when my legs just died. I've definitely lost some power in my quads.

Sunday: Trail run, 2:19, 13.1 miles, 2,246 feet climbing. Beat has been battling a veritable plague all week, and I haven't caught it, which is weird, because it seems like my immune system really gave up this year. Still, I'm currently healthy, so I set out to do my own thing — a half-marathon-length loop up the brutally steep PG&E trail and down the mellow and fun High Meadow Trail in Rancho. I felt fantastic on this run, with this giddy zeal that I also experienced while riding with Liehann on Saturday. It's funny, because with a few exceptions, I haven't felt this strong in a while. Months, really. In early October I had a few terrible runs and one especially terrible mountain bike ride, and I told Beat that if I couldn't finish the Firetrails 50, I was definitely going to withdraw from the ITI. It wasn't about the trail run; there was just something wrong with me, and I needed to figure it out.

Cue the visit to the allergist, and the assurance from a professional that "oh, there's probably nothing really wrong with you — except you're really allergic to grass." And just like that, I feel great. It's not about grass pollen; that's been gone for a couple of months now. It's more about increased confidence that this unseen anvil has been lifted. When I charge up a hill, I'm no longer afraid that it's going to come crushing down, so I push harder and feel better. Funny what happens when negative thoughts are flipped around.

Total: 13:26, 89.9 miles ride, 24.3 miles run, 16,346 feet climbing

As it turns out, I am allergic to summer

This week I went in to see an allergist in hopes that the doctor could provide insight into my recent breathing difficulties. Skin tests came up negative for mold, dust mites, weeds, and most animals. I only showed mild allergies to a handful of tree pollens. But when the doctor arrived at the spot on my back that felt like a tiny piranha tearing into my skin, she exhaled loudly and said, "Oh, yeah, grass is really blowing up. Wow."

I get hay fever every spring and always suspected I was allergic to grass pollen, but it turns out I am severely allergic to grass pollen. The doctor was surprised I'd never sought allergy treatments in the past. She said people with allergies occasionally experience a tipping point when they contract a cold or the flu during allergy season. Productive coughing creates an environment in which allergens are held in the mucus lining the bronchial tubes, exacerbating the inflammation and causing more mucus buildup, which in turn bolsters the virus. Left untreated, the infection pushes deeper into the airways, leading to prolonged inflammation and higher sensitivity to allergens.

"It could take months to clear up," the doctor said, and cheerfully added, "which may be why you're feeling so much better now."

I am feeling so much better now. Grass pollen season is finally over. But a grass allergy could explain why I became so sick during the Tour Divide. Pollen counts were already high when I set out to ride my bicycle across the Rockies in mid-June. I developed some type of upper respiratory infection that caused a sore throat and coughing on the first day of the trip. Then I continued to stay outside all day, every day, breathing in large quantities of pollen and coughing up a lot of crud. At the time I became convinced that the air was "toxic," but of course pushed that notion aside because it was mostly absurd. Now I don't think that inclination was entirely off base. The grass allergy would explain why I felt a little better after spending a night indoors, and why I struggled so much more with my breathing in high winds and heat. It wasn't the dust, which is what I assumed I was choking on. It was pollen.

A grass allergy would also explain a little more about my general health since I moved to California ... why I always feel lousy in April and May (my annual "spring slump" after "too much fun" during March travels in Alaska), why I often continue to struggle on a lesser scale through the summer (I tended to blame high temperatures and a touch of burnout) and why I'm suddenly so much more peppy in the fall (I credited excitement about upcoming Alaska adventures and a slight reduction of heat.) Maybe having an immune system set to overdrive for half of the year isn't so good for energy levels.

The allergist recommended I see her again next April to assess my symptoms and decide how to proceed. In general, allergies just blow. Immunotherapy can take years to become effective, over-the-counter meds can be hit-or-miss, steroid inhalers and other asthma treatments are medicine for the rest of your life. The general advice is to avoid going outside during allergy season.

Or, you know, move to Alaska. Ha.

During this visit I also learned the terrible, terrible news that I'm allergic to cats. Not dogs, not horses, not mice. Just cats. I actually scored in the moderate to severe category for this allergy. This may explain all the seemingly random skin rashes that have cropped up over the years. Because of all of our traveling that was becoming increasingly difficult for my 12-year-old cat Cady, Beat and I recently sent her to live with her long-time cat sitter, who loves Cady and needed a companion for a difficult time she's going through. I've been struggling with this decision, but I suppose the move was a good thing for me as well. Still, I'm a hopeless cat person and I don't plan to never have a pet again. I'll live with the eczema if I must.

But for now, I can de-cat my house and rejoice that long-suffering summer is over. Soon it will be my season. Superwoman season. Winter. Bring it on. 

Bustin' out at the Firetrails 50-mile

Mountain biking at Tilden Park outside Berkeley earlier this month. I really need to get back on a bike.

Every September, Beat returns from the Tor des Geants buzzing on run-bliss and eager to sign up for all of the fall races. This is also about the time he acknowledges he doesn't have any vacation days left, so the smattering of hundred-milers left in the year are scratched out, and we usually end up at a local 50K. My Ultra Signup profile contains a handful of October and November races that have caused me to wonder, "Wait, why did I run that one? Oh, yeah, Beat's TDG chaser."

October is also the month when I need to launch my winter training. It's the "on" season, when I need to mentally and physically prepare for the grueling Alaska slog that always comprises my favorite endeavor of the year. I haven't wanted to talk or write about 2016 because of the level of cognitive dissonance it takes to contemplate a thousand miles to Nome. Beat hasn't enjoyed hearing me talk about it either, because the conversation always devolves into sniveling about the many uncertainties surrounding my health and strength and resolve. He makes an inarguable point, though — my insecurities are pointless. The Iditarod Trail does not care. Either I'm all in, or I'm out. I need to decide.

It's difficult to decide how to train, because I want to be conservative but the goal is so audacious. I want to increase my muscle strength and endurance so I can manage heavy loads in deep or drifted snow, while continuing to build cardiovascular strength and endurance so I can travel long distances — or at least long hours — every day for most of a month. I want to stay conditioned for both walking/running and cycling, since taking a bike to Nome — if that's what I choose to do, and I want to keep my options open during this El Niño season — involves plenty of both. I've been reading books and blogs on strength training and trying to formulate a plan that won't interfere with endurance training — the many hours in the saddle that I know I need. Of course resting is a big part of building strength, so I need to figure out where and how to focus my efforts. Helpful guidance has been difficult to find. People have all kinds of things they train for, but a month-long, heavy-lifting expedition isn't usually one of them.

Meanwhile, summer inertia lingers, as I've been frightened of most workouts since the Tour Divide. Every time my heart rate pegs or my breathing becomes heavy, I panic just a little bit. Earlier this month, I was at Tilden Park in Berkeley for what was only my second mountain bike ride since the Tour Divide, largely because I'm so intimidated by mountain biking right now. Each time I started up a steep hill, I'd get nervous about my breathing, step off the bike, and walk. The thing is — I'm not even sure I have any kind of conventional breathing problem. I become less convinced of this every day. Maybe — probably — I'd be just fine at higher intensities, but I'm still a little too scared of asthma attacks to try. I'm going to see an allergist on Thursday, and hope some guidance in that regard will help.

This is turning into a long intro, but it's my attempt to summarize where I'm at. Cautiously optimistic? That's not really the right phrase, but I'm not so hopelessly pessimistic as I have been in the past few months. I do feel myself becoming progressively stronger, which is what I'd hope and expect if I was recovering from a bout of pneumonia. That's why, when Beat suggested the Dick Collins Firetrails 50-mile run as a fun TDG chaser, I jumped on board. It would be good for me, I reasoned, to take on a frightening and yet not too risky challenge. I've been doing a lot of hiking over the past two months, so my legs and feet are in good shape, and the cut-offs where tight enough to force a solid effort.

Then I thought, "Wait, those cut-offs are pretty tight. I've been hiking a lot but not running that much. When I do run, it's been fairly slow relative to my usual paces. Can I actually hit those cut-offs? What if I don't? What if I DNF the Firetrails 50? There goes my last shred of confidence."

On Wednesday, after my weekend in the Grand Canyon, I set out for a practice run on one of my regular loops — eight miles up PG&E and down the High Meadow and Wildcat trails in Rancho San Antonio park. I pushed the pace just a bit too hard on the climb and developed cramping in my hamstrings, which expanded to a horrible side-stitch on the descent. From there everything deteriorated into one of those "worst runs ever" that included shuffling awkwardly to a pit toilet and still needing to effectively walk the last mile of an eight-mile run. Oof. That was not a confidence builder.

And with that, I took two days off and woke up at 4 a.m. Saturday morning for 50 miles of hills in Oakland. Firetrails is one of the classic Bay Area trail races, dating back to 1983. It's more or less an out-and-back, from Lake Chabot to Tilden Regional Park through the redwood forests and oaken hillsides along the suburban communities surrounding Oakland. There are 8,000 feet of climbing over the duration, which makes for a tough but mostly runnable course. Given it takes place within shouting distance of such a large metro area, Firetrails is uniquely secluded — the course covers 26 miles of bike paths, narrow fire roads, and singletrack, all closed to motorized traffic, and only crosses two or three roads. It's scenic as well, if I do say so myself, although I don't have any pictures because I unintentionally forgot my camera (and it's funny how no photos deflates my desire to post on social media.) But there are miles of mossy forests, views of rippling golden hills and blue reservoirs, and occasional glimpses into the fog-shrouded San Francisco skyline.

The race started in pre-dawn darkness at 6:30 a.m. It was foggy and warm, already over 70 degrees. I opted to bring a headlamp because dawn was still 30 minutes away, and I fully expected to be out after the 6:30 p.m. sunset. This race is well-structured for more limited daylight with paved bike paths at both the beginning and end, so most runners forgo headlamps, but the last thing I needed was to trip on a curb and break a wrist at mile 0.5.

Firetrails is fairly large for a trail race — last year there were more than 300 people at the starting line, and probably a similar number this year. The group fanned out and after eight miles I caught up to Beat and also Iris, a woman from Calgary who I frequently see at these Bay Area trail races. Iris and I have run together at the Woodside Ramble and Golden Gate 50K, and it's gotten to the point where I almost expect to see her out there, even though she travels all the way from Canada and we never plan these meet-ups. She was running with her friend Scott, and I made an effort to keep up with them, chatting the morning away. I felt really good. I wasn't about to push my luck with a 50-miler, but by mile 20 I was cautiously optimistic that I might finish this thing pretty well.

Temperatures rose into the 80s and the fog burned off, but humidity stayed high. After Beat ran ahead for the last time, Iris commented on how drenched he was in sweat. Her hair was soaked, and when I looked down at my own sweat-beaded skin and dripping shirt, I had to conclude that we all looked like we had jumped into lakes. The hot humidity made things difficult, but there were aid stations every five miles with Clif Shot Bloks, ice and salt tabs. I was enamored with these luxuries that really took the edge off.

At the 26-mile turnaround, I changed my socks and made the mistake of eating one of those boiled potatoes, which tasted rotten. I had shoved the whole thing in my mouth, and the garbage can was surrounded by runners, so I made myself swallow it, which was a larger mistake. I stuck around for five or so more minutes gagging and trying to wash the horrible taste away with Coke. Should have stuck with Shot Bloks. Always stick with Shot Bloks.

Despite a now-iffy stomach, the next section coming up was the only one for which I was reasonable trained: a 1,300-foot climb. I marched up the steep fireroad that was harshly exposed to the hot, hot sun, and actually felt better by the time I reached the top. I coasted into the 31-mile aid station thinking I had this race in the bag.

The problem is, most of my long trail runs have been 50Ks, and my body seems to have this pre-set kill button once 50 kilometers have passed. Fifty miles is really a whole lot further, so struggles out of the blue with 19 miles to go are frustrating. Just as soon as I left the aid station, my IT band started acting up. This didn't come as a surprise, since I had IT-band pain in Europe, but it certainly wasn't welcome. I started shuffling the downhills more slowly, then walked a few. Climbs were my only relief. I wasn't about to turn this IT band aggravation into a more long-term thing, so I kept the pressure off, but I continued to monitor my watch. DNF might still be worse. Yes, it might.

Iris and Scott caught and passed me, and I became more and more grumpy toward the end as my knee ached and aid station after aid station told me they had no toilet (I really wanted one, but knew I could keep going without, so I didn't go rushing off into the suburban woods.)

I arrived at the finish in 11 hours and 35 minutes. It was mildly disappointing after I'd briefly convinced myself that sub-11 was within my reach, but at the same time I can only shake my head at these thoughts because it's all so arbitrary. Beat finished an hour before me, and fetched me a cup of peach gelato as I rubbed my aching legs and complained, "So much running. That was just so much running." But it was all gone within a few hours; even the IT band pain had settled, and all that was left was that warm glow. "You didn't DNF. You're still okay. Hopefully."