ITI training, week four

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. This session went well. I was able to move up a bar in six out of 12 exercises. I'm thinking about increasing to three sets instead of two on my "gym only" day of the week.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:49, 5.6 miles, 707 feet climbing. Temperatures had cooled off into the 60s, and I had such a great run that I burst through the long-range goals I set for myself a couple of weeks ago. I ran an 8:43-minute-mile average and managed second position (out of 185) on a Strava segment that I targeted as a way to boost my downhill trail-running confidence: 6:20 pace! Whenever I run this fast, a little bit of vertigo kicks in and I begin to feel wobbly. I'd love to get past that, and "Hill Trail Descent" is a fun place to test my limits. Between that mild vertigo and my tight hamstrings, I have serious reservations about ever training to run "fast," but building up confidence is a good thing. Now I'm not sure where to set my goals for this weekly loop. First place on Hill Trail Descent is probably out of the question because it's held by a pro at 5:48 pace. Whatever speed goals I set, they're certain to fall apart as I increase the hours on weekend rides.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 4:40, 42.5 miles, 4,795 feet climbing. It was time to take in the Subaru for service. The dealership is super slow and it's also a quick hop over to the Los Gatos Creek Trail, so I love using this chore as an excuse to go mountain biking in Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. On this day I was determined to take on "Dog Meat," a climb that has been famous among local mountain bikers since the Santa Cruz Klunker days. It ascends 1,000 feet on one mile — *after* you have plodded up 1,500 feet on the steep Limekiln Trail — and averages an 18 percent grade with sections that approach 30 percent. The ultimate goal is "no dabs Dog Meat," and while I didn't think I had this in me, I was still buzzing from my strong run on Tuesday and determined to give it my best shot. It probably will surprise no one that I cracked early. Rain on Monday left the fire road in a strange state — sort of a gummy consistency with loose gravel on top. After I nearly tipped over riding, I struggled to push my bike up that thing. It did occur to me that Dog Meat would be the perfect place for future pushing practice. After I finally reached the crest, I still had many steep rollers to conquer along the ridge to Mount El Sombroso. Then, after several miles of descending, I made a strange decision to climb Barlow fire road toward Mount Umunhum. By the time I was finally coasting down the pavement toward Los Gatos, I was so completely cracked that I feared I'd done irreparable damage to my 100 Miles of Nowhere goal coming up on Saturday. Oh, Sierra Azul. So beautiful, so tempting, so evil.

Thursday: Hike, 3:07, 7.7 miles, 1,419 feet climbing. I had to head out to Lake Sonoma in the morning to meet Ann for some interviews. As such, I skipped the morning gym session, and felt guilty about this. But to be honest, I was quite sore after Sierra Azul — shoulder and calves, probably from pushing up Dogmeat — and reluctant to take any more chances with the long ride coming up on Saturday. Ann and I took a very leisurely stroll above Lake Sonoma, but it was admittedly a long time standing on sore legs, and by the end I felt quite tired. That night I was awakened by an excruciating cramp in my right calf, and the next day the muscle was so tight I could hardly walk.

Friday: Rest. I felt guilty about not going to the gym, massaged my throbbing calf, and nursed a cold dread about 100 miles of Montebello.

Saturday: Road bike, 11:50, 105.1 miles, 20,159 feet climbing. I already wrote a ride report about the 100 Miles of Nowhere on Montebello Road, but as a training ride I think it went exceedingly well. I had few issues outside mild chaffing, still-sore shoulders, and the fact that it was a progressively harder effort as fatigue set in. That calf cramp, which still hurt whenever I stepped off my bike to walk around, didn't bother me at all in the saddle.

Sunday: Rest. I still felt guilty about not going to the gym, but I was sore all over. And yes, a rest day was the plan, but I can already see that my self-induced guilt trips are going to come from slacking on gym sessions. Dog Meat proved that I still have a ways to go in the strength department. But Montebello proved that I am well-situated in the endurance department. All in all, an encouraging week of training.

Total: 20:27, 147.6 miles ride, 13.3 miles run, 27,080 feet climbing.

The beauty of riding nowhere

Each year, Elden the Fat Cyclist — world-famous bike blogger and fundraiser extraordinaire — hosts a charity event called the 100 Miles of Nowhere. He first formulated the idea while riding a virtual 100 miles on his trainer, and now challenges cyclists from all over the world to donate to charity for the privilege of riding a "nowhere" century of their choosing. Creativity is encouraged, and pretty much any crazy century that one could imagine has been done — 100 miles on rollers, 3,000 rotations around a driveway, masochistic hill repeats, you name it. 

Although I've been a regular reader of Fat Cyclist for a decade, support his causes, and enjoy pondering my own versions of a "nowhere" ride, I hadn't participated before. This year the event announcement went out just as I was beginning to formulate a plan for winter training. It just clicked. "I've been talking about 100 Miles of Montebello Road for three years now. I'm finally going to do it." 

Why Montebello Road? I think any cyclist who lives near hills has a go-to climb, and this is mine. Climbing on a bike is my favorite activity, so I ride here a lot. The name means "beautiful mountain" in Italian, and it's appropriate. Starting 3.5 miles from my home, Montebello Road snakes up a scenic hillside beside a small creek, shaded by oak and cedar trees, with occasional steep drop-offs that open up big views of the South Bay and Mount Hamilton. It accesses a few homes and vineyards before the pavement ends 5.1 miles and 2,000 vertical feet above Stevens Creek Reservoir. I enjoy this climb and it doesn't get old for me, even though I've ridden it well over 200 times since I moved here in 2011. Because I ride Montebello so much, I know every switchback and driveway. I know where the grade steepens and where it levels off. I know where the pavement becomes especially broken and I have to hang on for dear life. I notice when cracks widen and when new tarmac is laid down. I notice when chunks of the hillside and larger trees come down, even after the debris has been cleared away. I've had to slam on my brakes for deer, rabbits, rattlesnakes, coyotes, and even a bobcat. There aren't many surprises left for me on that well-trodden road. 

So why Montebello Road? Because even though I've ridden it so many times I know every pothole, it never gets easier. And no, I don't get faster, because it takes a hearty helping of oomph to push the pace for a five-mile climb that scarcely lets off the resistance. My legs are usually quivering by the final steep pitch. The descent, with all of its hairpin turns, steep grades and broken pavement, hardly provides recovery. I think one Montebello is plenty difficult, and two Montebellos break into mental-game territory. So of course I started to wonder, what would happen after five repeats? How about ten? 

A hundred miles of Montebello Road requires ten out-and-backs with more than 20,000 feet of climbing. One participant, Karl, commented that the elevation profile would look like a "sadistic comb," which was an apt description. In all of my years of cycling, I've never climbed that much elevation in a day. Beyond the personal record, a century on one five-mile stretch of pavement requires a whole new set of challenges. There is, of course, the "boring" factor in the repetitions. It's not only the same road ten times — it's the same road I see all the time. On a road bike you don't walk, ever, unless something has gone quite wrong. But the gearing is stiff enough that you always have to pedal hard just to stay upright. Even if your speed is dipping precariously close to three miles per hour, it's always strenuous. I mentioned the hairy descents. Where would I find my motivation when things started to hurt? When I could only slow down so much? When bailing was always as easy as turning around and bombing downhill to my car? In other words, this would be a great mental training ride for the big, physically draining, often monotonous days on the Iditarod Trail. 

When I posted my proposal online, I was surprised to see a lot of initial interest. There were nine "going" and nine "maybes" on my Facebook event page. A couple of ultrarunner friends who almost never ride bikes said they wanted to give it a go. Then Beat came down with pneumonia and Liehann was worried his three-week cough would deteriorate to something worse. One by one, all the others bailed. I can't say I was surprised, as it wasn't the most conventionally fun way to spend what turned out to be an absolutely perfect fall day in the Bay Area. I assumed I would be riding alone and failed to show up on time for my proposed 6:15 a.m. start. So I was embarrassed to pull up at 6:19 to find three cyclists who I'd never met geared up and ready to go. Karl, on the right, wanted to try to best his personal record on one lap, and Eric (middle), had time to try for five. Dave (left), said he was in it for the long haul. Great! Let's get it started. 

Karl and I rode together for the first lap, and then I stuck with Eric and Dave for the next four. It turned out to be a surprisingly social ride. Dave kept a strong pace and commented on the fourth lap that he was surprised it wasn't getting much harder. It was then I knew both Dave and I were in this to the dark and chilly end, because neither of us was going to back down as long as the other was still plugging along. Such is the wonder of human sociality, and the reason why races are so much more fun than solo efforts, and why we were so content to grind out Montebellos on Nov. 7, riding in spirit with as many as 500 other "100 MoN" participants all around the world. We're all striving together. 

Around lap six, Beat came out on his mountain bike to join for a couple of rounds of what would be his first real venture outdoors in a month, besides bike commuting. We also saw friends and acquaintances who were out for their own Saturday rides. Jan, who was just finishing up a 17-mile trail ride, and who has been helpful with tips for dealing with my recent breathing problems, just shook his head. I was buzzing with endorphins and could only reply with a goofy grin, "I just love this stuff. I really do. I don't know why."

Photo by Dave Thompson. I'm wearing my circa-2007 "original" Fat Cyclist jersey and riding
Beat's wonderful 2011 Specialized S-Works Roubaix. Yes, those are flat pedals. Stiff-soled, fitted shoes pinch
my toes and hurt like hell after a few hours. I can't even wear running shoes that actually fit — these are 1.5 sizes
too large. I know this is terribly uncool. I do not  care. If you ever experience frostbite nerve damage and put
your feet through 12+ hour rides, you  can give me a recommendation for clipless pedals.
Otherwise, I don't want to hear it. :P

On lap seven, I hit my wall. All the others had gone home and it was just me and Dave, and the mid-afternoon sunlight dipping low on the horizon. After a summer mostly out of the saddle my "iron butt" had gone soft and chaffing was developing beneath my cheeks. My hands and arms were sore from the descents, and I had to hold one arm behind my back whenever I could to relieve a knot in my shoulder. My quad muscles quivered on the steeper segments. I was certain cramps were coming on, which could only be followed by walks of shame, which could only be followed by bailing altogether. But I'd look ahead toward Dave and kept grinding, because this clearly was not as bad as the simmering anxieties would have me believe.

Dave remained ever stoic. Occasionally, when I could keep up with him, I learned more about his background — he'd lost a lot of weight, and designed and built a special tandem bicycle so he could ride with his adult son who is recovering from a brain injury. At the top, only slightly glazed eyes and flushed cheeks betrayed the appearance that this ride was far too easy for him. We'd stuff down some food — I ate string cheese, squeezable packets of applesauce, Rice Crispy treats, and sandwiches cut into quarters, and realized my diet now completely resembled that of a toddler whose Mom carried just enough snacks to shut her up in public. We'd wipe the sweat from our faces and put on jackets and gloves, because it was always cold on the way down. And then we were off, screaming toward the glistening sprawl of San Jose.

We strapped on lights before lap nine because we'd finally burned all the daylight. The sun set at 5:11 p.m. Climbing the initial steep segments, I thought, "Only two more Montebellos!" which ignited a grumpy backlash because two Montebellos is still a lot. So I looked inward, to a stark white landscape of somewhere in Alaska, perhaps the Yukon River, beneath an unobstructed sky pulsing with emerald light and stars upon stars. Then the wind was howling, and I was hunched over my bike in a whiteout — broken, humbled, and awestruck by the power of it all, by this expansive nothingness on the edge of nowhere. All in my imagination — and perhaps in my future.

We descended in fading light and climbed into the tunnel of our headlights. Dave's light dimmed to almost nothing, but instead of quitting, he shadowed closely behind me as we ascended the quiet corridor. I was hurting all over. It seemed every muscle had to work for this final climb, and my breathing had become raspy and shallow. In part, I believe shallow breathing has become a habit after months of fighting real obstructions and constriction in my airways. So I consciously focused on taking deeper breaths, thinking about all of my quivering muscles and the reality that they just needed more oxygen. "Breathe, just breathe," I chanted quietly, and thought that this was probably going to become my new personal mantra.

"We did it!" I proclaimed at the top. Dave smiled quietly; his lips were quivering. It was 45 degrees and a cold wind whisked along the ridge, heralding an oncoming storm. We both sucked down the last of our water — even in the cold darkness, one bottle was no longer enough. I descended behind Dave with my high-beam on, but he seemed to manage just fine with his flickering commuter light. We rolled back to the cars after 105 miles in 13 hours and 5 minutes, including breaks, and about 11:45 of moving time. You can say that's a long damn time for a century, but I think it's pretty good for ten Montebellos, which are actually nothing like a century.

As I drove away, I realized that while the 20,000 feet of climbing was quite hard, I barely noticed the repetition. Each climb and descent was its own journey, with different light, different conversations, different thoughts, different challenges.

Still, a repetitive ride does provide beneficial numbers for comparisons. These are the times recorded for each 5.1-mile climb up Montebello Road. It's interesting to see the consistency when I was feeling good, and also how it started to break down on the later laps. My "personal best" on Montebello is 39:08, but I generally ride in the 45- to 50-minute range.

Lap 1: 59:18
Lap 2: 52:05
Lap 3: 50:51
Lap 4: 50:21
Lap 5: 50:24
Lap 6: 50:19
Lap 7: 56:01
Lap 8: 54:43
Lap 9: 58:53
Lap 10: 57:26

Maybe it really doesn't get that much harder as you go. I just have to get out of my head once in a while. And remember to breathe. 

Ten years

My blog hits the decade mark today. Ten years! That's close to 145,000 years old in Internet years.

I wanted to do something to celebrate, so for today only (November 3), all of my books are only 99 cents on Amazon. Even if you don't own a Kindle, you can read the eBooks on any smartphone or tablet via the free Kindle app, available here. The books are linked below. Collect all five for $4.95! As always, I appreciate reader support.




It's strange to realize that I've been updating this blog for a decade. Back in 2005, I would have never guessed that I'd still be at this a decade later — still blabbing on and on about cycling, and still preparing for yet another preposterous snow-biking race in Alaska. My jaw also would have dropped if you told me that I'd be approaching five years in the Silicon Valley, yet still working for small Alaska newspapers, and that social media was now so fragmented that blogs had become a dying art — the long-form literature of 2015. Or, in Internet lingo, the tl;dr.

I'm grateful for the time I've invested into this blog — although it remains narrow in focus, it has become a fairly thorough record of my life. Seared onto the digital archive are thousands of observations and images that otherwise would have been lost to the noise of faded memory. Because it's public record, this blog also has connected me to an ever-widening circle of like-minded people all over the world. It's gotten to the point where nearly all of my post-college friendships can be traced back to this blog. (Take Beat, for example. I met him through my friend Danni in Montana, who I met through Keith in Banff, who I met because his wife, Leslie, read my blog and invited me to come stay with them before the 2009 Tour Divide.)

There's also my odd lifestyle to take into consideration. Although I was just starting to take an interest in endurance sports when I launched this blog, I question whether that would have stuck if I'd never established the connection to others, as well as an outlet for this ongoing narrative. And although I often wish my passions were less esoteric, and maybe more comfortable, I maintain the belief that endurance sports can reveal a lot about self, relationships, and the human experience. This is why I continue to write long-winded blog essays about outdoor adventure still — one decade and 1,877 posts later. There's still so much to learn. I take flack for this, of course, but I don't see my love of outdoor adventures as any different from feeling passionate about art, music, dance, philosophy ... Movement through the world is my form of expression, and writing is my attempt to make some sense of these tracks before they fade away.

It's clear that my life would look very different if I never started blogging. I actually can't fathom where I'd be right now if I never launched a free Blogspot site on November 3, 2005. Sometimes the smallest motions make the largest difference. Thank you for dropping by, and for contributing to the ongoing narrative. It's been a wild ride so far.