This is my perfect holiday

 Beat and I didn't think we'd be able to make our annual winter training trip in Alaska happen this year, but at the last minute he maneuvered some work obligations and purchased tickets to Fairbanks. Three hours and 43 minutes of low-angle daylight, frost-coated branches, perfect stillness amid negative-double-digit-temperatures, full moonlight on snow, and the possibility of aurora sightings make for a magical time of year in this part of the world. I don't begrudge Alaskans their need to travel to warmer, brighter climes over the holidays. For me, though, there isn't a better time of year to be a tourist in the Far North.

Our friends Corrine and Eric graciously took us in over the holidays, and even let us borrow their fat bikes for training rides. During our first day in town, Wednesday, temperatures hovered near zero degrees. We had to re-introduce our non-acclimated selves to the erratic rhythms of pedaling a bike over packed snow. Every time I return to this activity after a long absence, I'm struck by two things: It's really difficult to dress correctly for cycling, because minute-by-minute effort levels vary wildly. The other thing that strikes me is how pathetically unfit I am. I tell myself climbing steep hills back home is sort of like pedaling snow, but it's not. The slow, heavy grind of snow biking will crush my muscles and then crush my soul. I suppose I like it that way.

 On Thursday we got out for a crushing ride that was only 28.5 miles. It took us five hours to cover the distance. There were two thousand-foot climbs that went on ceaselessly, and plenty of rollers that had us sweating on the way up and shivering wildly as we tore through daggers of cold on the way down. The temperature in the valley was minus 18.

Minus double digits always make for a harsh start to the holiday, but another thing I'm struck by is that a body can adjust to these temperatures pretty quickly. Although I defiantly refused to put on an extra jacket at the top of every small hill only to remove it at the bottom, I managed to stay mostly comfortable — my feet, especially, stayed toasty warm, which is always encouraging for a subzero ride with minimal pushing. Beat had more issues, but he has relatively little experience with winter cycling. Although I'm far removed from being a regular, my own system is a result of years of trials. Winter cycling armor is a puzzle every individual has to solve for themselves.

 It sure was a nice day, though, on Christmas Eve. This photo was take just before 2 p.m., I believe.

 We burst into direct sunlight for all of two and a half minutes. Beat said "the sun is so warm!," apparently referring to the oblong orb that had barely slumped over the horizon. To me, it still felt exceedingly far away.

 Beat during the climb up O'Conner Creek. The trail just kept rising and rising as low-hanging alder branches slapped us in the face and poured snow down our necks. I think if I worked that hard to climb a hill back home, I'd arrive at least 4,000 feet higher than I started. Nope, just a thousand. I swear the Earth's gravitational pull increases with latitude.

We gathered with a few friends for Christmas Eve feasting and festivities, and later that night I wandered down the driveway to sleep under the stars at 5 below. I would have liked it colder, but at 5 below I can lay for long minutes with my head out of the bivy sack, scanning for aurora as the full moon fills the sky with silver light. That moon, to me, felt warmer than the 2 p.m. sun. The air actually was warmer. Still, I love the crisp, deep nights nearly as much as the dawn-and-dusk days, which is why I don't mind 20 hours of darkness. At least for a holiday. 

 Christmas Day, after more warm, delicious, carby homemade food, Beat and I put our sleds together and went out for a sled-drag. I requested we drive to the lowest part of the Goldstream Valley, where the temperature was still 18 below, for better gear testing opportunities. But when there's no wind and you're engaged in a steady physical effort like pulling a sled along flat terrain, it's not difficult to stay comfortable and happy. I'm still struck by how much energy I need to expend during a sled-drag (I always start this activity thinking I'll jog along with my loaded sled, and then my hamstrings just laugh at me and I huff and puff to maintain 20-minute-miles.) But it was silent, peaceful, beautiful day in the enchanted frosty forest.

Right now Beat isn't thrilled about the prospect of taking bikes to Nome. This is something we've discussed earlier, but the Christmas rides seemed to strengthen his conviction that winter cycling is not something he enjoys, at least not yet. I understand where he's coming from. Sled-dragging is hard work (harder work, minute for minute, in my opinion), but it's comparatively relaxing at the same time. Winter cycling is frequently high drama. Sometimes it's good drama, such as rocketing down a frozen river with a fierce tailwind pushing you along. But often it's bad drama, such as wallowing in knee-deep snow dunes while battling even fiercer headwinds. It's an important factor to consider, I think — whether one is mentally prepared for the bipolar moods of the wheel-laden traveler.

But for now, we only have to think about this decision as a more distant problem, even though the ITI is only two months away. For now, it's the holidays, and for now, we will simply hike to hot springs, sleep in cabins and under the stars, squeeze in more bike rides and hopefully develop more effective layering strategies, watch deep crimson light spread across the horizon two hours before sunrise, get annoyed about "hot" temperatures that we'd consider frigid anywhere else, and just enjoy this most magical time of the year. 

ITI training, week ten

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. I was surprisingly not sore after the 50-kilometer run on Sunday, and did three sets without any struggles, although I didn't add weights this week. A few people have asked me whether Beat and I saw Lance Armstrong at the race — we did. I had no idea the man leading the 35K was the world's most famous ex-pro cyclist, but I do remember the runner in the yellow shirt who smiled and said "Good job" as he passed on the return along the Skyline Trail in a torrential downpour. Lance's win at the Woodside Ramble caused a big stir in the trail running community. I'll just say that I don't have a strong opinion about it, but I think that trail running is for everyone, trail racing is about a community where people from all walks of life can strive together, and small race organizers shouldn't be strong-armed into banning participants just because they admitted to doping years ago in a different sport. It's such a small problem in the scheme of things. Moving on ...

Tuesday: Trail run, 49:22, 5.6 miles, 667 feet climbing. My hamstrings were still crazy tight and there was a hint of quad fatigue left over from Sunday, so I'm happy with the 8:50 average on Monta Vista.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 4:45, 44.1 miles, 4,884 feet climbing. Our Subaru badly needed new tires, so I took it into the dealership, which meant a four-hour lag time in the waiting room I like to call Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. On this day I planned to hike my bike up all of the steep pitches along my route, for "bike pushing practice" (I realize it's not as effective when the bike isn't loaded.) As I approached the bottom of a locally famous segment of trail known as "Dogmeat," I thought, "I'm going to see how hard I can push this." Dogmeat is an undulating fire road that gains 1,000 feet in 1.4 miles — 500 of that in the final .4 miles. The rub is that the first mile is mostly rideable, but I thought if I ran most of that, it should put me in a good position to "PR" the whole segment. I was gasping flames by the top, but I managed to grab 4th position on the Strava tally, two and a half minutes behind the Queen of the Mountain. I admit I wondered whether I could grab the QOM by really redlining the steep section, but I know that isn't fair nor is it in the spirit of the "No Dabs Dogmeat" challenge. Still, my "All Dabs Dogmeat" experiment does add legitimacy to my theory that in marginal conditions, pushing a bike can be more energy efficient and faster than riding, and during endurance efforts, it pays to swallow pride and hike.

Thursday: Snowshoe, 2:17, 5.5 miles, 1,950 feet climbing. Beat and I flew into Denver in the morning, for the purpose of looking at homes for sale during a series of showings set up by our real-estate agent. It was a packed schedule that did not allow a lot of time for adventuring, but Beat needed to meet with the team at Google in the afternoon, and I had about three hours to kill. New snow and bitter cold temperatures (for Boulder — single digits) meant the trails hadn't seen much use, but I had snowshoes and grand hopes to cover a large loop. In the end I didn't even cover six miles and fought mightily for that distance — breaking trail, slightly underdressed, and not acclimated to the elevation. It was an exhausting three hours. I'll admit to feeling a bit of swagger after Sierra Azul, but Colorado was there to put me right in my place. A mighty slog.

Friday: Morning, Run, 1:16, 6.1 miles, 991 feet climbing. Evening, weight training. I had about 90 minutes free on this day, so I set out from our hotel on Pearl Street, passing Google Boulder and continuing toward the hills. Because this was a road run, I didn't bring my microspikes, but of course I found a trail (Mount Sanitas) and started marching up it without a care in the world. Big mistake. What felt icy but manageable on the way up became treacherous on the way down. I had to do some crab walking. I'll call it an upper-body workout. I continued that workout in the hotel gym later that night.

Saturday: Snow hike, 2:40, 7.9 miles, 2,939 feet climbing. Beat and I marched up Fern Canyon, which is a wonderfully steep trail that gains 2,700 feet in 2.5 miles. Beat went way too hard in the beginning, and both of us broke after we ran out of oxygen in this thin air. At the peak, I proposed we return on the backside of the mountain, because it was a long, gradual descent that should be "runnable." Only there wasn't broken trail — just a deep post-hole track — and we had to move carefully through knee-deep fluff surrounded by wind crust. We made it back in time but just barely, again feeling far too worked for an eight-mile hike. Oh, Colorado. You do know how to strip a person of any delusions that they are "fit." Alaska is good at that, too.

Sunday: Rest. No time for outdoor outings on this day.

Total: 11:48, 44.1 miles ride, 25.1 miles run, 11,431 feet climbing. Light week. Mainly because of time constraints, but with the race on Sunday and the oxygen deprivation in Colorado, it's probably not a bad thing. I also regret that I haven't been on a day-long bike ride in a while, but this is also a time-consuming activity that can be difficult to carve out of a week. Still, overall I am feeling good, and recovering very quickly from the harder efforts — one of the most positive gauges of effective endurance training. I certainly can't complain about our weekend in Boulder. It was very exciting all around. 

A whole new town with a whole new way

On Thursday, Beat and I returned to Boulder for three and a half days — whirlwind days, just enough time to take a few more steps in the next direction. A half foot of fresh snow blanketed the plains surrounding the Denver airport and the temperature was bitter cold, 10 degrees. I dropped Beat off at the Google office in Boulder and pointed the rental car up Flagstaff Road. Winding up the cliffy hillside, I thought of all the ways Flagstaff reminds me of my hometown mountain road, Montebello. Nearly everywhere reminds me of somewhere else. This is how I am — a vast ship full of past experiences, with only a small rudder plunged in the present. I like it this way — living as though my life can only grow larger and richer as time passes.

The car crawled up the icy road as I reminisced about recent bike rides up my favorite oak-shaded street in California, then slapped myself back into the present and the precarious road conditions. I pulled into a snow-covered parking lot and strapped on my snowshoes, breathing in fiery cold wind and an air temperature that, judging by the stinging sensation in my nose, had plunged to something around zero. Low clouds were just beginning to lift, letting in a stream of golden sunlight. A beautiful day for a slog.

One trail wasn't yet broken, and I chose that one, wrapping around Flagstaff Mountain before continuing across the road and up a steep gulch toward Green Mountain. These are some of the most popular trails in Boulder, but with a foot of fresh snow and a subzero chill, almost nobody was out. I had to break a wider trail over the one post-holing track in front of me. On top of the peak, the wind was fierce. The half liter of Diet Dr. Pepper I'd poured in my Camelbak — because I forgot to stop for water — had long since frozen, and the one jacket I brought with me — because the Front Range isn't so cold — barely staved off a menacing chill. I looked across the white plain that didn't quite remind me of anywhere I've ever been, and slipped into a barrage of imaginary scenarios that nonetheless felt real, because they represented the future.

Over the past six weeks, Beat has moved toward transferring to the Google office in Boulder. While nothing in life is a hundred percent certain, we've taken a number of big steps toward this move, and this weekend we flew out to Colorado to look at potential houses. Beat has begun the transfer process, and it's looking very likely that we will move to Boulder after we return from the Iditarod Trail, probably in April.

It's an exciting prospect that's been a long time coming. We've been talking about leaving the Bay Area for a few years now, and while we'd both prefer to live somewhere in Alaska, realistically, until Beat reaches a point where he wants to retire, Alaska isn't our best option. There aren't many tech jobs up there, and my own earning potential in the journalism field doesn't begin to make up for the gap. We still consider Alaska a "someday" destination, but as a compromise, Boulder is pretty fantastic. Everything about it fits our lifestyle well, and the cost of living, while not cheap by any stretch, is still less expensive than the Bay Area.

When chatting with friends about this potential move, I've heard the expected reaction about — "Oh, Boulder, so snooty, and everyone there is an Olympic athlete or professional cyclist and it's difficult to fit in." I don't necessarily doubt this, but it's also not terribly important to me that I "fit in." I'm sure I'll find my way to my people if they're here, probably in the same ways I've made a handful of friendships almost by accident in the Bay Area, which — news flash — is also full of cliques.

Leaving the Bay Area, though — the thought does have a hint of melancholy. I will miss it. If you asked me ten years ago, I would have never, never expected to end up living anywhere in California. When Beat and I started dating in 2010, shortly after I moved to Montana, one of my prominent thoughts was that I liked this guy, a lot, but I wasn't sure that I could do life in urban California. Now I'm going on five years as a Californian. The end of December means I have lived in California longer than I lived in Alaska, which is a sobering thought. I can no longer claim Alaska as my predominant storyline — it was just a few chapters — and it keeps fading further into the stern of my life. I've come to accept that reality, and also all of the aspects of California that I love — the redwoods, the trail running community, the flowy mountain bike trails, Rancho San Antonio with its pet deer and familiar views, Montebello, riding my bike to the coast, San Francisco even though I hate the parking and other big-city inconveniences, the Marin Headlands, and the boring weather, yes even the boring weather. Because even as much as I come alive in the frost-tinged air of real winter, who wouldn't miss it being 70 degrees and sunny seemingly every day? (Disclosure: 95 degrees and parched is probably how California will be burned into my long-term memory.)

Five years is a healthy chunk of life, and I'm going to miss it. But winter and mountains is what I value most, and I'm lucky that Beat agrees. Some of the houses we looked at this weekend were alarmingly fantastic — almost surreal. Neither of us have ever been homeowners. Home ownership is another place I hadn't pictured myself, because I prefer to remain unanchored. But there are many appealing aspects to this, and I also see it as a journey, in its own way. It's a lot to swallow right now, when a part of me would love to have nothing more to think about than Iditarod planning and book projects. Still, when opportunities rise to the surface you have to jump in — life's taught me that much.