Still gasping

On Friday night, Beat and I started the Fat Pursuit 200-mile snow bike race in Island Park, Idaho. Our intent for this race was to test ourselves and our Nome gear in a more demanding environment than our typical training rides. I'll probably write more as I process my experience, but I ended up pulling the plug at checkpoint one (mile 80) because I'd had difficulty breathing for ten hours, there was no joy or benefit in the hypoxic struggle, and I'd already failed my personal test. For whatever the reasons or causes, I still experience respiratory distress during higher levels of exertion. In an endurance race setting, it's distressing and frustrating. In the Alaska backcountry, it could be extremely dangerous. This is something I need to address immediately, rather than grasp onto the fraying threads of optimism that "this is something I can control" or "this will get better" just to keep my Alaska dream alive.

I DNF'd another race, and I am disappointed about that, but that disappointment is far outshadowed by the idea of giving up the Iditarod. This is the dream I've been fighting for since the first signs of breathing difficulties developed during the 200K version of the Fat Pursuit in January 2015. But I'm not performing remotely well at this level, and the Tour Divide showed me that these issues just go from bad to worse over days and weeks. Also, when I'm experiencing breathing difficulties, every molecule of joy is sucked out of the endeavor. Beyond my personal safety and concerns about my health in the future, I won't abide the gray, disoriented, distressed and joyless state of oxygen deprivation just to prove I'm tougher than myself.

So, what happened? The shorter version — the race started at sunset and I immediately fell off the back of the field of 25 or so. Okay, that's fine, but I was already stressed about what I viewed as a tight cutoff, and realizing that I was starting out so slowly caused some anxiety. As darkness fell the course entered a series of rolling ski trails, and I surged to keep my momentum up short but steep hills. This necessitated hard breathing that soon triggered a feeling of pressure in my chest, and I remained completely winded for the next ten hours. If I pushed too hard, I could hear a chirpy wheezing in my throat after I stopped to catch my breath. I tried using my albuterol inhaler, but it was not spraying adequately in the 15-degree cold, and holding it in my hands for a few minutes didn't warm it up enough to work. Hiking up steeper inclines (and soon all inclines), I needed to stop and rest frequently. Before I reached the checkpoint, I was stopping every five minutes or so even on flat terrain. Trail conditions were relatively slow, with fresh grooming (which churns up the hardpack) and an inch of fresh snow, but I struggled to maintain 4 mph and I saw that as the minimum pace for making the final cutoff — if I could hold it together for another 34 hours. This seemed unlikely, needlessly punishing, and potentially reckless. Beat waited for me at the 80-mile tent checkpoint for nearly two hours, and convinced my still-foggy mind of the futility of pushing this limit. He was concerned enough about it to stop his race and ride the 12 miles back to Island Park with me. He did warm up my inhaler to a point where I could take a puff and feel much better, but the effect was short-lived when I started riding again.

The Fat Pursuit feels like my "Come to Jesus" moment. My problem is probably not just allergies, high-altitude, anxiety, over-exertion, pneumonia, cold weather, or any single-cause incident. It's a complicated pattern. Endurance racing is the constant. Exercise-induced asthma would be one possible explanation. But my pattern doesn't fit the classic profile of asthma or even exercise-induced asthma, since I've only experienced breathing difficulties and congestion in the more extreme situations I put myself in, and during the recovery/aftermath.

I spent some time reading reviews of relevant scientific studies. I'm not trying to diagnose myself via Dr. Google, assume I understand all the factors of these studies, or even assume they relate to me (most of those studied were professional athletes, not amateurs.) But the articles did provide some interesting observations. From what I can gather, in a nutshell: People who spend large amounts of time breathing heavily outdoors — especially when exposed to allergens, pollutants, high altitudes, or cold — appear to have a higher incidence of respiratory disorders than the general population. Among the findings:

"Chronic physical training might arouse a faulty adaptation of the main lung components, at the alveolar–capillary interface or at the airway level, particularly when exertion is carried on in particular environmental locations, as in cold or in hypoxic conditions at even moderately high altitude. The result is that the negative influences of these respiratory system limitations will be greatly intensified during exercise performance, especially in highly fit individuals."

 — "Respiratory disorders in endurance athletes – how much do they really have to endure?"

 "With all of the preceding discussion relating to exercise triggering, can exercise really cause asthma? The answer turns out to be yes: there does appear to be an asthma variant caused by extremes of exercise and cold air exposure. In this syndrome, elite athletes, especially those who train in cold climates, may experience non-atopic airway inflammation and subsequent airway hyperactivity. The best understanding of this process has come from studies on Alaskan sled dogs competing in the Iditarod race. Compared with nontrekking dogs, race participants demonstrated a dehydration injury of their airways leading to an inflammatory process associated with airway hyperactivity."

— "Dispelling the myths of exercise and asthma" 

 "The available literature indicates that participation in high-intensity exercise in certain environmental situations is implicated in the development of airway pathophysiology. Thus, whilst the benefit of regular physical activity for health and well-being is widely recognized, there is legitimate concern that the intensity of hyperpnoea necessitated by elite-level exercise may be detrimental for respiratory health."

— "Airway dysfunction in elite athletes – an occupational lung disease?"

"Possible mechanisms involved in the development of asthma in athletes are still uncertain; however, the content and physical characteristics of the inhaled air seem to be important factors, while immune and neurohumoral influences could play a modulatory role."

— "Prevalence and Mechanisms of Development of Asthma and Airway Hyperresponsiveness in Athletes"

I intend to see a pulmonary specialist as soon as possible, in hopes there may be some physical evidence that I can address and treat. But I recognize I might not find readily available answers, and that I may need to take a prolonged period away from endurance activities to improve, and that it may never get better.

A number of people have reached out to share their own experiences with respiratory distress. Some manage their exercise-induced asthma with medications, some had to readjust their training or move to a different location. One woman who had breathing difficulties and multiple bouts of pneumonia for years finally got a CT scan, which revealed a cyst that, once removed, cleared up all her issues. So ... there's hope, too. But this is where I'm at right now. Uncertain, disappointed, but grateful I still have good overall health that I intend to maintain. 

Pushing through another year

There we were, pedaling along a snow-covered ridge to spend New Year's Eve the traditional way — in a primitive one-room cabin 40 miles from the nearest road — when I noticed Beat was really mashing his pedals.

"Oi, this is tough," he announced. 

"Yeah, the trail is super soft," I agreed. A stiff wind whisked across the spine of Wickersham Dome, where the temperature was 37 degrees above zero. The warm weather was a result of a fierce Chinook storm that was raging across southern Alaska, pushing high temperatures so far north that the Geographic North Pole registered a temperature above freezing for only the second time during winter in recorded history. These aren't welcome conditions for snow bikers, who depend on below-freezing temperatures to harden compacted snow into a rideable surface. Thaws break up the surface layer, which traffic whips up into thick grains of loose snow, resulting in rides that feel very much like slogging through the soft part of a sandy beach. My GPS registered speeds in the 4 mph range, when I was pedaling about as hard as I could. 

Beat, however, wasn't struggling with the soft trail as much as the bike itself. The cranks turned more slowly until they seized up altogether. The bottom bracket was shot.

Unless you just happen to be carrying a spare bottom bracket and a crank removal tool, there isn't much you can do about this type of mechanical. You have a bike that still rolls but can't do anything else. We were five miles from the trailhead, so defeatedly, we turned around and started hiking back to the car. I was deeply disappointed — Alaska's White Mountains are one of my favorite places of all, and I knew I wouldn't be returning in 2016 — but took consolation in the fact we had another, closer cabin reserved on Jan. 1, and we could still hike out with our sleds the following day.

After about ten minutes, Beat turned around again. "You know, a mechanical like this can easily happen in the ITI. There are almost certainly going to be multiple sections where we have to push bikes for 40 or more miles at a time. Let's go out anyway."

"And push our bikes the whole way?" I shook my head. Sure, pushing a bike is good training, and in good to marginal conditions, isn't more difficult than pulling a sled (poor conditions are another story altogether.) Still, pushing a bike is, for whatever reasons, a much more mentally taxing endeavor. You always want to ride the bike. Even if you can only ride a hundred feet at a time, you'll get off and get back on and get off, again and again, just to avoid pushing. Beat's bike could coast, but in these soft conditions, it only rolled on the steepest descents. We were faced with taking these bikes for a 35-mile walk today, then 40 miles back over the next two days.

"You can still ride some, and wait for me, or turn around," Beat suggested. "We'll switch."

I shrugged, suddenly excited about the prospect of still being able to spend the rest of our holiday in the Whites. "Sure," I said. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll even get there before next year."

We agreed on the tactic that I would ride for one mile, stop and wait for Beat, and then we'd switch bikes for another mile. Initially my plan was to ride back toward him to avoid getting chilled. But as we descended into the Wickersham Creek drainage, trail conditions did not improve and I did not succeed in increasing my 4mph average. With a determined effort, Beat can walk 3.5mph in these conditions, even pushing a loaded bike. The comparison started to feel a little disheartening. I would pedal as hard as I could, until my quads were throbbing and I was venting swirls of steam off my back. One mile would buzz on my watch, and I'd stop to grab a quick sip of water and a snack before I turned around, only to look back and see Beat right there. He was never more than three or four minutes behind me. Meanwhile, I'd be so fatigued from my pedaling efforts that it was usually a relief to take my turn pushing. I thought Beat would feel the same about riding, since he was walking so quickly. But he often only went about a half mile as I fell further behind, then relinquished his pedaling shifts early or altogether.

It was all hard work. Twilight came and the hours wore on. Beat ran out of water. I still had a liter and a half, so I shared mine. We had all the supplies to camp and melt snow, but it was still fairly early in the day, and we had no good reason not to keep moving. Almost imperceptibly, the cloud ceiling dropped and a light drizzle began to fall. Winds intensified and the drizzle picked up intensity, morphing into a driving rain.

"Ugh, it's raining," I moaned. I spent several years in Southeast Alaska and still shudder at memories of rides in 35-degree rain, of which there were many. I don't have many experiences in 30 or 40 below, but I still consider near-freezing hard precipitation to be the worst weather, especially when combined with wind.

Gale-force winds drove hard at our backs while the precipitation deteriorated into sleet, and then thick, flaky snain. The tailwind boosted Beat's walking speed but didn't really help my pedaling pace, as I was now plowing through veritable Juneau powder (slush). We were both soaked and exhausted by the time temperatures finally fell below 32 degrees, and headlamps illuminated a blinding wall of snow. At times the blizzard was so intense that I had to close my eyes for several seconds at a time amid the crosswinds, because I had neglected to bring goggles (lesson learned. Never forget goggles, even when it's "warm.") My riding pace dropped to the same speed as Beat's tired walking pace, and his headlamp was nearly always in view. It was nice to travel this way together until five miles from the cabin, when enough new snow had accumulated that I wasn't able to ride at all. Unfortunately I'm even slower on foot.

We guessed we were only five miles from the cabin, but in the state of fatigue we'd worked ourselves into, it felt like an impossibly far distance. We were both out of water, but the wind and heavy snow made stopping to melt snow a formidable task that we wanted to put off as long as possible. My fuzzy fleece jacket looked like a wet dog, and I became chilled whenever I paused for more than a few seconds. On we slogged for another hour and a half — less than four miles — when we reached open water on Fossil Creek. Since we couldn't discern the depth from the shore, we took the time to pull on our lightweight waders. I'm glad we did, as cold water surged around my knees while I wrestled my bike through broken sheets of ice and slush. I greedily eyed the creek water but decided to refrain from risking giardia. After all, the cabin couldn't be more than a mile away at this point.

It was two more miles. The final mile of trail had filled in to a point where it was difficult to locate on top of the frozen creek, and I was stressed that we'd miss the turn-off to the cabin and keep slogging up the divide. But at 9:20 p.m. it finally appeared, twelve hours after we left the Wickersham Dome. There was no kindling or wood inside the cabin, so Beat commenced chopping logs that some generous cabin uses left on the porch while I gathered snow and melted liter after liter of water, drinking the spruce-flavored liquid almost as fast as it melted (I was so thirsty. I didn't even realize the depth of my thirst.)

Cabin chores always add up, and by the time we'd warmed the cabin, chopped more wood, spread out our soaked gear, cooked a freeze-dried dinner and apple crumble, and guzzled hot chocolates, we missed New Year's altogether. Beat noticed the time at 12:16 a.m. "Happy New Year!" I said hoarsely, and we shared a kiss.

Sometime overnight, the weather cleared. The storm had dropped about five inches of wet, heavy snow, and I was grateful it hadn't turned to a foot or more. I slept on the upper bunk of the cabin, where heat from the wood stove woke me up in a feverish frenzy sometime around 3 a.m. Even sleeping on top of my bag, I was drenched in sweat and alarmed, ripping off my shirt and rushing outside to the newly frosty air. The temperature had dropped to 10 degrees. I stood outside in my underwear and booties, watching faint auroras ripple across the star-filled sky. The half moon illuminated limestone cliffs in shades of indigo and silver. It was stunningly beautiful, and I stood mesmerized for a full 15 minutes as my nearly naked body slowly cooled down to the point of discomfort.

On New Year's Day we got a reasonably early start, anticipating that we'd both need to hike most of the 18 miles to Borealis cabin. While packing up, we discovered the bikes were encased in ice — we were both so shattered the previous evening that we neglected to wipe them off after dragging them through open water in Fossil Creek and several inches of wet snow, which froze into a blocks of solid ice. Luckily we had a way to thaw the bikes, or they may have needed carrying (the brakes and rims were so ice-caked that the wheels wouldn't roll.) Another important lesson, re-learned.

Sometime before dawn, two dog teams came through on this remote section of trail, laying a smooth track that the colder weather hardened to a nicely rideable trail. Temperatures had dropped to -5 on the creek. The knee-deep water we crossed the previous night had frozen enough to hold our weight. We put the waders on just in case, but didn't break through.

It was still hard work, but the riding was a lot more fun on this day. I wasn't overheated and I wasn't wet — I decided that perhaps 0 degrees is the perfect temperature for winter cycling. Beat still did about 90 percent of the pushing. I dare say he enjoyed it. He spoke often about walking to Nome instead of biking, and I can't say I'm surprised nor do I blame him. I still don't know what he'll decide, but I will say that as much as I enjoyed riding on Friday, I also fantasized about a long journey where I wasn't stressed out all the time about subtle changes in trail conditions or mechanicals or finding the perfect line. I still don't think I can walk the thousand miles. Certainly not at Beat's pace. But it makes for a peaceful daydream.

Still, bikes are pretty wonderful. When they work.

Three friends were planning to meet us that evening at Borealis. Through our cryptic texts, they were able to discern our need for a bottom bracket, and Eric (who owns this bike) acquired the part and tools and carried them all the way to the cabin on his kick sled. (A kick sled is similar to a small wooden dog-mushing sled that a person stands behind and rides like a scooter, kicking for momentum. It weighs a fair amount more than a pulk and needs to be pulled uphill, but it can coast downhill. I see it as a somewhat humorous mix of hiking, skiing, and mushing. Eric is planning to ride it in the White Mountains 100.) Anyway, Eric saved the day. Beat was able to fix the bike, although I think he was disappointed that he couldn't claim the feat of pushing the whole way. Friends Joel and Kevin also joined for a great night of laughs and race strategy discussions.

The following morning, I was jazzed for consecutive riding on firm trails at 0 degrees, but the temperature shot back up to 32. Boo. As we climbed out of Beaver Creek, Beat got so overheated he had to strip down to shirtless for a little while.

It was a great morning for riding, even if I was faintly exhausted from the start. Man, this trip took a lot out of me. I think neglecting calories and hydration on the first day did us both in. My feverish heat-panic on Thursday night was one indicator of how depleted I became during that 12-hour push. Such efforts are more than doable with good self-care, but once a hole has formed, it's difficult to climb out.

Eric took this photo of me riding out. I wanted to ride in a base layer, but there was still a stiff breeze, so Beat's ultra-thin Mountain Hardwear Ghost Lite jacket served a nice purpose. Even when there's no precip, it's hard to dress for cycling in temperatures near freezing. You can't go with much in the way of exposed skin, but it's easy to overheat your legs and torso. Personally I think I prefer 10 degrees for pedaling. Or a nice California 55.

Mid-day light on the Whites. I sure do love this time of year at Latitude 65.

We'd fly south early the following morning, but I was thrilled to squeeze in as many adventures as we did during our holiday in Fairbanks. Despite a decent week-plus of training, I feel even less confidence for the Iditarod than I did before. The gear testing went very well, but I sure do feel like a weakling after ten days of struggles in the snow, not to mention the fact that I was fully worked by an 80-mile, three-day trip. My confidence in my physical readiness is nearing new lows, and I don't even want to think about what might go down at the Fat Pursuit this coming weekend. Still, I need to remind myself Alaska does this to me every year. It's an incredible place, but it's a hard place. It's all too easy to become complacent, and forget. 

2015 in numbers

On Dec. 27, while uploading yet another track to Strava, I glanced at the sidebar, which noted that I'd ridden 4,899 miles in 2015. "Only 101 more to 5,000!" I thought. And I had four days to do it! Four days where I had one full day of work (rest day), the first day of a three-day trip to the White Mountains, and two other days in Fairbanks, where all miles require a significantly higher investment of both time and energy than they do at home. But the number seemed doable. It's fun to have goals — I sometimes guiltily refer to them as excuses. Now I have to go outside and ride bikes! Oh, darn.

I announced this goal to Beat and Corrine, who is recovering from knee surgery and graciously leant me her 9:Zero:7 Whiteout while casually mentioning that between holiday visits this year and last, I've probably put more miles on her fat bike than she has (more guilt. Please come visit us after we move to Boulder, and we'll abuse my bikes on Colorado singletrack.) Once the goal was public, I had to go for it.

On Dec. 28, I set out to follow a friend's GPS track as it meandered through a maze of neighborhood connector trails, mushing routes, and power lines. A massive Chinook (wind storm) was already moving across Alaska, nudging Interior temperatures to a pleasant 10 degrees in the valleys and slightly uncomfortable 25 on the ridges (ah, it does not take long to acclimate to the cold, even for us Californians.) I'd stripped down to a base layer and was still sweating up my own personal sauna. The route I followed proved extra challenging — plenty of steep (pusher) hills, little-used soft trails, and more climbing. I was aiming for 30 miles that day and they were happening the hard way, slowly.

"Why didn't I just ride some loops down in the Goldstream Valley?" I thought. "Ten miles per hour without evening trying."

But as I gazed down the ridge, flanked by the eerie skeletons of burnt black spruce and illuminated by the 2 p.m. sunset, I knew the answer. The miles don't matter. They never did. I ride bikes so I can visit places such as this, and I "train" so I can seek them out at every possible opportunity, and have the fitness to derive more energy from my efforts rather than become depleted. These days, I see life as a series of experiences rather than a checklist of accomplishments. Yet, I do appreciate statistics, which, like words, give shape to the more abstract aspects of experience. I've been dutifully recording the numbers from nearly every activity to Strava since late 2013, and the stats begin to write their own narrative. These are my totals for 2015:

Cycling:

Distance: 5,015 miles
Time: 592 hours, 38 minutes
Elevation gain: 499,928 feet
Rides: 118
Highest mileage week: June 15-21 — 812 miles (Tour Divide)
Most time spent pedaling in a week: June 15-21 — 95 hours, 50 minutes (Tour Divide)
Most climby cycling week: June 15-21 — 51,066 feet (Tour Divide)
Best non-race week: April 27 to May 3 — 30 hours 28 minutes, 293 miles, 32,933 feet climbing

Running: 

Distance: 1,701 miles
Time: 412 hours, 38 minutes
Elevation gain: 351,132 feet
Runs: 166
Highest mileage week: March 23-29 — 96 miles (White Mountains 100)
Most time spent running in a week: March 23-29 — 26 hours, 38 minutes (WM100)
Most climby running week: August 24-30 — 25,531 feet (UTMB)
Best non-race week: August 3 to 9 — 23 hours, 36 minutes, 70.5 miles, 17,625 feet climbing

Cumulative distance: 6,716 miles
Cumulative elevation gain: 851,060 feet
Total moving time: 41.8 days

My favorite number is the final one. I'm also pretty proud of the 850,000 feet of climbing. I'd love to log a million feet of climbing one of these years — presumably quite doable in Colorado. But the final stat — nearly 42 days on the move — is a hearty helping of experience. It's 11.5 percent of the year, entirely in motion — Strava records actual moving time, so it doesn't even count the seconds I stop to eat a snack, gaze across a horizon, or sleep under the stars. Pure outdoors time is a fair amount higher. I recognize that I am fortunate to have such an abundance of spare time to spend playing outside. Yet, I don't necessarily see this as spare time, or down time. This is my life. I would happily carve out all the sacrifices necessary to afford these moments under the low winter sun.

The final 39.5 miles of 2015 came in about the most difficult way possible (which I'll recount in a subsequent post.) But they made for a wonderful if arduous adventure that even I might have been more eager to back away from, had there not been an arbitrary milestone on the line. Numbers are fun. Records of numbers are motivating. I'd even encourage the freewheeling outdoor enthusiasts who claim they don't care to give it a try. A cheap GPS watch and free software can go a long way.

I don't have any goal numbers for 2016. I expect this to be a lower-mileage year with less focused training once I get through (if I get through) the ITI. But I'll continue to relish every moment I can spend in motion; in my book, those moments count the most.