Breathing easier

Beat at the semi-sunny start of the Crystal Springs 50K

On Wednesday I checked in with the asthma doctor who I first visited in October. We had a very long conversation (I was surprised she was willing to spend so much time with me. I'm used to medical professionals being in more of a rush) and she conducted a few tests. My resting lung function is now significantly better than it was in October, but the doctor said she could detect possible inflammation. She started me on a once-a-day cordicosteroid inhaler, along with advice to use my albuterol inhaler before every workout. She's of the opinion that I do experience exercise-induced asthma, and this condition was possibly first "activated" by engaging in intense activity while ill (this could be the case in both the 2015 Fat Pursuit and the Tour Divide), or a condition of my allergies that have worsened over the years. I have both genetic (my dad has adult-onset) and environmental (endurance/outdoor enthusiast with allergies) connections with asthma.

The doctor thinks stress and cold temperatures are a likely trigger, and urged me to engage in at least one more difficult cold-weather workout before I go to Alaska. I am supposed to check back in one month from now to see whether I've made any progress with the medication. Exercise-induced asthma can be a nebulous illness to diagnose and monitor, and I can't rule out other possibilities such as vocal cord dysfunction (which asthma medications do nothing for.) So ... there are still many question marks. But I feel optimistic. I'm glad to have found a doctor who's willing to listen and seems genuinely invested in finding a solution. She works with researchers at Stanford and has treated a number of elite athletes, but when I waved off my "little hobby" compared to the Olympians she's worked with, she responded, "it does matter!"

She seemed excited about the ITI, and told me there's no reason I can't participate if I feel my asthma is under control. I still see some glaring issues. First of all, I'm not sure how I can develop this confidence in one month. My breathing incidents are still limited and have only been triggered in more extreme cases that I probably won't be able to effectively test before Feb. 28. Also, it's difficult for anyone who hasn't been there (myself included) to really understand the isolation one is under on some sections of the Iditarod Trail. I'm thinking specifically of the 180-mile section between Takotna and the Yukon River that is truly a no-man's land, where Beat and others were effectively stranded for more than 10 days following a major snowstorm last year.

It is entirely possible to be all alone out there for 10 days (if the Iditarod Dog Sled Race moves to Fairbanks again. But even if it doesn't, mushers and volunteers are not in a position to provide assistance except in extreme emergencies.) If I start experiencing Tour Divide-level breathing difficulties, I will have nowhere to recover and may find myself in a state of becoming weaker until I need to curl up on the side of the trail for 10 or more minutes every hour, which is exactly how I hauled myself into Silverthorne during the Tour Divide.

It's one thing to risk this when it's 90 degrees outside and I can stick out my thumb if I truly feel desperate. It's quite another when it's potentially 40 below and I am a hundred miles from the nearest village. If I have any doubts about my fitness, I should *not* venture out there. I feel strongly about this. That won't necessarily stop me from trying if I've created assurances for myself, and that's something I also lie awake at night thinking about. The 350-mile effort to McGrath is, I think, doable. At least I'll probably know early in the race whether it's not. But I want — so much  — to go to Nome. I really need to draw that line, but it's hard.

So I am proceeding with my training with an admittedly disappointed eye on the 350-mile ride to McGrath ... still planning to ride, but keeping my running legs fit in case it's a huge push-fest, or in case the Iditarod Dog Sled Race does move north and I opt to bring a sled in order to hedge my bets on a big storm with nobody breaking trails behind it. On Wednesday and Thursday I did two tough bike rides, intentionally seeking out the steepest hills nearby. I did this because my "central governor" — that quiet, semi-subconscious switch in your brain that keeps you from pushing your body too hard — has been extremely conservative since the Fat Pursuit. I've been proudly clinging to this idea of self-restraint when it came to keeping my heart rate in zone 3, but during a Monday run, I realized I couldn't boost myself into zone 4 if I tried. I was too scared. Scared of losing my breath, and not getting it back.

 Zone 3 or lower is fine for multi-day endurance efforts — but now is the time to test my breathing capacity and potential asthma triggers. Situations during the Iditarod will certainly boost my heart rate to the top of the charts. It's unavoidable. Here, roads like Redwood Gulch and Bohlman Road with their 20-percent + grades will force me into the red zone — I can't pedal slow enough to stay out of it. Still, I didn't feel all that fantastic on these steep sections. My breathing was cautious and a little shallow, with my less-quiet central governor begging me to get off the bike and walk. I was perplexed. Here's a new mental limitation I need to address — is my lung capacity really that limited, or is it all in my head?

Today Beat and I ran the Crystal Springs 50K in Woodside. The sun peeked out for a very brief few minutes at the start, and it occurred to me I haven't seen all that much sun in 2016. El Nino is really cranking out some precipitation so far this year, and it's fantastic for the drought. But for Saturday, it meant another wet, slimy, slippery, and chilly run through the foggy mist. I wrote last week about basically floating on clouds through the Steep Ravine 50K, and that definitely did not happen this week. I worked for it, and I didn't feel great. All of my moving parts were fine, but I was low on energy and general oomph even after I gave myself permission to go at the hills a little harder. I guess there was a part of me that hoped I could run "fast" even though I have no reason to believe I could be fast right now (my once-a-week tempo run that I haven't really done since 2015 isn't going to cut it.)

We had several cloudbursts throughout the race, but around mile 20 the rain really started to come down. It was pouring, windy, and there were icy pellets falling from the sky. I was in a better mood at this point, as I'd given up my "run fast" dream and finally eaten a packet of fruit snacks (I'd been skipping snacks at the aid stations because the food was so soggy. I'm not kidding. The Oreos were practically floating in the standing water that collected in the paper bowl.) When I passed an acquaintance, Marissa, and asked how it was going, she replied, "oh, you know, just trying to get through this nightmare."

"What's the matter?" I said with genuine inquisitiveness. "It's only hailing!" (It was hailing.)

Marissa and another woman burst out laughing. "You can talk, you're used to the cold." After she said this, I realized that my fingers were actually quite numb, but it didn't really bother me before because it was 45 degrees and there was no real danger. But I did struggle to open the next packet of fruit snacks three miles later.

I tried for a little leg-pop to the finish, even risking a bit of slippery sliding in the slimy mud, but it wasn't enough to slide under six hours. I finished in 6:02. I was first in my age group, and actually the second woman to finish — just missed that mug! (Actually, I probably missed it by an insurmountable number of minutes, but the winner was still hanging around at the soggy finish area when I got there.)

Overall it went well, especially because I didn't place nearly the focus on my breathing that I did last week (I admittedly did not have the energy for this kind of fixed thinking. I was just tired.) Which is good to know, since I can't exactly meditate my way through a whole Iditarod. Optimism continues to regroup. 

ITI training, weeks 12 through 14

After the New Year I let my training journal fall by the wayside. Then I thought my training had been completely derailed, so why should I even bother? I decided to compile a catch-up post for the last three weeks because having the logs on record proved valuable in the past, and because I'm continuing to look for patterns that may shed more light on my breathing issues. 

Week 12: 

Dec. 28: Snow bike, 4:52, 32.3 miles, 3,295 feet climbing. Long ride around Old Murphy Dome outside of Fairbanks. This had a fair amount of climbing for a snow ride, and soft trails made for a tiring effort. Temperatures ranged from +8 to +25 degrees.

Dec. 29: Rest

Dec. 30: Snow bike, 5:41, 44.8 miles, 2,196 feet climbing. Easier pace than Monday, riding with friends on mushing trails and through the Goldstream Valley. One hard hike-a-bike early in the day. Temperatures were a balmy +15 to +32 degrees.

Dec. 31: Snow bike, 9:52, 39.5 miles, 2,599 feet climbing. The New Year's outing to Windy Gap cabin in the White Mountains while Beat pushed a bike with a broken bottom bracket. Rain and new snow made for soft trails. Even when I was pedaling, it was difficult to top 4mph. Beat walked nearly as fast. Didn't eat or drink enough, completely exhausted at the end of the long day.

Jan. 1 and 2: Snow bike, 8:27, 39 miles, 2,577 feet climbing. Back from Windy Gap via Borealis cabin overnight. I found it tough to recover from the New Year's Eve ride, and didn't have much oomph. Snow biking is hard. Loaded snow biking on typical backcountry trails is tougher for me than any other sport I've tried. It demands a lot of brute strength, which I admittedly lack in sufficient amounts. I was already wondering if I had a thousand miles of snow biking in me, even before any breathing issues resurfaced.

Jan. 3: Rest. Flew home to California. 

Total: 28:52, 155.8 miles ride, 10,667 feet climbing

Week 13: 

Jan. 4: Fat bike, 1:06, 10.2 miles, 1,069 feet climbing. Beat mounted studded Dillinger 5 tires on the Moots YBB fat bike, so I took it for an hour-long test ride on pavement. I felt sluggish and fatigued on this ride — probably indicative of how spent I was following 30 hours of snow biking in Fairbanks. Big, tiring weeks are necessary when training for a multiday race, but my lack of recovery wasn't a good omen so close to the Fat Pursuit. I thought three days off the bike following this one would help reset my engine. Either didn't work or didn't help.

Jan. 5: Weight lifting at gym. Three sets, same weights as 10 days earlier, which was the last time I lifted. So sore!

Jan. 6: Rest. Drove to Salt Lake City.

Jan. 7: Rest. Drove to Island Park.

Jan. 8 and 9: Snow bike, 16:56, 90.3 miles, 3,636 feet climbing. The Fat Pursuit 200-mile race, stopped at mile 80 with breathing difficulties. The difficulties started during the third hour of the race, which negated my previous theory that only extended fatigue will bring on problems.

Jan. 10: Rest

Total: 18:03, 100.6 miles ride, 4,705 feet climbing. I suppose it's fitting that week 13 would be the meltdown week.

Week 14:

Jan. 11: Snow hike: 1:51, 5.3 miles, 2,126 feet climbing. Climbed the Broads Fork trail with Dad. My chest and throat were raw, and I was fighting a pounding headache and general fatigue, but was otherwise okay. I thought this would be a good opportunity to to test my breathing capacity in difficult conditions. Temperature was about 20 degrees, elevations 6,100 to 8,300 feet. I kept my heart rate in zone 2-3, and didn't have any feelings of tightness in my chest for the duration of the hike.

Jan. 12: Snowshoe: 1:38, 4.2 miles, 1,705 feet climbing. We went up Mill B and I felt notably worse on this day. Temperature 10-20 degrees, elevation 6,100 to 7,800 feet. We kept it short and slow, but I could sense that I didn't have a better effort in me. These two hikes, even more than the failed race, reduced my trust in my "long game" for something as demanding as the ride to Nome. In previous multi-day efforts, I recovered better from hard days, but I believe this possible oxygen deficiency brings the physical setbacks to a whole new level. I also remember my deterioration during the Tour Divide, and believe these breathing difficulties can only bring decline — possibly managed, but not recovered. Even though I felt okay hiking in the cold at high elevation in Utah, my confidence was further fractured.

Jan. 13: Rest. Drove to California.

Jan. 14: Trail run, 0:58, 5.4 miles, 677 feet climbing. I didn't run quite as slowly as I feared — 10:35 pace — but that's nearly two minutes per mile slower than I was able to run this loop in December, and I was actually going as hard as I could because I wanted to test a "tempo" effort. Even trying to keep my breathing controlled, I became winded and felt like my heart rate was higher than normal. Since I was back at sea level and temperatures were in the 50s, I figured my fitness was shot.

Jan. 15: Weight lifting at gym. Three sets. Again a long time had passed since I last lifted, and I was able to return to my old weights but just barely. Admittedly, I've lost faith that weight lifting is making a modicum of difference toward my goals. I didn't necessarily feel stronger with a loaded fat bike in Fairbanks (when I'd been at it twice a week for 10 weeks), and I've certainly been sucking on multiple levels ever since. But ... I'll stick with it. Hopefully more regularly for the next few weeks.

Jan. 16: Trail run, 6:51, 31.5 miles, 6,776 feet climbing. Steep Ravine 50K, described in previous blog post. I'm still not sure how to make sense of this experience. I'm completely baffled.

Jan. 17: Weight lifting at gym. Shoulders were sore from Friday's workout and aggressive trekking pole use at Steep Ravine, but it went relatively well. Back to regular lifting.

Total: 11:20, 46.5 miles run, 11,284 feet climbing. I sort of feel back on track now. We shall see!

Busting out?

I spent a week Googling and brooding on breathing issues, only to become more and more perplexed. Not only do I feel more stupid and crazy, but aimless Internet research also strengthened that tinge of anxiety that my problem is terminal or something that requires a grain/dairy/fruit/sugar/cat/exercise/winter/outdoor-free existence that might feel terminal. I did reach a reluctant conclusion on three things: 1. Regardless of the cause, breathing difficulties are something I will probably experience again. 2. It will likely take some time to figure out which treatments/lifestyle changes (if any) will remedy the problem. 3. In the meantime, I need to figure out if and how I can cope.

My breathing felt limited during my hikes in Utah, and fully strained while running in California on Thursday. I thought about taking two weeks off from any cardio exercise. Taking a long break at this time would probably be my last gasp, so to speak, for any hope of participating in even a short-distance Iditarod this year, but I was starting to feel desperate. Meanwhile, I had signed up for this 50-kilometer trail run that started in Stinson Beach on Saturday. There was much quiet yo-yoing about the thing before my thought pattern ended on an upswing: Why don't I just go out there and see what happens? If it goes south and I'm still gasping, that will be the answer I need. That will mean I don't have the lung capacity for a long effort, at least anytime soon.

The Steep Ravine 50K started at 50 degrees under light drizzle, with a forecast that called for steady rain picking up throughout the day. The Marin Headlands received a healthy dose of precipitation in the preceding weeks, so the hills were vibrantly green and the trails were saturated with mud. The fog ceiling hovered only about 200 feet above the sea, and visibility above that altitude was reduced to a few feet at times — not the most appealing scenery for a course that boasts nearly 7,000 feet of climbing. Despite the foreboding weather, the race director announced that nearly 50 people had checked in for the 50K — not a bad turnout. I quite like running in cool, moody weather, but my heart was filled with dread. The parameters I'd set for Steep Ravine had harsh implications — if I failed, I not only had to withdraw from Iditarod, but also risk falling deeper into the rabbit hole of questioning and uncertainty.

My strategy for the run was to focus entirely on controlling my breathing: take deep, steady breaths, keep my heart rate in Zone 3 or lower, and slow down — or stop if necessary — the second I felt that "sharp edge" pressure in my chest that seems to precede an attack. I also brought my trekking poles because I realized that the steep, rooty, muddy trails would put me on my face more than once if I focused too heavily on my internal affairs, unless I had crutches to prop myself up. I've run three or four local 50Ks with trekking poles, and yes, I'm always the only one, and yes, the people I'm around usually express envy later in the race. Running crutches are awesome. I'm still waiting for them to catch on in the U.S.

So it went from the start — breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, which such focus that I almost forgot I was running. My Zone 3 — which is what I consider 145-160 beats per minute — doesn't afford a satisfyingly speedy pace, but it does make for a relaxing, meditative experience. Breathe in, breathe out, up Steep Ravine, over Cardiac Hill, down the endless switchbacks, slip-slide on the horse trail along Redwood Creek, up the Dipsea roots, down the Dipsea stairs. Repeat.

Rain continued to come down, and the trails deteriorated into channels for flowing runoff. It was slippery, often steep, and reasonably technical — conditions that would normally stress me out during a trail race. On this day, however, mindful breathing put me in a dreamy, Zen-like state, and I felt no fear. On the second ascent to Cardiac Hill, around mile 11, I splashed into a puddle and felt a sudden surge through my chest, as though my lungs had burst open. It's difficult to describe the sensation, but it was startlingly invigorating — almost alarming. At first I confused the sensation for the beginnings of an asthma attack, but as I slowed to a stop, I could feel all this warm, humid air moving in and out of my lungs. It genuinely felt like a higher volume of air — or perhaps a more oxygen-saturated version of the atmosphere. I commenced jogging and felt great. I could have sprinted up that hill, but I wouldn't let that happen. This little runner's high wasn't going to derail my commitment to Zone 3 and steady breathing. At this point, I was steadily floating.

Breathe in, breathe out, along the socked-in return to Stinson Beach, then once more along the raging creek in Steep Ravine. After I successfully descended the infuriatingly endless hairpin switchbacks and the shoe-sucking horse trail a second time, it occurred to me that I was something like 24 miles into this run, and felt no negative effects. Not only was I breathing normally, but I didn't have any foot or muscle pain, no tightness in my IT band or ache in my quads, not even chafing. I hadn't even tumbled or slipped onto my butt, not even once! I was actually having pretty much the perfect race.

On my last visit to Cardiac Hill, I stopped to eat a few handfuls of soggy Shot Bloks and savored the experience. I posted this photo from my friend Chuck so you can see the beauty of Cardiac Hill in this weather — it's exposed, windy, and very wet. This guy actually volunteered to hang out here for 8+ hours doling out much-appreciated but waterlogged snacks and drinks in disintegrating paper cups. This is why volunteers are lauded as the true heroes of any trail race. I stood here nibbling on Shot Bloks as though they were fine pieces of cheese, and marveled at how great I felt. "It's all this moisture and oxygen in the air," I thought. "It's like crack."

As I floated down the Dipsea Trail, I passed two women who pulled over to let me pass. "We can't keep up with you and those poles," one commented. "You're fast with those things."

"Thank you," I beamed, even though I wasn't sure they meant it as a complement. (I think trekking poles are to the ultrarunning scene today what Hokas were five years ago: For the frail and Europeans only.) But I felt unstoppable, clickity-clacking down the slimy wooden stairs, down the gray-washed trail to Stinson Beach where there's normally a spectacular ocean view, and across the finish line. After hanging out with friends, eating chili from a tiny paper cup, and gradually becoming wracked with shivering, I noticed a chart indicating I was the first woman to finish the race. Clearly this was a result of attrition, as a few women probably dropped down to the 25K after the first loop, and there weren't many to begin with (I was first out of eight to finish the 50K.) Still ... winning a coffee mug is a nice cherry on top of a perfect race.

I'm really not sure how to make sense of this experience, since this is probably the easiest finish I've ever had in a 50K, just one week after the exhausting aftermath of a failed snow bike race. I can't gauge my health on this, because conditions were dramatically different — sea level, warm, humid — compared to the cold, dry, and high-altitude air I struggled with last week. I'm seeing my doctor on Wednesday, and I now have another confusing variable to add to the equation. But I think there's something to be said about mindful breathing, as well as the power of positive thinking when there's an entire passion at stake.