Week 8

 I admit that discouragement about my fitness continues. But I don't really want to write about that anymore. So this week's training log includes my favorite moments from each day.

 Monday: Mountain bike, 3:39, 28.5 miles, 3,748 feet climbing. I was pedaling through Salina, a small community that was devastated during the 2013 floods. Fat flakes of snow pummeled my face as I churned through a thin veneer of powder atop patchy ice. I hadn't expected snowfall, and was riding my mountain bike with studless tires. Although I was slipping and skidding up the steep road, I paid more attention to the buildings — some relics from mining days, some boarded up, some rebuilt after being knocked off their foundations during an unfathomable deluge of water. Sandbags still lined the base. I always admire the lives in these hardscrabble towns, even when I understand the proximity to urban Boulder.

Just as I was recovering from a particularly awkward slip, I looked up at an older man walking down the road. "You sure are intrepid," he said.

"What to you mean?" I asked, assuming this was a veiled insult about the stupidity of riding a bike on this icy mess of a road.

"Just biking in the snow, that's tough," he said.

"Oh, it's not so bad," I replied.


Tuesday: Rest

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:33, 13.7 miles, 2,372 feet climbing. Temperatures were in the single digits, and I surfed an untrammeled blanket of snow down to the shoreline of South Boulder Creek. It felt frigid in the canyon, at least ten degrees colder, and I stopped to pull a buff over my face. This spot was exquisitely quiet. I could hear distant squeaking — deer, perhaps — and the creek burbled in a hushed echo of springtime torrents. Sunlight cast a patchwork of glittering snow and blue shadows. I felt content, understanding that winter's beauty will always outshine my meek efforts.

 Thursday: Run, 1:38, 5.7 miles, 1,394 feet climbing.  Weightlifting, 0:45. I intended this to be a gym-only day, but the morning was so beautiful that I just had to go outside before my trip to town. I gauged the weather by stepping outside, and warm sunlight increased my excitement. So I hurried to put on a hat, mittens, tights, a long-sleeve shirt, and my "brand new" Icebug shoes that I bought in 2015 but haven't yet tried. Also in my excitement, I failed to check the temperature, which was a mistake. It wasn't nearly as warm as I guessed — 16 degrees, not exactly "no jacket" weather. But I ran so hard that I didn't really notice the chill until I was crawling up the west ridge of Bear Peak, which was still pristine more than 36 hours after the storm. I lost the trail and wandered into the steeper rocks. It was here, clinging to burned tree trunks while kicking "steps" into the powdery snow, that I realized I was quite cold, and started to shiver. I still had to pick my way carefully down the mountain, losing feeling in my fingers and toes. Once I'd returned to the flatter trail, I ran as hard as I could to generate heat. It actually worked, and I was comfortable (but very thirsty) by the time I made it it home.

 Friday: Fat bike, 3:41, 26.7 miles, 3,160 feet climbing. I recently made acquaintance with another fat-biking endurance cyclist here in Boulder, and she and I met up for a ride on Friday morning. We kept a good conversational pace up Fourmile Canyon, but once we reached the snowy Switzerland Trail, Cheryl put on the high-burners. I kept stopping to let air out of my tires — to make it easier on myself — as she powered through the crusty snow. On the wind-swept ridge, we stopped to have a snack. Gazing out at rolling, forested slopes, I thought this place reminded me of a spot I used to ride to in California, a lookout over Big Basin State Park. I've been haunted by my own nostalgia lately, for reasons I don't understand, but it incites sadness at the most unlikely times.

"I always love to come here," Cheryl said, and her voice brought me back to the present.

"It is a beautiful place," I agreed, and refocused on horizon. Suddenly I felt completely at home.

Saturday: Fat bike, 3:59, 22.5 miles, 3,045 feet climbing. Beat and I joined friends for a night at a cabin near Rollinsville. They were dragging sleds in the vicinity, and Beat and I set out for a ride on forest roads. Temps were on the warm side — 35 degrees — and it was snowing. I was struggling and doing everything I could to pretend I wasn't struggling, but it felt like I was slowly melting into the ground. The best moment came toward the end, when I was quite nauseated, and we stopped at a store on the highway. I sat outside in the swirling snow to quell this feeling of dizziness. Five minutes later, Beat emerged with a Pepsi for me. He's very sweet like that.

Sunday: Rest. I had another four-hour ride planned for this day, but we woke up to 8 inches of new snow, and I backed out. I don't have an excuse. I'm not tired, sick, or injured. Discouragement is really all I can claim. I recognize I need to either get over this, or embrace it. Ultimately I think it was a good idea to hit the reset button on this physically taxing week.

Total: 17:17, 5.7 miles run, 91.5 miles ride, 13,718 feet climbing. 

5 degrees in paradise

One of the reasons we moved from California to Colorado was to live among winter again — to sit by a wood stove and sip hot chocolate, watch snow fall outside the window, and justify having a sauna in our back yard. In eight months, Colorado has given us little tastes — May snowfall and October cold. But today was probably the first day of "real" winter — several inches of new snow fell as overnight temperatures dipped below zero. In the spirit of the "nearly wordless Wednesday" blogging tradition, this is a photo post. 

 Early morning light filters through fog over the backyard.

 Weather station shows 0.9 degrees.

 Beat begins his morning commute to work. It proved tougher than he anticipated.

 A few hours later, I set out for an afternoon ride. Temperatures had warmed to a balmy 5.4 degrees.

 Walker Ranch.

 Relentless climbing, rewarding views.

 First tracks.

 South Boulder Creek. It felt very cold here.

 Climbing away from South Boulder Creek was hard.

 Fading to cloud.

 Hints of sunlight.

 After an embarrassingly short distance, I realized three hours had passed, so I stopped for a snack.

Steam rises from Gross Reservoir. 

It doesn't have to hurt

"Are we really going to do this?" Beat asked as the truck rocked rather combatively. 

"Well, we already drove all the way here," I replied. "Here" was a pullout on Rollins Pass Road, a 45-minute drive from home. In the truck's bed were our fat bikes, recently refurbished after months of hibernation. My bike still had a Nome mileage sheet pinned to a pogie, and a once-cherished but soon-forgotten emergency collection of duct tape, zip ties, and parachute cord in the frame bag. We were here to enjoy the first day of fat bike season, but 45-mph wind gusts and an icy gravel road scraped clean of snow made it suddenly unpalatable. 

 There's one thing to be said about driving to an activity: You're more likely to make yourself go through with it. The west wind blew directly into our faces, and I was buffeted all over the road as I tried to mount my bike. If I could keep the front wheel pointed in a straight line, I was fine, but even a slight shimmy would send me veering toward an intimidating patchwork of ice on South Boulder Creek. Beat said the partially frozen stream reminded him of the many creeks one must cross in Alaska, and I agreed. I watched black water churn under fragile ice bridges and felt decidedly dizzy.

After 15 minutes, we had pedaled all of a mile up the road.

"This isn't very fun," Beat said.

I nodded in agreement. "But what a great workout. My quads are already sore. I'm going to start doing leg lifts at the gym, that's for sure."

 As we gained elevation, the road surface varied from wind-scoured, rocky dirt to deep, drifted snow. A few intrepid jeeps had ventured up the road, laying a narrow and erratic trail for us. Where trees offered wind protection, the surface resistance was just as taxing as riding into a 30-mph wind. I had to slow to something below a crawl just in order to process the necessary oxygen. The worst effects of my cold had dissipated significantly, but it left behind a heap of congestion, adding to the chronic congestion that I always battle. So I was breathing through a goopy straw at 10,000 feet, fretting that the things I want to do this winter are impossible — probably more impossible than ever.

 Really, though, I can only spend so much time fretting about breathing and not feeling strong. Snow flurries sparkled in the sunlight, and the wind bellowed through the trees. I gazed over the wind-swept valley and remembered that this is the sensation I love — churning through a heap of powder, fighting with every last whisper of strength to propel myself into a menacing wind. The wind and snow don't care about my dreams and goals, and I appreciate this. Endurance snow sports are entirely about strength and perseverance in the face of the absurd, the menacing, the unpredictable. It's this microcosm of life that I can't get enough of, even as I grow older and less capable for reasons I don't understand.

 This, like life, is as beautiful as it is hard, which is why it remains worthwhile. I'll just keep doing the best I can, relishing every breath of the monstrous wind.

Monday: Treadmill intervals, 0:30, 3 miles. Weightlifting, 0:40. Run, 1:00, 4 miles, 754 feet climbing. I drove home from Utah on this day and stopped by the gym on my way home. A half hour later, I jogged out to meet Beat during his evening run home from work on the West Ridge trail.

Tuesday: Rest. The man cold clamped down hard overnight. I woke up with a throat so sore it hurt to turn my neck, and I felt weak and feverish throughout the day. I was convinced I was coming down with bronchitis.

Wednesday: Elliptical machine "strength workout," 0:45. Weightlifting, 0:40. I had been quick to overestimate that cold, as it seemed quite bad for 24 hours. On Tuesday it was difficult to get up off the floor, but I felt significantly better on Wednesday morning. I went to the gym for low-impact exercise, using lots of hand sanitizer and cleaning wipes, although I would think the contagiousness of my cold dissipated with my symptoms. I did still have a sore throat and the start of persistent congestion.

Thursday: Elliptical machine, 1:30. Weightlifting, 0:20. Still didn't feel strong enough to venture outside. I hear it got a bit cold during the week.

Friday: Mountain bike, 2:16, 13.2 miles, 2,233 feet climbing. A light storm dropped about an inch of snow. I still felt somewhat weak and was having some difficulties with breathing, and the added resistance of snow didn't help. But I really enjoyed this ride — a mixture of sun and flurries, and the trails were deserted.

Saturday: Run, 2:17, 9.1 miles, 1,631 feet climbing. I wore my Salomon Spikecross shoes for the first time since the 2015 White Mountains 100, and wasn't thrilled with the sudden impact of non-Hokas. Perhaps I've ruined myself forever with cushy shoes, but my shins and hips hurt almost immediately. I felt okay but hiked more than I usually would.

Sunday: Fat bike, 4:19, 23.4 miles, 1,705 feet climbing. I wish I could say I felt strong and that the Fat Pursuit is going to be great. No, it's probably going to be a disaster. What's new?