Snowmageddon 2017

The date was May 17, 11 a.m., and the temperature was a pleasant 58 degrees as I packed for a ride. Looking out the window at a hillside bursting with vibrant green foliage, it was more than a little difficult to believe the upcoming weather forecast — "a cold storm system is expected to track slowly eastward across the region into Friday night. Total snow accumulations of one to three feet possible." 

One to three ... feet? 

Of snow?

On May 18? 

When it was nearly 90 degrees just five days ago? 

Yeah, right. 

 However, I am one to be prepared, so I threw a rain jacket, fleece hat, and mittens into my pack, and wore tights — for sun protection more than anything. It was a beautiful afternoon and I wanted to put in five or six good hours, just in case Snowmageddon did happen to shut us down for the weekend. Looking toward the plains beyond Fourmile Canyon, there was hardly a cloud in the sky.

Bluebird day on Sugarloaf Mountain. I explored singletrack trails that didn't go anywhere, so I reluctantly drifted over to pavement. I had forgotten the ridiculous steepness of Sugarloaf Road, and plodded upward with steely displeasure. I suspected I was somewhat overdoing the "string of long rides" version of Quadrock recovery, and wasn't in the mood to push myself. Still, some places don't give you much of a choice.

A fierce headwind tossed sand in my face as I watched the weather approach from the west on the Switzerland Trail and Gold Hill Road. I'd ascended to nearly 9,000 feet, where the air was still warm. My extra layers stayed in my pack; I had long regretted the choice to wear tights. Snow? Bah.

 But there were rain clouds over Boulder. I somehow missed the sprinkles altogether as I descended nearly 4,000 feet into town to meet Beat at work. He was planning to run home from the office, where patters of rain were starting to hit the sidewalk. "Are you sure you want to run tonight?" I cautioned. "The weather's supposed to get bad." There was still a giant sucker hole — abundant blue sky — hanging out over the Flatirons.

"I'm scared," he said, mockingly.

 Then it was the morning of May 18, 6:30 a.m. Nearly a foot of snow had accumulated on our once-green yard. And the power was out. Thursday is trash day and the nearest collection point is a mile down the road, so we had to dig out the truck first thing. Then we went home to Starbucks Vias, mixed with water that Beat heated on a camp stove.

 Hummingbirds were battling the wind for breakfast, and Beat scrambled to make them more sugar water before he'd even had coffee.

 The power was out all morning and into the afternoon. Beat decided to work from home but needs to Internet to work, so he rigged a car battery to power the modem. This worked, but our laptop batteries were dwindling, and we were well aware of other inconveniences — we have electric heating, an electric stove, and a well with an electric pump, so without power we effectively have neither heat nor water. We do have wood stoves, though, and happily huddled around the small one in the bedroom. I vowed to be better prepared for the next Snowmageddon ... you know, that one that's likely to hit in June.

In the afternoon we set out for a short hike, but not before making an effort to plow the road, just in case a window opened to escape to town on Friday. I was amazed how much snow had accumulated since we took the truck out in the morning. Presumably the cars are under there somewhere.

Then we climbed our neighbor's driveway to borrow his plow. The driveway itself is a half-mile long and took us 20 minutes to ascend, wearing snowshoes. This broken trail was useful for finding our way back out with the truck.

Digging out the truck gave a sense of how much snow had accumulated — two feet, at this point, and still coming down.

 I was a skeptic about the capabilities of this old truck, but it made quick work of two feet of wet cement. Beat's driving skills did help.

 Contending with a broken tree branch across the road.

 We ran into a neighbor and Beat offered to plow her driveway, which became another ordeal that led to us pushing her vehicle out of a snow bank. At least we had an opportunity to meet another neighbor. By the time we finally started hiking, we'd already burned up two and a half hours of daylight. Luckily it's mid-May and there was still plenty of evening daylight left.

 We planned to plod to South Boulder Creek, which is about a ten-minute run when it's dry. The 2.5-mile out-and-back through a couple feet of wet cement took us an hour and fifteen minutes.

 South Boulder Creek looked mighty angry.

 The snow conditions were treacherous — a greasy cement that stuck to snowshoes but somehow not any other surface. The snow gave way under my snowshoes here — within seconds after I took this photo and put my camera away — and I fell all the way down  — seven or eight feet, atop big boulders. Miraculously nothing hurt afterward. At least this ludicrously wet snow lubricated my tumble. I was glad we hadn't attempted anything more technical (there was talk of climbing Bear Peak, mostly by me, but I'm grateful it didn't work out. I might have died.)

 Back at home, Beat battled the greasy snow to clear a path for truck, and the hummingbirds battled the blizzard to stock up on fuel.

 Usually they are not into sharing, but everyone knew it was going to be a cold, snowy night.

I took one more photo of the cars to try to get a sense of the accumulation. The official measurement for Eldorado Springs as of 6 p.m. was 26" — but the station is located at a lower altitude, to the southeast. My guess would be ~30"? And it was still coming down hard as gray daylight faded. How much more will fall overnight? No one can know, but one prediction is all but certain — temperatures will be in the 70s by next week, and the melt is going to be a humongous mess. 

The marvel of feeling normal

Beat's knee injury didn't improve in time to run the Quadrock trail race, so I woke up at 4:45 a.m. and headed north alone. Saturday morning was intensely beautiful, with a pomegranate-seed sunrise sprinkled across the periwinkle sky. Streets were eerily empty and farm fields shimmered with green and gold glitter. The hillsides were saturated with this exuberant light. 

"This race could be a disaster and getting up early for this drive would still be worth it," I thought. "Still, I hope it's not a disaster."

I used to run trail races on the regular in California, but I hadn't put a foot across a starting line since January 2016. At the time, these 50-kilometer trail races were my fitness gauge to see whether I'd recovered enough from the Tour Divide Plague to reliably breathe my way through the Iditarod. Seventeen months later, I was no longer curious about whether dizziness and desperation would hit. I'd mostly accepted this as my default for any remotely hard effort; the curiosity lied in more distant memories of "normal." 

The sun was already high and bright, the temperature topping 70 degrees as I rounded Horsetooth Reservoir at 7 a.m. Pre-race chatter centered on the hot, hot day in front of us. The forecast was for mid- to high-80s — warmer than most northern Coloradoans had seen yet this season. My freshest memories of spring trail races were all scorchers in California — Quicksilver 50-miler, Ohlone 50K — and running beautiful but shadeless singletrack beneath an unforgiving sun. My strategy for scorchers is to freeze a two-liter bladder full of water to a solid block of ice, which I gladly carry because it can propel me through up to three hours of intense sweating, if I sip.

The impressively fit pack of 250 runners shot off the starting line, while I loped at 10-minute-miles amid the sparsely populated rear. Geez these Coloradoans don't mess around. I had no idea what might happen, and I didn't want to burn all of my matches before we even hit the first steep and seemingly endless climb. Quadrock has three such climbs, countless punchy rollers, and so many rocks that I was lusting for my trekking poles before the first mile of singletrack was done. My proprioception becomes scrambled on chunky terrain, causing disorientation and increasingly more frequent, eventually injurious mistakes. I've become too reliant on "running crutches" to manage my balance and stability, but mechanical aids were not allowed in this race.

 By mile 10, the trekking poles were mostly forgotten as I settled into a comfortable rhythm. My heart was beating strong at 160, 165 even 170 beats per minute — a rate that long ago felt comfortable, but punched far into gasping territory after I became sick. I stopped at the aid station manned by my hometown running group, the Boulder Banditos, who were cheerfully attending to a crowd of salt-streaked runners.

"My watch says it's 93 degrees," one guy complained.

"It's probably the direct sunlight," I replied. It was easily in the mid-80s, though. My friend Wendy filled up my neck bandana with chunks of ice.

"That feels amazing," I thanked her, and started at a loping 10-minute-mile up the second endless climb. My heart and head told me I could run fast, but my quad muscles were already quivering. A winter full of dizziness and desperation didn't leave any top-end fitness to work with. But a more comfortable pace? I could do this all day.

There was a long, rocky traverse that caused a few stumbles, along with an unwelcome bout of frustration.

"Feet up, drink water," I reminded myself constantly. My quad muscles frequently spasmed. "Quadrock is a good name for this race," I thought. I watched other runners double over beside the trail with cramps and vomiting, or both. I offered help and sympathy, neither of which meant much. I thrashed my head because "Baby One More Time" was running a deafening loop through my mind, and it WOULD NOT LEAVE. This wasn't even the Britney Spears version; it was sung in an unfamiliar male voice, a high falsetto. It seemed highly unlikely this version even existed, but there it was. Finally I gave in, and matched my steps to the rhythm, "Feet up, drink water, oh baby baby, the reason I breathe is you."

The miles unravelled, and I felt better as I went. The final aid station had bakery peanut butter cookies, and I stood under the thin canopy shade and savored one while watching another runner double over nearby. A volunteer gave me ice for my now-empty bladder, and I was free. Nothing could stop me. There was a third endless climb to mile 20, stumbling along a narrow sideslope amid a crowd. At the top, the trail opened up beneath a cooling canopy of pine. My heart continued to beat strong and there wasn't a hint of desperation in my steady breaths. I couldn't believe how well this race was going, and it was almost over. Should I pound the final descent? Na, don't want to bloody my face now. Should I have run harder? Na — it's so much more fun to travel 25 miles over rugged terrain in an oppressive heat, and feel as revved up as a mullet at a Mötley Crüe reunion.

I strode into the 25-mile finish after six hours and 25 minutes, which is pretty slow even for me (in the good old days of effortless trail running, my 50K finishes were usually faster than this) ... but I wasn't last. I was actually in the top half of my group. 52 out of 117 women. Everything really is more difficult here in Colorado; it's not just me and my running crutches.

To keep the feeling alive, or perhaps prove to myself that I can return to a time where moderately difficult efforts are no big deal, I joined Beat for a tough ride on Sunday. Since he's not running, he's been putting in solid training miles on his mountain bike. We rode a 25-mile loop with 4,100 feet of climbing. My body was definitely more worn after Saturday. My heart was beating like the 140s were a better place to be, but it was fun to feel so comfortable amid so much climbing, again.

For Monday morning, my friend Cheryl invited me to check out Trail Ridge Road, the main road through Rocky Mountain National Park. It was closed until recently. We weren't sure of the conditions or how much snow, mud and gravel we'd encounter, so we brought our mountain bikes. (Plus, Cheryl is a kindred spirit who would rather just ride her comfy mountain bike all of the time, no matter how much slower it may be on pavement.)

The road was in great shape, cleared to the pass and beyond. We encountered impressive snow berms along the way. I'm glad there was no need to posthole through eight feet of slush.

The weather was strikingly different from Saturday, with temperatures in the low 40s and fierce cross-winds whipping along the tundra. I was back in a fleece hat and mittens, and I couldn't have been happier.

The high point of the road soars to 12,183 feet. Presumably there is not as much air up here, but I was breathing easy and quite stoked about that.

The Lava Cliffs.

Views, views, views.

Hello, Longs Peak. I'm sorry I haven't climbed you yet. I'll get around to it this summer. Really, I will.

This ride was 40 miles with more than 5,000 feet of climbing, but it was one of those outings where you're distracted by happy thoughts most of the time, and don't really notice any of the effort. And the best part — no Britney Spears earworms.

I still don't feel "normal" every day, and still can't say when that will happen, if ever. But these normal days, right now, are a gift that I never truly appreciated until they were gone. From now on, I will be grateful for every one.

From snow to 85 to severe thunderstorms

 It's spring in Colorado, and the weather is all over the place. "If you don't like the weather, wait 15 minutes" is an observation that's been flogged to death again and again, but the schizophrenic skies are still a source of entertainment. On May 3 we had a lovely snowstorm, illuminated by flecks of sunlight. I stood on the porch in my bare feet for at least ten minutes, mesmerized by the dance of sparkling snowflakes.

These poor daffodils. They were completely buried by 14" of snow just four days prior. They emerged on Monday only to be pummeled again on Wednesday. I'd feel guilty for not protecting them from the storms, but they seem to bounce back just fine.

 May greenery and fresh snow — one of my favorite color combinations.

 By Saturday — three days later — temperatures spiked well into the 80s. Beat and I lathered up in sunscreen and headed out for a mountain bike ride. We stopped to admire the elk grazing in the elk pastures ... except these aren't domesticated animals.

 During the five-hour ride, we spent upwards of two and a half hours stumbling along ten or so miles of trails in the Blue Dot trail system. Beat was actually the one coaxing me away from the bail-outs as we both mused about how great these trails would be for running. There's certainly some beautiful segments for cycling, too — ribbon singletrack, tight switchbacks, roller-coaster descents. But like most Boulder trails, the beautiful segments are frequently interrupted by crumbling chunder gullies, root steps, unrideable rock outcroppings, and occasional severe erosion. There's little flow for a cyclist like me, who really prefers flow to being not-so-gently flogged by choppy terrain. I've joked with Beat that I'd happily turn in my mountain biker card if it meant I could ride ribbon singletrack and fire roads all of the time. However, I live in Boulder, so I'll likely continue to chip away at my flaccid technical skills.

 At least Blue Dot has hike-a-bikes with views. And the technical puzzles do distract from the heat. I'll have to remember this come July.

On Sunday we hoped to complete a long run, but lounged around for far too long and set out just as dark clouds were gathering overhead. It's getting to be that time of year where afternoons are not the best time to play, but it always takes a few hard lessons to adjust winter habits. As we climbed toward Bear Peak, an opaque gray wall obscured everything to the south. The cloud was approaching us at alarming speed.

"We're going to get pummeled," I said to Beat. Not really taking my own definition of pummeled seriously, we continued to climb. Within five minutes, sharp hail was raining down on us. We scrambled to cover up with our meager spring layers — I had a fleece beanie, but a woefully thin three-ounce wind jacket. Beat had a better jacket and gloves, but no hat. We still didn't think it was so bad, so we continued to climb into the deluge. When switchbacks turned into the wind, I couldn't even breathe through the gales. A chill rapidly deteriorated into vigorous shivering. My core was very cold, and my calves hurt from the hail stings. Then Beat saw lightning. We abandoned the "long run" plan and made a hasty retreat.

More severe thunderstorms were in the forecast today, so I rallied out the door before 9 a.m., hoping to complete one last medium-length run before Quadrock on Saturday. Quadrock is a trail race in Fort Collins that I signed up for months ago, back when I still thought I'd be riding the Idiatrod, so I put my name down for the "half" (25 miles.) After the thyroid diagnosis I figured there would be no racing this spring, but I've been feeling so good lately — so much better than I ever felt during the winter. My lab numbers are approaching normal, so the risks are diminished. And it's only 25 miles. Some of my weekend fun runs have been nearly that long. Why not?

The thing is, I am really nervous about the prospect of racing. My last race (January's Fat Pursuit) was a grueling failure. I haven't even started a foot race since January 2016. Quadrock has reasonably tight cutoffs, and they don't allow trekking poles (how will I stay upright without my running crutches? I don't even know anymore.) And now Beat has a knee injury that will likely prevent him from racing the 50-mile version of Quadrock. I'll be all alone out there! (Well, just me and the other 264 entrants in the 25-miler.) Anyway, I am weirdly wound up about Quadrock. I just want to finish the race, and not face-plant ... at least not in a way that will prevent me from finishing. And if I can't finish, ugh. I don't even want to think about it.

But I do want to start. The route I chose today had 4,200 feet of climbing and an equal amount of descending in a measly 11 miles. It was quite technical for "running," and I mainly wanted one more good practice on steep descents. The final descent proved that I actually have put in some good training over the past five weeks. My first runs back from Alaska were punctuated by plenty of soreness, but today my legs felt fresh as I picked up the pace for the final mile home. Just as I walked in the door, rain started to pelt against the windows. I'd escaped the storms entirely. One hundred percent success.