Ask me anything

In my last post I requested that readers "Ask me anything." I lifted the idea from an acquaintance, Mike Place, whose shared his own honest and introspective answers. It seemed like a great way to spur self-reflection — an indulgent but useful exercise. Thank you to everyone who posed a question. A few were quite difficult. I'm posting them in the order I received them. Along with the answers are photos from a "run commute" with Eszter, Scott, and Beat on Wednesday evening. We took the most direct route that would travel over three peaks to our home. It was just a little over eight miles and took four hours — tracing old trails, all-too-briefly running new trails, scrambling on boulders, crawling down loose rocks and chunky scree, and bushwhacking through a burn area. A fun outing! 

 1. Is there something you hope to accomplish during the course of your life? Some theme that you hope people will mention in your obituary or otherwise after you die? Or maybe a better question is "How do you hope to be remembered after you die?" 

It’s interesting that we view accomplishment as a path to immortality. I suppose that’s why writing a book that millions read is a great accomplishment, while writing a book that means a lot to you, but is only read by friends and family, is often viewed as a failure. I’ve given this thought and I’m largely okay with being forgotten soon after I die. Perhaps my great-nieces and nephews will be told about my ride across Alaska, but if they meet me, they’ll probably remember me as a quiet old lady in a weird-smelling house (the way I remember most of my elderly relatives.) At that point, I might not value adventure the way I do now. I might feel like I've become someone else entirely. The self is such a fluid notion; it’s hard to choose just one defining theme.

If I hope to accomplish anything, it’s to live a full life. That sounds like a cop-out, but I truly am grateful for every birthday. I want to continue to skirt the edge of possibility and explore everything I can, including the ever-shifting landscape of my mind. I want to continue to learn and better understand the structure of the world, far-away cultures and the people around me. I want to love and grieve and experience the depths of human emotion. And if one day I write a book that millions read, I certainly wouldn’t complain.

Beat guided us up Green on a saddle behind the First Flatiorn. The route gains 2,300 feet in 1.5 miles.

2. I think the question I want to ask is this — with everything in your life, how do you know when to ask for help? 

The simplest answer is that I do not know when to ask for help. There are so many wonderful people in my life, and too often I fail to reach out to anyone. I struggle with face-to-face conversation. I insulate and internalize difficulties. I can be uncomfortably personal in my writing, because the degree of separation in written words makes it easier for me to express my feelings. Running or biking alone is often the way I process thoughts and emotions, and writing is my cathartic release. Without these outlets, I fear I’d lose myself to bottled-up anxiety, sadness, and fear. I’m working on improving openness in my relationships, in no small part to find the strength to ask for help when I need it.


3. Obviously, dealing with illness will be the topic of your next book. What's the target date of publication? 

Chronic illness will NOT be the topic of my next book. I keep a hobby blog almost solely about personal outdoor activities, which my health directly affects. Of course I’m going to write about illness here, and I don’t really care if that’s not interesting to you. My books actually do aim for a somewhat wider market appeal, which is why I promised myself “no more books about the Iditarod” (although I’ll probably break that promise.) The projects I’m currently dabbling with involve biographies, adventure racing how-to’s, narrative history of places (more of an experimental writing exercise — pondering what places would write if they had consciousness), and one more memoir that explores the exhilaration of being a novice in love and running, set in 2010. No target dates for publication.

We dallied around on the summit of Green while the twilight clock continued to tick. Taskmaster Beat kept us in line.

4. With all of your solo adventures, how do you keep yourself from being scared of the dangers of the world, like animals, people, etc? Does this ever keep you from getting started? 

Back in the summer of 2002, I became almost immobilized by anxiety. It crept up on me, but by June I felt anxious every day. I was terrified of thunderstorms, terrified of my driving commute along the Great Salt Lake, sometimes trembling as I pedaled my new touring bike — which I purchased with daunting adventures in mind — on a routine hour-long ride up City Creek Canyon. I couldn’t define why I was so afraid. But it kept getting worse. One night my bedroom was stifling hot, and I couldn’t bring myself to open the window because I was afraid of Elizabeth Smart’s kidnapper. (Him specifically. He hadn’t been caught and was actually holed up near a trail about a mile from where I lived, but of course I didn’t know this at the time.)

Before the kidnapper-through-the-window delusion, I didn't realize how ridiculous my fearfulness had become. Shortly after that, I had a panic attack during a thunderstorm, while I was indoors. What I experienced that summer could have been the beginnings of an anxiety disorder that never fully developed. But I let it be the moment when I decided that I would not let fear rule my life.

 I am still frightened of the dangers of the world. In a way, understanding my irrational tendencies toward “fear of everything” has helped me overcome fears I probably should embrace, like freezing to death in the Alaska wilderness. But sometimes fears do keep me from getting started. Even though I’ve expanded my comfort levels enormously, I still avoid the things that make me uncomfortable. Joe’s suggestion for climbing in the Flatirons is a good example of this. I’m a clumsy person with relatively poor proprioception (the innate understanding of my body’s position in relation to the environment), and I don’t want to enter a setting where mistakes are costly. I could learn techniques that would improve my security, and in theory I’d like this. But I need to break through this fear to get started.

Stealing a few more moments on Green.

5. How do you keep clean during multi-day endurance efforts in regards to hygiene, and along with that, deal with waste? 

 Wet wipes! If I’m on a multi-day trip I always carry a package of 20 antibacterial wipes and use them generously, then put the used ones in a Ziplock bag until I have a chance to throw them away. Because I'm so sensitive to pollen and dust, I try to scrub most of my body at night before I crawl into the sleeping bag. 

And yes, while not quite as frequently, I still use Wet Wipes in subzero temperatures in Alaska. I keep individual wipes in an inside pocket to prevent them from freezing. Otherwise I am prone to rash, infections, sores, and other issues that can really derail a trip. Every time I hear that someone got “food poisoning” during a trip, I secretly wonder if they washed up after they pooped in the woods. It seems obvious, but when you’re hurting and tired, hygiene is usually the first task to go. 

Feminine products are another issue. Washing up with Wet Wipes and storing everything in a Ziplock trash bag is still the method, although I realize it’s not pleasant. Venturing into TMI, my own cycles are light enough that I don’t usually bother with products on bikepacking trips. Black synthetic underwear and Wet Wipes work well enough. And no, I no longer wear chamois during a multi-day bike tour. I’ve had enough horrors from those bacteria traps. 

6. How do you manage to take such consistently fantastic photos while in the midst of strenuous activity? 

If you ride long distances you tend to see lots of beautiful things, and then it’s easy to take beautiful photos. It’s just a matter of keeping a small digital camera accessible (in my case, the chest pocket of a hydration vest), keeping it in an automatic setting that doesn’t require any fussing, and pulling it out often. 

Top o'Bear, second peak of the evening.

7. Have you ever wished to funnel your energy through something else than running or cycling? What's your work / play ratio? 

 I’ll start with the work/play ratio. On any given week, I typically spend about 15 hours contracting for a media company in Alaska. I use about 5 to 10 hours a week, on average, to pursue and work on paying projects such as newspaper articles and freelance copy editing. The rest of my "work" time is spent on personal writing projects. I rarely write for more than 25 hours over the course of a week (I include my blog in this mix, as well as all the efforts that never see the light of day.) My mental energy is usually spent if I’ve honestly put in those 20-25 hours (honestly meaning I don’t count the time I spend playing Words With Friends while ignoring text documents on the screen.)

 According to Strava, my “play” time generally amounts to 10-20 hours a week. This play time is how I generate the creative energy I need to write. If I’m more physically active, I tend to be more productive in my book projects. I take more photos. Sometimes I sketch (these days mostly dabbling with computer software.) Recently, I even picked up a couple of freelance graphic design projects. When I'm less active, the creative side my mind quiets, and annoying anxieties become louder. If forced to become inactive, I’m sure I’d find a way to adjust. But for now, I view play as my way of generating energy, not spending it.

 Do I wish I could funnel the time into something else? I do wonder if I should make an effort to become more engaged in my community — join a trails committee, volunteer for a wilderness organization, go to city council meetings. When I did these things as a student activist and later as a newspaper reporter, I gained a rewarding connection to my communities. This was the whole reason I first ventured into journalism — in my view, engaging people on an individual and community level is the only realistic way for most individuals to “change the world.” Between my actual money-generating work, domestic chores, personally fulfilling creative projects, spending time with Beat, other (somewhat limited) social activities, and of course the running and cycling, I really don’t have tons of leftover time. Community activism would be one area I might like to redirect some of this time.

Scott and Ezter enjoying a swig of whiskey on South Boulder Peak

8. Is the (previous blog post) a sign of an existential vacuum? Do you think of yourself as self-actualized, fulfilled, happy through outdoor activities that only you experience?

In philosophy, I most directly identify with existentialism — the approach of finding self and the meaning of life through free will, choice, and personal responsibility. Existential philosophers have posited that material desire is futile, and a person becomes their best self when they are pressed against extreme difficulty. By embracing their own existence, a person transcends the absurdity and oblivion of an irrational universe.

Throughout my college years, I was deeply engaged in a spiritual search. During this time, I drifted away from the religion of my youth, as well as other traditional paths (I was accepted to but never started law school, as one example.) At the time, I also devoured the novels by Thomas Wolfe. One passage from “Look Homeward Angel” stands out. The fictionalized version of the author asks the imaginary ghost of his dead brother:

“Where, Ben? Where is the world?” 

“Nowhere,” Ben said. “You are your world.” 

Inevitable catharsis by the threads of chaos. Unswerving punctuality of chance. Apexical summation, from the billion deaths of possibility, of things done.

... On the brink of the dark he stood, with only the dream of the cities, the million books, the spectral images of the people he loved, who loved him, whom he had known and lost. They will not come again. They never will come back again.” 

The author looks into this abyss and decides he must journey on. Why? Because this is life. It is beautiful, because we believe it is.

Coming up for air after this philosophical plunge, one of my core beliefs is that the meaning of life is to live. And I find self-actualization through creative expression and its power to break through barriers. I may engage in outdoor activities that only I experience, but I write about them. Other people, often complete strangers to me, have written back to share how they connected with the words, how their own perspectives shifted, how they were inspired to take a different direction, try something new. I believe humanity will benefit if people decide, collectively, that we are ultimately in charge of our own destinies, and take action — instead of treating life as something that just happens, or must be determined by someone or something else. No! You are your world.

Beat on South Boulder Peak, probably again stressing the imminence of darkness.

9. Have you considered alternate physical activities that are believed to have positive impact on human health (both physical and psychological), e.g. yoga? 

If you read my blog regularly or have made it this far in this post, it’s probably obvious that physical health is not my primary goal for outdoor activities. As for yoga, I avoid it because of predetermined fears. My inflexible body, balance struggles, introversion and performance anxiety would make me deeply uncomfortable even in the most basic beginner yoga class. That’s even more reason to believe it would be good for me, but my interest is low. If a doctor prescribed yoga as a treatment, I’d probably ask for a second opinion. However, I do lift weights. When I keep up a steady routine, I enjoy and look forward to my sessions, even though weight lifting doesn't include forward motion, the outdoors, endorphin stimulation, or anything that I actually like about physical activity. When I believed my thyroid levels might prevent me from doing any form of cardio, I decided I could be content focusing solely on weight lifting for a while. Perhaps I should give yoga a chance.

10. What are the top three bike rides you must do before you die? 

 I’m not really a bucket-lister type of person, so I won’t say I *must* do these rides (I like to keep my options open.) But the top three on the wish list are:

1. A winter fat bike excursion along the coast of Baffin Island.
2. A tour in New Zealand, possibly the Tour Aotearoa route.
3. Cycle across Mongolia (I picked up “Where the Pavement Ends” by Erika Warmbrunn at a library back in 2002, and that was among three books that inspired me to start cycling. If I ever end up going to Mongolia, I imagine it happening when I'm an older woman, revisiting the dreams of my 22-year-old self.)

11. What's the one adventure you keep dreaming about, but haven't yet done? 

 Referring back to the previous question, a bike tour through Mongolia. But if I could add another, I would love to embark on a long trek in Nepal. The Great Himalaya Trail is probably over my pay grade, but I dream about traveling the high route over 6,000-meter passes.

Descending the "Hairy Backside" of South Boulder mountain. Hopping loose boulders — always a swift mode of travel.

12. How do you stay so focused on outdoor adventures? Or do you have other hobbies that you just don't write about on this blog? 

I wouldn't say I am overwhelmingly focused on outdoor adventures, but they do take up a lot of space. My main hobbies are writing and reading. Occasionally I will watch movies with Beat, although it's been a long time since I saw one I really loved ("Arrival" was the most enjoyable in recent memory.) I also enjoy drawing, which I rarely do, sadly. I spend a lot of time reading — mainly newspapers, magazine articles, essays, and blogs. I do read 15-20 books a year, but like many people, I've killed my attention span with Internet garbage, and this has turned me into a slow book reader. I read almost exclusively nonfiction, favoring the genres in which I write (adventure narratives and memoir.) I spend too much time with social media, and fretting about the things I've read in newspapers. Beat has threatened to teach me about his engineering hobbies (he designs and builds his own gadgets), so I can be more productive in my downtime.

13. Are you perfectly content to have a small dedicated readership? I'm asking because it seems like your blog is a hidden gem, which I selfishly love because I managed to find it, but then I think how your talent for writing and photography has the potential to inspire so many more people. 

Aw, thanks. I think that my blog is wedged in a fairly niche genre, and it's only ever going to appeal to a small number of people. Occasionally a post on this blog will receive a huge number of hits — no doubt shared on social media by an influential person — but those first-time visitors almost never return. If I wanted my blog to reach a large number of folks regularly, I'd be better served turning it into a general-interest healthy living site. (Photos of beautiful people in front of pleasant scenery? Check. Instragrammable portraits of food? Check. Paleo recipes? Check.) The same goes for my books — in my genre, even books by "famous" people like Kilian Jornet sell just a few thousand copies. I am working to venture outside the adventure/outdoors genre, but I have no desire to labor through uninteresting projects or put up a front to become more marketable. I'd rather work in fast food.

I do appreciate the readers I've been able to reach, and enjoy the connections I've made through this endeavor. It's been more than worth it.

Beat found an elk antler in the grass.

14. Finally, what was the most memorable trail meal you've ever had?

Good question! I'm going to presume you mean an actual trail meal, and not a restaurant meal eaten during a trip. When I was 22 or 23, my then-boyfriend and I planned an overnight backpacking trip in Zion National Park with eight other friends. Geoff fancied himself a backcountry gourmet and promised he would make dinner for everyone. He recruited me to carry some of the supplies, but for everyone else, the specifics of our dinner would be a surprise.

The first day took us 15 miles through dry canyons and a high desert plateau on a brutally hot summer day. The group was exhausted and crashed out in the shade while Geoff and I commenced cooking dinner for ten people — spaghetti with a sauce made from fresh tomatoes, zucchini, onions, peppers and mushrooms (I cut up the vegetables using a Leatherman tool on the lid of the camp pot), pre-cooked garlic bread wrapped in foil, fancy olives for hors d'oeuvres, and two bottles of red wine (yes, in glass bottles. I carried those in and out.) In civilization it would have been a fairly basic meal, but the red canyon walls and unobstructed blue sky gave it a special flavor. Then I pulled out the pièce de résistance — chocolate and vanilla ice cream bars, packed on dry ice and stored in a small soft-shelled cooler. Our friends were floored. The reactions were priceless. Even though my shoulders ached from what must have been a 50+ -pound overnight pack, it was more than worth it. That's still one of my favorite food memories.

Those are all of the questions I received. Thanks to readers who went out a limb to ask challenging questions, and to the others who wrote e-mails to share their thoughts.

Sequestered somewhere safe

This week was a fitness test of sorts for me — I wanted to put in a string of hard efforts to see whether my breathing and heart rate remained consistent throughout. One goal was to top 20,000 feet of climbing — I did that with 21,507 — with around 20 hours on the move, and I did that too. It was a good week — long and meandering, given to beauty and reflection.

Wednesday was Beat's birthday. While I'd be thinking about it all week, the fact embarrassingly slipped my mind that morning. We were standing at the back door, watching the hummingbirds and talking about the day, when he said, "so my computer just reminded me it's my birthday." He'd forgotten too. I asked him what he wanted to do, and surprisingly he decided on a long bike commute from work, via the steep Betasso Link Trail, Magnolia Road — four miles of pavement with a 12 percent average grade — then onto rolling gravel and the flooded county road that would take us home. It was an interesting choice for a birthday but ultimately a beautiful ride. Churning up Magnolia Road, there was plenty of time to ponder birthdays and summer and the relentless march of life.

Riding the Betasso Link Trail, climbing 800 feet of difficult singletrack mostly to avoid a road tunnel.

One of my Facebook friends recently posted a thread of comments that I've been thinking about this week. Mike lives in Salt Lake City, and he's someone who I met only briefly, after the 2013 Bryce 100 race near Bryce Canyon. Our initial interaction is one I don't remember well. If it weren't for the strange universe of social media, both of us likely would have soon forgotten the other. But for the past four years, I've frequently nodded in agreement with the words he writes. Our viewpoints match on many levels. Now Facebook's algorithms assume he's one of my close friends and prioritize his updates. I find this both amusing and unsettling — and I imagine this happens similarly with online dating sites — that software can know us better than we know ourselves.

His most recent update was a simple one — "AMA" or ask me anything. One person asked him, "why do you run so much?" His reply: "I don't know the answer, really. The closest I can get to an answer to that is that I have a lot of passion and having a well like long-distance running assures that it's sequestered somewhere safe. There are a lot of ways in which I regret it."

Beat at an overlook on Magnolia. It was a beautiful evening.

This is something I can't help but mull over as I spent another large chunk of a week in pursuit of movement, dreaming of larger and longer pursuits. And of course there aren't simple answers, which is why I have a 12-year-old blog that effectively churns through this question, again and again. But Mike's answer is a good one. We may be (relatively) intelligent creatures, but we're also creatures with eons' worth of primordial energy coursing through our veins. There was a time when all of this energy was paramount to survival, but now there's too much to spare. It's all too common to succumb to neuroses, anxiety, boredom, and illness as our lives become more comfortable. It's an overly simplistic description of a complicated issue, but the development is illustrated in societies that only recently adopted modern lifestyles. Technology improved quality of life in some ways, and lessened it in many others. (New Yorker article here.)

Approaching Twin Sisters Peak on a soon-to-be-flooded county road.

The problems of the world are large, and they appear as though they're becoming larger. As individuals in a world of seven billion people, confronting these problems feels logically and emotionally like hanging off a railing of the Titanic with a bailing bucket in one hand. Despair seems to be the most natural reaction, and yet we still need to live our lives. We still need to forge hope, which we nurture through our interactions with other people. By improving understanding and empathy, we stand a better chance of fostering the cooperation and innovation necessary to confront humanity's sweeping problems.

Hope is forged by embracing the future. But I believe despair is best conquered by embracing the past. This is why long-distance runners, cyclists, swimmers, and others are often most happy in the midst of their pursuits. Within these movements we create a primitive world where we can generate and thrive on our own energy. Our passion — the energy all too easily funneled into worry and pettiness and rage — is directed to the peaceful rhythm of forward motion. When we pursue this motion with others, we connect with them on a fundamental level, which is the basis of intimacy. And when we run alone, we travel into a space that's almost effortlessly free of the usual barrage of thoughts and worries. If we sat on a couch all day, we'd only become more isolated, more physically unwell, and more anxious. Comfort is its own oxymoron.

Beautiful light in the evening. I was soaked at this point because my rear wheel stalled out
in a deep, sludgy mud puddle, and I tipped over and submerged most of my body.

Mike said in some ways he regrets long-distance running. This is true as well. It's a selfish pursuit, absolutely — most everything that humans do could ultimately be categorized as selfish. Is running any more of a waste of time than playing music or painting or planting a garden when there is a supermarket down the street offering the same products more efficiently and cost-effectively? It's all up for debate at this point in history. We can decide our role in the world is meaningless, or we can decide what's meaningful to us and those we care about. Staying present, staying connected, staying away from despair — that all means something.

Can long-distance motion decrease our quality of life, leave us injured, make us sick? Of course. Nothing in life is risk-free. Am I sick because of my lifestyle? Possibly. Like many diseases, thyroid issues are becoming increasingly more prevalent. The cause is as likely to be toxins in the environment or luck of the genetic draw as anything else. I do think it's interesting that I became hyperthyroid when I became sick. My body is still exuding excess energy even as it deteriorates.

Now that I'm less sick, I certainly appreciate being less likely to have a deadly thyroid storm. But one of my favorite aspects of newfound health (for which I have modern medical science to thank) is how great I feel now, compared to several months ago. I don't suddenly have all this extra fitness where I'm so much faster and stronger than I used to be. I'm just happier ... less desperate ... as though there's nothing I can do that will leave me flattened (of course there is.) Still, I can run the difficult Walker Ranch loop on Monday, "PR" my Tuesday-afternoon routine hilly gravel 10K, pedal five hours for Beat's birthday on Wednesday, increase all of my weights during my gym routine on Thursday, and enthusiastically agree when Eszter wants to run Boulder's classic "Five-Peak Skyline Traverse" on Friday.

Boulder's mountain skyline is comprised of five summits — Sanitas, Flagstaff, Green, Bear and South Boulder. Any one of these is a solid effort, so to tackle all five in one go has become a popular hiking challenge (or running, or run-hiking in my case.) Our route was 22.5 miles with 6,600 feet of climbing, traveling north to south. Even though Eszter grew up in Boulder, several of the trails were still new to her. I started out in Boulder as a runner (run-hiker), so the only new ground I covered was wandering around Flagstaff as we attempted to find the summit. We went to the overlook, but I think it's still 100 or so feet to the true summit. I guess that means we'll have to go back.

Selfie from the top of Green, where we "made it count" by scrambling up to the geographic marker. I run these mountains frequently, but it's rare for me to scramble all the way to the true summits, being slightly technical and ultimately meaningless, as is the case with many endeavors. It is fun to embrace an arbitrary challenge and make it count.

Challenges are good, but this run was pure fun. We watched the skies for intermittent thunderstorms, jogged through mud beside vibrantly green hillsides and wildflowers, stuck close together and chatted about life and everything else for most of seven hours. 

Watching a storm move in from South Boulder Peak. Eszter was curious about scouting out a more aesthetic route off the mountain by exploring a ridge Beat's friend calls "Hairy Backside" — thus avoiding the out-and-back to the summit and completing a true traverse. I was naturally frightened by the characterization "Hairy Backside." As is often the case, I let my fears get the better of me and talked her out of it. The weather proved a strong deterrent as well, with thunder rumbling closer.

South Boulder selfie by Eszter 

Fearfulness is my default setting and I battle it every day. Were it not for my prioritization of adventure over pure self-preservation, I probably would have been paralyzed by fear long ago, sitting on a couch somewhere and watching these summer thunderstorms, wide-eyed and trembling despite shelter and safety. That I've been able to accomplish the adventures I've accomplished is still a source of bemusement for me, a testament of the possibilities when we reject our worst instincts. Of course it would have been even better to explore Hairy Backside. But we were both glad for the shelter as a deluge of rain and hail hit us while we descended beneath the tree cover of Shadow Canyon. Every time thunder clapped, Eszter yelled, "Boom!" and we both laughed. Are humans inclined toward silliness because everything we touch is dangerous? Just something else to ponder.

Fearfulness did get the better of me this weekend when Beat and I considered heading into the high mountains for a mud/posthole/snowshoe adventure. After poring over any information I could find online, I became convinced there was risk of wet slab avalanches on the upper slopes. Maybe — or maybe there was barely any snow on the trails we hoped to hike. I won't know now. My inclination is to avoid snowy mountains altogether. I do hope I'll face this fear eventually.

Eldorado Canyon.

Instead we rode bikes on Saturday and committed to a hard run on Sunday. I struggled from the beginning; it was a warm afternoon and the UV index was severe. Also, my legs were a touch dead. How did that happen? In all of my experience, this is usually the place where training "counts." Our bodies can do what our bodies can do; it's usually more than we think, and not necessarily as much as we'd like, but it's a fairly straightforward progression. More interesting, in my experience, is the practice of shifting perspective. So it's hot and my legs are dead — why should that matter? No reason to focus on these negative details when the hillsides are vibrantly green and wildflowers line the trail, and as always it's a great day to be alive and moving through the world.

Exploring a climbing access trail in Eldorado Canyon.

I plodded up Shadow Canyon, my long-sleeve shirt stiff with dried sweat and the skin on the back of my neck still radiating solar heat into a buff. I suppose I can't completely shift my perspective, nor do I have an endless well of energy. Sometimes, only fumes remain. What we do with that matters more.

The plains are so green these days.

Someone asked Mike why he would post an "Ask Me Anything" request. He had an introspective answer to this question as well:

"I believe in vulnerability as a practice. Every good thing I've ever had in my life has come from a place where I could have failed (and often have). If we're to have the courage to love and be loved when it really matters and the stakes are high and we're scared, we need to know how to lay it bare."

In that spirit, if you've made it this far into this rambling post, I invite you to "Ask Me Anything." Post a comment or e-mail jillhomer66@hotmail.com. I'll write answers for my next blog post. If I feel the question is inappropriate there's a chance I'll ignore it, but I hope to achieve a similar vulnerability. 

(Not) born to run

This weekend, for the first time since January and my thyroid diagnosis and dropping out of the Iditarod, I returned to a training mentality. Three runs over the weekend were less "gently test the waters" and more "visualize those far-reaching places where my body is laid bare and my mind soars, and assess whether I can thrive — let alone survive — on the journey to those places." There is still plenty of gentle experimenting in everything I do — I've conditioned myself to fear a fast heart rate and any form of stress, so I don't see myself charging up or down mountains anytime soon. But when I can lope along at a steady 150-160 beats per minute with strong legs and lungs, nothing feels better. I just want to do that forever. 

Eszter and Scott are in town for a couple of weeks amid their nomadic wanderings, and joined Beat and me on our long run in Golden Gate Park on Sunday. Golden Gate is a ripple of foothills — 7,000 to 9,000 feet — with endlessly steep and rocky trails, loose chunder gullies, and spring runoff surging through the creeks (luckily all spanned by some form of bridge, as my shaky phobia rears its ugly face amid rapids of any size.) Negotiating semi-technical terrain during a "run" is not a strength of mine by any stretch of the imagination, and I always feel a little intimidated when traveling with folks who are more athletic than I am, even if they're professed non-runners. This is especially true in my current state of fitness, when I never really know whether I'm going to have a "good day" or a "bad day" — the bad days being those when I might start gasping while walking 20-minute-miles. Happily, Eszter and Scott are easy-going and fun. The outing passed quickly amid good conversation about everything from religion to the ethics of cell phone use.

From Windy Peak, this is one of Eszter's classic photo genres: "people pointing at things in the distance." The four of us stopped at our looping route's "aid station" (a semi-frozen gallon jug of water in our Subaru) at mile 17, and then Beat and I continued for seven more miles into a more mysterious and quiet segment of the park. The granite crags and ponderosa pine forests reminded me of the northern Sierras, sparking happy memories of novice runs in the Tahoe area in 2011. Back then, my personal limits were still deeply obscured and anything felt possible.

Earlier in the day, while we hiked up Windy Peak, the four of us talked about how we got our start with active lifestyles. One of several writing projects I'm dabbling with right now deals with my running journey. A piece of the narrative puzzle came back recently when I read Mary's blog post about being a young runner. Why was I never a young runner? There was the time I followed a cute boy to cross-country tryouts during my sophomore year in high school, but only made it as far as waiting in the bleachers and watching girls race around the track for several minutes before slinking away unnoticed. For the most part I was fiercely anti-sport, writing articles for my high school newspaper about the insignificance of exercise, and forging a teenage identity around being part of a "punk" group at odds with the "jocks."

It went back to seventh grade, when students had their athletic aptitude assessed by the Presidential Fitness Test. One of these tests was the mile run, for which 12-year-old girls were given an arbitrary standard of 11 minutes and 5 seconds. For healthy, normal-weight girls — of which I was — an 11-minute-mile was supposed to be the bare minimum of what we could achieve with our basic training from gym class. I'd already experienced humiliating failures in pull-ups, tumbling, rope climbing, and other activities that may have been so bad they've now been completely purged from my memory. But I was going to run that mile. I knew I could run that mile.

I do not remember my time for the mile. The memory now comes in flashes, a sensation of my heart pumping sludge near the end of that lap around the grassy grounds surrounding my middle school. It was overcast in the springtime, and the scent of freshly mown grass made my eyes water. My legs ached as I sprinted toward my gym teacher, who was holding her watch and shaking her head. There were other girls sitting in the grass nearby, and in my memory they were smirking and giggling quietly. As a even younger child I'd always suspected, but now I knew without a doubt — I was desperately nonathletic.

I've been thinking more about these moments from my youth, and how my status as a "desperately nonathletic" person has followed me ever since. Of course the simplistic deconstruction of this narrative will assume I will always have something to prove, and my ego has driven many of the decisions I've made as an adult. If the standard is running a not-slow mile or completing an unassisted pull-up, I still haven't had much success. Because as the years pass, my limits become more predictable, and my body becomes less reliable — I realize that all of my running is not really about running. It never was, which is why I never cared to "race" until I discovered a race that could guide me 100 miles through the Alaska wilderness, and why I never cared to "run" until I watched friends travel light and fast into distant dreamscapes beyond Juneau's mountain ridges. Regardless of my capabilities and what arbitrary goals I can achieve, this will always be a journey. This weekend was a simple but good one, indeed.