Keep the earth below my feet, still

These were the care-free days of last autumn, back when — although it was grasping at straws — I could still let myself believe anything was possible. Beat said, "Hey, do you want to sign up for the Bryce 100?" I still had the 1,000-mile Iditarod on my schedule — anything else seemed like a brisk jaunt in comparison. "Sure. Why not?" 

It's melodramatic to say that everything changed when I was diagnosed with Graves Disease in February, but it was the smack of reality that toppled the last bricks on my wall of fortitude. Suddenly my body was a stranger to me. It wasn't something I controlled. It controlled me. All of the gasping and straining wasn't just debilitating; it was dangerous. Those handful of times that I was sitting at home or in my car and my heart rate spiked and I thought I might be having a heart attack — those were actually happening. Connecting my lived experiences with a generic list of symptoms made it easy to concede. I was sick. Unwell. No longer capable of the things I used to do, possibly from now on. Was this the end of the world? No, of course not. I just needed to adjust my attitude. Shift my expectations. The key to getting through any change in life. 

 In truth I hadn't thought about the Bryce 100 in those ensuing months, until Beat brought it up again in April. By then I had sorted through mountains of materials and had several blood tests, and better understood what my illness meant. I dabbled with training — there's a reason I showed up for the Quadrock 25-miler, and initiated long weekend run-hikes through the foothills. The training just confirmed that I was not in shape to run a 100-miler — I still had wild swings in my physical condition. On "good weeks" I could run reasonably fast and far without distress. On "bad weeks" I'd start gasping after a plodding mile. There was no real pattern to any of it. But the training did reveal how to best temper my heart rate on a bad day. How to manage my breathing and slow my pace as necessary.

 A week before the race, I had an appointment with my endocrinologist. Sheepishly, I told her about the Bryce 100, qualifying it for my abilities — "It's two days and 100 miles. Difficult terrain, but mostly hiking."

My most recent bloodwork had been very good, enough so that I'd been taking a lower dose of medication for a month. "With these numbers, you will probably be okay," she said. "But I wouldn't expect you to feel very good."

I wouldn't feel good because I am still a long way from recovery, under-trained, and dealing with these wild hormone fluctuations that my doctor confirmed are really happening — not just in my head. By saying I would be okay, she was simply telling me I probably wouldn't die, which, when you think about it, is a reasonably encouraging expectation.

 The final week before the Bryce 100 was a "bad week." Even though I was "tapering," I could scarcely handle my meager efforts. My breathing was rough. I felt strung out. Indeed, I had new blood work on Monday that would reveal I'd swung back into hyperthyroid territory after my excellent May results, but I wouldn't find out about this until the following Monday, after the race was over. My body is already relatively inefficient at processing oxygen, but being hyperthyroid makes it much worse. There are layers of physiological effects, but the result is the equivalent of lost fitness ... being out of shape ... having a couch-sitter's circulatory system in an extremely difficult ultramarathon.

 But I do love my moon shots ... and there was no real danger. Heat stroke was far more likely than a thyroid storm. So I packed up my gear and made a plan — I'd keep my heart rate below 150 at all times, if I could. I knew from recent training that this would net a slow pace, probably barely enough to finish before the 36-hour cut-off. But it was likely my only chance to keep control of my breathing and maintain forward motion. If I succumbed to shortness of breath, I'd start needing long breaks, and then I'd be toast.


I first ran the Bryce 100 in 2013 with Beat and two other friends. That year I came down with high-altitude nausea and struggled to finish in 34 hours. It seemed like a terrible performance back then, but now, in 2017, I'd be over the moon if I could run that "fast." The Bryce 100 was actually the last (non-winter) 100-plus-mile ultra that I was able to finish. My track record with dirt and mountains has been terrible. Four years of failure — and it's not likely to improve anytime soon if ever. At what point do I finally give up?

Failure on this day was incredibly likely. If I allowed myself to fret about that, the angst would eat me alive. Why not just have fun? Why not be happy about what my body can do?

 This was my attitude heading into the 6 a.m. start, standing in an empty parking lot with more than 200 others as the glaring June sun rose over the Sevier River Valley (Beat and I mistook it for the "Sewer River" on our GPS map, and continued to call it that.) Since I'd spent months believing I wouldn't start this race, and knew that it was still folly, it didn't matter if I couldn't finish. I was going to calmly and happily lope along the desert sand for as far as my body would allow, and be content with whatever that number might be. Adjust my attitude. Shift my expectations. The key to getting through life.

 About three miles into the race I had some stomach upset and had to dart into the woods for ten minutes. By the time I crawled out, I was at the back of the race and presumed I'd stay there, which was fine. The air surrounding the Thunder Mountain Trail was utterly still, and suspended clouds of dust were all that remained of the 200 people who trampled through here already. I watched my heart rate monitor and slowed on every incline — 150 beats per minute was barely enough to even hike the uphills. Well. At least this was an incredible setting, surrounded by orange mounds of sand and crimson hoodoos rippling through Red Canyon. In photos these bands of sandstone look interesting, but to move among them is surreal, like dimension-warping into a cartoon or a ride at Disneyland. Earlier I told Beat about my childhood memories of "Big Thunder Mountain Railroad" and how I can never disassociate this scenery from the ride, even though I'm sure I visited Bryce Canyon as a child as well. Here I could re-live these memories in a visceral reality, with the swirling dust, the still-exhilarating descents, the parched air and the June heat.

 It was hot. Morning temperatures were already climbing into the 80s, with a forecast to reach 90 in the lower canyons by mid-day. Running at altitudes between 7,500 and 9,500 feet, these temperatures feel roughly like the surface of the sun. Beat and I had done some heat training in our sauna, but it was wholly insufficient for the reality. I drank all of my ice water by mile eight, and had to run two dry miles to the first aid station. I was parched by the time I got there — dehydrated already — and they had run out of ice, which resulted in loud complaining on my part (I'm not proud of this. I try to be pleasant at aid stations because I know people are volunteering their time and often can't control the variables. But they'd given away all of the ice, and I'd already accumulated a measure of desperation.)

 I filled up two liters of lukewarm water and continued to the next section, an oven of a canyon winding its way to the Paunsaugunt Plateau. I remembered from 2013 that this section was difficult — endless short and steep climbs and descents along loose sideslopes, deep sand, and rocky trail. Still, it was frustrating to watch my minutes per mile creep into the mid- to high-20s while my heart rate frequently spiked above 150 and even 160. I caught up to a man from Salt Lake City who told me he too was watching his heart rate, trying to keep it around 120. Sure, rub it in, healthy male. We wound through the canyon and sipped our hot water until it, too, was gone. Aid station two came at mile 19 and they also were out of ice. I tried to hold back but my temper got the best of me, and I stomped around ranting about "saving some of the ice for the back-of-packers, who really need it." Of course this did nothing to improve my situation.

Others withered in the heat, and I passed a fair number of people in the third section through the sandstone oven. I still managed to run out of water before the grueling climb out of the canyon — I had carrying capacity for two liters, refilled three times, so it seemed I'd managed to guzzle nearly six liters of water in less than 30 miles, without peeing once, and I still felt thirsty. We crossed a small stream where I soaked my buff and hat. I was tempted to fill my bladder with stream water, but I only carried chlorine tablets, and by the time those kicked in I hoped to be at the aid station. It was only about a mile and a half away? Maybe two. An hour? It was an eternity in this super-heated basement of Hell. 

I latched on to two others, a man and a woman, as we deliriously plodded up the canyon wall. My skin began to feel clammy and my head throbbed. I stopped watching or caring about my heart rate, but I could feel it pounding in my chest. A half-mile was pure desperation; I was genuinely worried I might be slipping into heat exhaustion. The others fared even worse and slipped back. The aid station was a meager oasis — just a tent under the mid-day sun, hardly any shade even beneath the trees, but they had water, and they had ice! I thought I might cry. I greedily guzzled the liquid as it flowed into my bladder, causing the volunteer to comment that it would never fill if I kept drinking. The aid station was overflowing with runners who had succumbed to the heat. More than a dozen would drop out of the race here. One man was lying on a cot, shivering profusely. "He needs to get to a hospital," I mumbled, because everyone already knew it. We were a long way from the highway, but I hoped help was coming. 

 Even with water, I was slow to recover from dehydration. The afternoon only grew hotter and the trail flowed along the high plateau, endlessly up and down, often away from shade, well above 8,000 feet. My head was still throbbing and I could feel blisters searing the skin on my heels. But I respected the clock and boosted myself in and out of aid stations as quickly as possible, only stopping long enough to collect more water, some fruit snacks for my front pocket, perhaps a quesadilla square or a handful of pretzels for "salt." I carried salt tablets as well, and took one every time I started to feel out of sorts, which worked surprisingly well.

 Just before the sun went down, I crossed paths with Beat on the out-and-back course. I was around mile 42, he was at mile 58, and somewhere in the top quarter of runners at the time. I was no longer last, but definitely in the bottom quarter. He looked great. I felt like road kill, and I was a lot of miles behind him, but at least the sun was going down. The oppressive sun would be gone for nearly nine hours, which wasn't nearly enough, but at least it was nine hours I could look forward to (no wonder I do so much better in Alaska ultras than these summer ones. The less sun, the better.)

 The night miles were enjoyable. There was a segment of dirt road where I zoned out and listened to music for a while, not caring who heard me when I sang "Thunder" by Imagine Dragons out loud, and putting "Home"by Field Report on repeat for a half hour:

Long-lived beauty; short-lived pain
Lust for wonder and hunger pangs.
Face your fear, not your shame,
In the end, it just wears you away. 

While jogging down the road, I rolled my left ankle badly and went down, scraping my right knee. The ankle throbbed but as I walked it off, the pain diminished. Still, the band beneath the joint had become swollen and my ankle remained unstable. A minor sprain, but a sprain nonetheless. I struggled with the next section of trail — badly eroded, overgrown brush, fallen trees and crumbling gullies. I made it to mile 51.5 just 40 minutes before the cut-off, but decided to take the time to change my shirt, tape my blisters, and eat a bowl of ramen.

 The night was so warm that I remained in my T-shirt and even rolled down my sun-sleeves at midnight. But as I babied my tender ankle down the ball-bearing rocks of the long descent into Straight Canyon, a switch flipped. Suddenly I began shivering, my hands went numb, my feet went numb. I hobbled into the aid station and grabbed every stitch of warm clothing out of my drop bag there — puffy jacket, mittens, beanie. I was dressed as though it was 10 degrees in Alaska, and still I continued to shiver. Temps could have been a little cool, possibly even the low-40s, but it seemed most likely that heat of the day had thrown my body temperature out of whack. I was very cold. My fingers could no longer grip my trekking poles, so I shoved them under my arm pit as I rubbed my mittens together.

 In an effort to generate warmth I tried to move faster, jogging as I climbed out of Straight Canyon. It didn't take long before my breathing became raspy, and the tell-tale chirping sound accompanied every exhalation. Shortness of breath had caught up to me. Whether I could have avoided it by more diligently watching my heart rate, I won't know. When I looked at my watch, my heart was only beating 140, but the wheezing became worse. I took hits from my inhaler, and while this remedy provides relief, it's short lived. Within five minutes I was wheezing again. My shoulders quaked with cold, and my chest heaved with growing desperation.

Just before the oppressive sun rose again, I had an asthma attack. What spurred it was just silly. I had been watching the cut-offs, and knew I needed to reach the mile 67 aid station by 6 a.m. Just over a mile from the aid station, I looked at my watch. I'd switched it over and thus restarted the timer at the 51-mile turnaround, which I left at 11:40 p.m. The watch said 5:51, which I assumed was the time, but it was actually the number of hours that had passed since 11:40. In reality it was about 5:30 a.m. I had plenty of time to make the cut-off, but I reacted to nine minutes as "I'm never going to make it!" I started running, as fast as I could. Amid that burst of anxiety, I just lost it. Gasping, panicking, finally sitting down and trying to breathe out the word "calm, calm, calm" so I could slow my breathing enough to take a hit from the inhaler. Then the crying started. Blubbering, mucous. It was a mess. It was my typical reaction to breathing difficulty, and the situation I promised myself I'd avoid by quitting before it happened. But some things just can't be avoided, no matter how much mind over matter we employ.

Since I'd missed the cut-off anyway, I took a long sit and got my breathing completely under control before I continued. By the time I strode into the aid station I believed it was 6:30, but it was actually only 6:10. The volunteer said I could have that ten-minute leeway and continue if I wanted to, and I was so surprised at the suggestion that I grabbed a handful of Swedish fish and kept going, not even stopping to refill my water. I anticipated beautiful dawn light over the pink cliffs, but on the first climb my breathing became rough again, and I lost interest in taking photos. Now I felt short of breath by the time my heart rate hit 130. It was scarcely enough power to propel my legs up anything.

The race wasn't over. Perhaps I could plod it out. But why? I already promised myself I was going to draw the line at the breathing difficulties I'd already experienced. But here I was, still going. Why? It's an interesting question to ponder amid the 70-mile fatigue and sleep deprivation, still huddled in a puffy jacket with the hood up as the oppressive sun that I fear casts direct light into my eyes. I took short stops to look out from the edge of the plateau, where the pink cliffs rose like fantasy castle spires out of the green river valley. I would just smile, because this felt good. This felt like the best life, the one I continue to seek in these increasingly futile endurance efforts — beautiful because it's difficult, difficult because it's worthwhile, because living is about moving forward, if it's about anything at all.

I was still listening to my iPod, and that would have to be the time that "Dig Down" by Muse came on, which was basically an anthem of aggressive motivation.

When hope and love has been lost and you fall to the ground 
You must find a way. 
When the darkness descends and you're told it's the end 
You must find a way.

I tried jogging again. It went about as you might expect. There was gasping, and inhaler puffs, and crying. This may have been the scenario I expected to experience, but it wasn't the one I was fighting for. I really didn't come here to dig down to angst and desperation. I came here for beauty and joy, until that was done. This meant I was done. It was fine. Despite the heat and blisters and rolled ankle, it had been a beautiful and enjoyable 70 miles. I didn't need to go any further.

Except for I did still need to plod out five more miles to reach Blubber Creek aid station, the place where I saw multiple runners with heat exhaustion the previous day. A half mile from the aid station, a runner came flying by me at a stunning clip. "Holy cow, that guy found the Jesus fire," I thought, thinking he was a fellow back-of-packer trying to make the cut-off. Actually he was the leading 50-mile racer — the 50-mile race started that morning from what was the 100-milers' halfway point. When I hobbled in, it was clear I wasn't the second-position 50-miler, and the aid station captain cut me off without sympathy. It was okay. If he had agreed to let me overshoot to cutoff and continue I would have been in a tough spot, with only 8.5 hours to cover a section of trail that took me nine hours to travel on the way in, before the asthma, tired legs, and second-day heat took effect. It was failure math that I could never justify away, no matter how much I tried to "dig down."

This was still the most remote aid station, with no way to shuttle me out for several hours. Despite the cranking heat my body temperature continued to feel cold, then pleasantly moderate. I even napped in a cot for a while, until a switch flipped again and my skin felt like it was on fire. There was still no shade. My own water bladder was empty, and the volunteers at the aid station were beginning to panic because they had nearly run out of water. Fifty-mile racers were pouring in, and they were down to ten gallons. I sucked on cubes of ice out of the cooler, and at one point said something off-handed about melting the ice to make water, similar to the way we melted snow when I volunteered for a White Mountains 100 aid station in Alaska in March. One volunteer actually started doing this, stirring a vat of ice on the propane stove. I fretted about the safety of the back-of-pack 50-milers and paced miserably — thirsty, hungry, and increasingly desperate myself. I wished I'd just continued. It probably would have killed me, poor breathing in the oven canyon, but it would have been better than this misery.

Of course I was just sleep-deprived and overreacting. Finally the supply truck arrived with more water and welcome extraction. I'd failed yet again, and again showed my propensity for making it about three quarters of a race before succumbing to it. But that's okay. I truly didn't feel bad about it. I am what I am. No miles will come so easily to me any more. But that only makes them all the more worthwhile.

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.