Fog, leaves and thundersnow

I was laboring up a knoll near 10,500 feet when I heard an all-too-familiar crack of thunder directly overhead. Familiar, and yet so out of context that I stopped pedaling and did a double take toward the dark clouds billowing over a nearby mountain ridge. The temperature was just a notch north of freezing, and the rocky road was coated in ice-tinged puddles and patches of snow. 

"Aren't thunderstorms a summer thing? Maybe it was a fighter jet." 

Then I heard another boom, unmistakable. A flash above the clouds that happened seconds earlier was probably lightning. Although still below treeline, the 4WD road traversed a bald ridge, so I was completely exposed. "Babyhead" rocks littered the surface, and my riding had been so pathetically slow that I instinctively stepped off the bike so I could run faster. Near the top of the knoll, the clouds unleashed a barrage of icy precipitation, first in sheets of sleet, then sharp flakes of snow. 

"Thundersnow!" I'd heard of such a thing. I'd never experienced it. Really, I never wanted to experience it. I hate thunder and lightning even when the ensuing precipitation doesn't sting my face and blind me in a whiteout. The road surface angled downhill so I jumped back on my bike. This movement was instantly followed by another deafening boom. My hands were too numb to finesse the brakes and I could barely squint into the blizzard, so I just let the bike go and hoped for the best. There had to be tree cover somewhere close by. The bike bucked and lurched over unseen rocks. I held on for life, all but certain I was going to crash, but I was too frightened to weigh the odds of cracking my skull on a babyhead versus actually being struck by lightning. 

The swirling snow put a nice touch on those few chaotic seconds. I rolled beneath a thick canopy of pine and opened my eyes. At some point I must have bounced through a big puddle, because my entire lower body was coated in mud. Globs of ice clung to my tights. The snowfall was losing intensity and rumbling thunder already sounded far away. 

It was short-lived excitement, but intense. I'd say my brush with thundersnow was cool, but no, it was just frightening. And I was already bonked from battling babyheads to the top of a mountain. And now I was soaked and freezing precipitation was still falling from the sky. And I had a 5,000-foot descent in front of me. 

 Before that thundery Sunday ride, I had a couple of days that were completely different. I'd planned to do my long ride on Friday, but the day's thick fog and rain were wholly uninspiring. That was, until I coaxed myself out for a tough run over the home mountains, where the deep canyons and burns were nicely accentuated by spooky haze. Even though biking is killing me and regular running still hurts, I'm in fantastic shape for steep climbing right now. I went ahead and had fun with this run by smashing my PR on two tough segments, even though I was in the midst of a four-hour effort.

 My parents were driving home from a vacation in the Black Hills, and dropped into Boulder for just over a day. We did the obligatory leaf-viewing tour on Saturday. The aspens were a bit past peak on the Peak to Peak Highway — although they probably never had much of a chance given how wet the latter half of September had been.

 This is the best I could get for my Colorado leaf views this year. Oh well. No one can say I didn't try.

 Dad and I were going to hike on Sunday, but they decided to leave early after hearing Monday's weather forecast — calling for up to 18 inches of snow in the mountains and guaranteed road closures and chaos on I-70 (all of which came to pass.) So I set out in the late morning for the long ride I'd been avoiding all week. The day started out beautiful — sunny, warm, no wind, and classic Colorado singletrack through the autumn forests.

I had a chance to explore some new-to-me trails, but did grow weary of maneuvering with crowds of cyclists. Mountain bikers seem to concentrate in the area's small pockets of singletrack, which I suppose makes sense. It's not really for me, though. The trails can be fun, but they feel limiting. Give me the wide-open spaces and forgotten back roads rippling toward who knows where. That's where I long to be.

 Of course, the backroads are where I started to fall apart. Every time I explore new forest roads around here, I get so frustrated with the effort. What looks like a reasonable amount of climbing on a map is in reality an intermittent mix of horribly steep and mostly flat, all littered with loose babyhead rocks that require continuous bursts of power and make pedaling uphill all but impossible for me. I have hiked most of five miles to climb such roads in the past, but on Sunday I was feeling bold and determined to put my recent climbing strength to good use. The power bursts lasted a few good miles. I even impressed a jeep driver when I blasted through the woods to avoid his vehicle, causing him to comment through his open window, "That's some ride!"

Then I bonked, rather epically. Complete with lactic-acid-flooded legs, sore forearms, and dizziness. Then there was stumbling, and soft-pedaling, and more hiking, all while wondering if I'd ever reach the top of this apparently endless hill. And then the thunder came.

 Picture now a cyclist who's bonked, soaked to the skin, shivering from a lightning scare, at 10,000 feet, and it's snowing. There was nothing left to do but descend into town, nearly 5,000 feet lower. As I lost elevation, the road surface smoothed out and turned to gravel. The snow turned to rain, and then heavy rain. The wind picked up. I put on all of the layers I brought with me, having planned for the possibility of 35 degrees and rain. But nothing actually shields against 35 degrees and rain — short of a Helly Hansen waterproof fishermen suit, that is. I know this, but I still imagine that I can dress to stay warm when it's 35 degrees and raining, even if I'm coasting downhill for most of an hour. No, I cannot. I can only suffer. It was an exquisite misery, really. So encompassing that the only thing I could do was embrace it.

Finally I was in Boulder and the rain had stopped. I still had a 2,000-foot climb toward home. I've never been so without energy and yet so grateful for a 2,000-foot climb. I stopped at Chapman trailhead to replace my sopping mittens with a dry pair. It took me most of 10 minutes to unclasp my backpack and switch out the mittens, such was the numbness of my extremities. I was still shivering and heavily bundled up as I climbed, when I was passed by a guy wearing shorts and a short-sleeved jersey. I must have looked quite silly to him.

 By Monday morning, the snow storm had reached our house. Our last winter storm was May 18, so it had been four months and 14 days between snows. I joked that I thought the drought was never going to end. Actually, I enjoy living somewhere where I might only have to wait four months between snowstorms (Knowing, of course, that this is Colorado, and not only will be 60 degrees again in a few days, but also might be in February as well.)

 I wanted to take advantage of the big snowfall to launch true winter training with the best slog-fest I could muster. Wednesday offered such a chance, with 18 inches of new snow in the mountains and temperatures predicted to hit the high 50s. Do you know what it's like to trudge for six hours through slush that has reached roughly the density of liquid lead? Most don't, because most wouldn't bother. I didn't see a soul on the trail.

 It was an absolutely gorgeous day, though. Sure, I could have waited a few days for the snow to just melt. But what would be the fun in that?

Since I was breaking trail, I loosely followed the Arapahoe Glacier Trail to the saddle below South Arapahoe Peak. Conditions were iffy enough and the climb had taken long enough — six miles in four hours — that I opted to skip the tricky route-finding on the class 2 scramble to the summit. Instead I sat on a rock and enjoyed my "lunch" (an expired organic nut bar that Beat brought home from Google at some point, and a small Rice Krispy Treat.) I rested for at least ten minutes, still just wearing a light long-sleeved shirt, no gloves and no hat. My lower body was predictably soaked from the deep slush, but the afternoon was so warm that my legs were hot. At 13,000 feet. In October. After a major snowstorm. That's Colorado.


After I started down, a single cloud sank into the ridge, and then I was in an incredibly disorienting whiteout for a half hour. Light definition was bad enough that I couldn't make out my own snowshoe tracks on the ground, so I relied on staring at my GPS to find the way (I'm always fearful of stepping off a cliff if I wander "off trail," even though this is a gentle ridge.) Eventually I started having bouts of vertigo and knelt down briefly to re-orient my body — meaning reorienting which way was up toward the sky and which way was down toward the ground. Such a weird thing to experience on such a warm, sunny day. But these are the mountains.

 Where the ridges were wind-drifted and manageable, the trail below treeline had become incredibly slushy in the afternoon. It was basically a thin layer of snow atop six inches of Slurpee. Finding correct footing through the rocks while sliding all over the place was the true challenge for the day. But, I continued to tell myself, great training for the stabilizer muscles. First slog of the season is always one of the best.

Launching into the season

This has been a dreary week. Just a few days after we returned from Europe and I complained about 90-degree heat and red-flag fire conditions, a whole bunch of clouds moved in. It's been 40 degrees and drizzling/fog-raining/heavily raining ever since. I don't really mind. The clearer and cooler the air, the healthier and faster I become. Thanks to bone-chilling weather, my transition from living at 1,000-3,000 feet back to 7,200 feet happened almost flawlessly.

My Achilles stopped hurting much faster than expected (not really tendonitis; I suppose I should be grateful.) As soon as the weather moved in, I was off my bike and back on foot. Although I've missed bikes, there's really nothing worse than cycling when it's 40 degrees and raining. I endured this almost continuously for five years in Juneau. Now I'm over it for life.

Running has been going so well. A couple of tentative jogs helped loosen creaky over-hiked joints, and then I was loping along faster and more relaxed than the weeks before we left for Europe. After one or two hours I'd come home so drenched that I'd have to remove all of my clothing in the entryway to avoid dripping on the floor. This would come as a slight surprise; I hadn't even noticed the wet and cold because I felt so strong. It was liberating.

By Wednesday, the fog had been hanging low for five days, and my motivation was beginning to wane. Staring into thick gray soup gets old. I bribed myself into running by downloading new mp3s, which always boosts my mood. (If I wasn't one of those runners loping through the woods with an iPod, I'd be one of those adults sprawled on a couch and listening to vinyl on a turntable. I enjoy music for its own sake, but the experience is enhanced by outdoor scenery and motion. I never feel unaware of my surroundings. I'm not surprised by others on the trail. It is possible to keep volume low enough to also hear what's going on around you.)

Anyway, I was a half mile into this run when I realized I forgot trekking poles, which shook my confidence. I was heading into a favorite run-hike route, involving a rocky descent into Bear Canyon and a grunt up Fern Canyon, which gains 1,800 feet in 0.8 miles on a veritable staircase of rocks — steep enough that the women's course record (in Boulder, "the fittest city in the U.S.") amounts to a 29-minute-mile. So it's a tough route and I've become fiercely dependent on my crutches, which help improve balance and shift some of the workload off of my wobbly left leg. (Should I explain why I believe my left leg is wobbly? Well, when I was 19, I most likely broke my ankle after falling down a flight of concrete stairs and dropping a (rather large 1990s) television. I never had it checked, but it's more or less permanently swollen, unstable and susceptible to rolling. In 2014 I tore the lateral collateral ligament in my left knee, and the resulting scar tissue also affects stability. Okay, no more long asides.)

Along the trail were hints of autumn color, dripping with a wintry gray. I was listening to Tori Amos's new album, which is beautifully ethereal, when I commenced crawling up Fern Canyon. The fog was so thick that even the nearest rocks and trees were a soft blur. Behind the quiet purr of music was an encompassing silence. Without my trusty crutches I felt like I was oozing up the canyon, cold fingers gripped on rocks and roots, whatever they could find for support. I was in a tranquil mood and my breathing reflected this, so everything about this effort felt slow. And yet I later learned I'd set on new PR, by two minutes, on a route where I've pushed the pace on at least two dozen times. The effortless PRs always signal bouts of renewed fitness. How long will it last? I don't know, but I can hold out hope for permanence.

My next big goal is the 350-mile version of the Iditarod Trail Invitational, which I want to do on foot. The last time I put in a big on-foot effort was this same course in 2014. In four years I've only been able to finish one 100-miler, and have only gained more reasons to distrust my body and health. For that reason, I *really* want to do well in the ITI350. I want to feel stronger, and possibly move faster (conditions willing) than I did in a year when the trail was relatively good, and I was probably as fit and I've been before or since.

It's a tall order. My health isn't what it was in 2014. Sure, I've had a couple of good months recently. But what happens when I go back to feeling the way I did in June or July? Or worse, last winter, when I was training too hard through malaise and desperation, for a race I couldn't even start because I really was quite sick?

All of this is to say that I'm not really sure how to launch this bout of winter training. I've conditioned myself to feel grateful for whatever my body's willing to give, whether it's effortless PRs, 9,000 feet of climbing in the Alps, or a one-hour jog that doesn't leave me feeling like there's a plastic bag tied around my neck and face. Or even if I do feel that way, at least I can still jog. I'm grateful for that. But this does leave a lot of uncertainty about committing to the usual specifics of training. I suppose I'll continue to play it by ear, and hope that this positive pattern continues.

I didn't have any more pictures, so I'm posting a cute marmot that Beat photographed on James Peak a couple of months ago

Now that another European mountain bender is over and Beat and I are settling into an autumn routine, I've made attempts to return to writing. Ultimately I'm not thrilled with any of my current projects. I want to find something new, boundary-pushing perhaps, but I'm sputtering.

My friend and previous co-author Tim has been pushing hard for a potential research project on the "IT" factor for success in endurance sports. He's even sparked the interest of several behavioral scientists. I'm eager to be a journalist/observer in this project, but I don't feel comfortable taking charge in scientific research or bold declarations for "secrets of success." Take a look at my track record, and it's clear I do not have these secrets. I also have a chronic autoimmune disease that I largely blame on stubbornly refusing to quit a race until I had pneumonia, so I believe that our own conceptions of "success" can be critically misguided. Perhaps these reservations will add some depth to the project, and I hope to take part in any way I can.

I am still dabbling with subjects outside the scope of endurance racing. Biographies and historical narratives. Again, lack of confidence casts a large shadow. Social media exposes me to biographers and journalists tackling subjects that I'm interested in, with so much depth, and often without compensation. There's often no return for these efforts. Recently I put many dozens of hours of work into a compelling biography that ultimately didn't pan out, which is always a risk when you're working with others.

At the same time, I never lament all this time that I "wasted." I've been lucky to have the freedom to pursue projects that bring knowledge and fulfillment. Almost more than food, I crave an outlet for creative energy — whether cycling or running through interesting places, taking photographs, listening to music, or writing. I'm still amused when I manage to make a few bucks in the midst of these pursuits. I recently crunched some numbers and realized that I've reached a milestone, surpassing six figures in eBook royalties since I released "Be Brave" in August 2011. Spread over six years, it's not a lot. But it's staggering when I think in terms of physical value. It's just content, in a world inundated with more content than it can ever digest. Sometimes I feel silly adding to this glut, in the same way I feel silly riding my bicycle away from home and returning, again and again, accomplishing what? Then again, what do most people accomplish each day? We meet our basic survival needs and establish relationships to contribute to a larger community. Beyond that, meaning and fulfillment are largely what we believe them to be.

All of this is my typical long-winded way of appreciating those who enable my addiction to creative expression, whether you're a 12-year reader of this blog who has never left a comment, or someone who purchased all of my books in the more lucrative paperback form. I'm closing in on a year since the release of "Into the North Wind," which has been disappointing in terms of eBook sales (and an important reminder to branch out from this incredibly niche genre.) Yet, it many ways, it was my most fulfilling project, both in terms of the quality of the adventure that served as the subject, and the cathartic process of documenting the experience and preserving it for a vaguely distant future (at least until all of the digital remnants and paper decay, which happens a lot sooner than we'd like to believe. Okay. Last aside.)

Until then, less time basking in 280 characters in Twitter, and more time training and writing. And perhaps marketing, too. "Into the North Wind" is still available! ...

So long, Courmayeur

I recently learned that the Indonesian man rescued from Col Chavannes last week has died. Given the severity of his condition, the news did not come as a surprise. Still, I searched the Web every day for updates, hoping for a better outcome. Through these searches, I learned a little about his life. He recently earned his master's degree in chemical research from the University of Leicester in the U.K. He had a daughter. At one time he kept a blog with the title "give up on shelter." He was a self-proclaimed "jobless traveler" who wrote research papers on thermal degradation. He was 25 years old. Just another tragedy. I'm still torn up about it, ruminating on the clues he left behind, reconstructing scenarios in my imagination, acknowledging that in a slightly different set of circumstances, the person falling down switchbacks and freezing to near-death could have easily been me. Just another tragedy. Like Puerto Rico and Mexico City, there are degrees of separation, large enough to look away. If we ruminated on all of the world's tragedies all of the time, we would be clinically insane. But we do what we can. I e-mailed the Islamic Society at his university to inquire about donating to his funeral fund. 

But I didn't want to end my Alps posts on such a downer. There were so many great moments, and some of the best came at the very end, hours before we had to rush back to Geneva and a 6 a.m. flight. Beat returned to Courmayeur for our final day in Europe. Despite his still-swollen and squeaky shin, he'd been talking all week about climbing Mont Chetif. In turn, I had been dreading the prospect all week. Mont Chetif is regarded an easy "ferrata" route, but it still features stunningly exposed sections that are protected with a few cables and bars (and some of the cables are broken!) Its difficulty rating is "EE," which is defined as "a marked path over treacherous ground ... with open stretches that call for sure footing and no dizziness." 

Sure footing and no dizziness. Two qualities I do not possess. But I've been up Mont Chetif before, in 2016, as part of an ongoing campaign to overcome my mountain fearfulness. Still, with each passing year I only gain more reasons to distrust myself, not fewer, and in many ways experience makes me more fearful, not less. After spending much of Friday steeped in uncertainty followed by the horror of Col Chavannes, I was in no mood for pushing my limits. And that was before I woke up on Saturday morning with a rigid Achilles tendon. 

Before Saturday, my Achilles gave no indication that it was about to blow up. Still, I suppose these things happen when you've got the thing stretched to maximum capacity for most of a week ... 45,000 feet of climbing and 123 miles in just seven days ... when you haven't really trained for 40 hours of straining on your toes (unless you count that equally big climbing week in Chamonix two weeks earlier, and then running up the Thousand Stägli (actually closer to 1,150 stairs) every chance you got in Switzerland, driving your PR from 12 minutes down to 11 minutes and being quite proud of that.)

In a way I was sort of tickled at the prospect of a real overuse injury. Do you know how long it's been? For years now I've either been wracked with breathing problems that slowed me down enough to avoid straining anything ... or I've just hit the deck and torn something. Achilles tendonitis? That's something real athletes get! Then again, you do kind of need your Achilles for many activities. Climbing Mont Chetif is near the top of that list.

In addition to being a route that requires sure footing and no dizziness, Mont Chetif gains 4,200 feet in 2.5 miles ... and not in a nice, even way, but in a sort of staircase comprised of flat traverses above sheer ledges, followed by pitches so steep that calves will cry ... and I really mean cry. As I hobbled with Beat down Courmayeur's main street to have one last amazing espresso at Caffe Della Posta, I was highly tempted to chicken out. But I'd been playing in mountains all week while Beat dutifully worked and visited family and nursed his injury, so I felt I should rally for this one small hike with him.

There was a nice one-mile warm-up from Caffe Della Posta to the trailhead, and my Achilles started to flex enough that hobbling was no longer required. But as soon as we started up the first pitch, the tendon complained loudly. Then we did an airy section with cables and bars, and I was so frightened that I didn't think about pain. Then came the rebar "staircase" where my calf muscle on the same leg (right) suddenly cramped so bad that I yelped, which of course caused Beat to whip around because I was screaming in a section where falling would have been costly. Then my calf was pulsing, actually pulsing, like a phone set to vibrate mode. The Achilles gave up complaining during the extended calf cramp episode until we stopped for a snack break, and then I was back to hobbling before yet another airy cable section. I was a genuine mess, accompanied by whimpering. And yet I was in a great mood — the sun was out, it was somehow warm even as flurries of snow drifted from clusters of dark clouds, the mountains were singularly stunning, and I was alive. It is incredible, how we manage to survive each day to see another. Although I may come across as an occasional risk-taker, I never take life for granted.

At the summit, Beat enjoyed one last Rivella (a Swiss soda made from milk whey, which I — a hopeless soda enthusiast — think is awful. I also think most nationalities agree with me, because Rivella is only sold in Switzerland.) It was a wonderful moment, just the wind and snow flurries and the statue of Mary, holding her vigil over Courmayeur.

Beat's shin bothered him during the long descent (there's a wrap-around trail that features a horrendously steep chunder gully, but no cables), while I loped happy-go-lucky because my Achilles and calves didn't have to do anything ... and for once I was actually able to keep up with Beat on a descent. We had gelato with friends who finished or nearly finished TDG (Roger did 310 of 330 kilometers before he timed out.) And then it was time to head through the tunnel one last time. No matter how many times we come to Courmayeur or how long we spend in the region, I'm always sad to leave.

It's good timing for my Achilles, though. I'm back to weight training and bicycles and haven't felt any pain since Monday. I may even attempt a jog this weekend, although I ran so little while I was in Europe that I expect a return to actual running will hurt in new and exciting ways.

And, of course, autumn in Colorado is always nice. Unless it's 92 degrees like it was on Wednesday. Snow on Monday? I can't wait!