Angry skies, peaceful mountains at Beat's Ouray 100

Two days after I drove home from Southwestern Colorado amid a crushing headache, a near-collision with a distracted driver who drifted into my lane in Montrose, then accumulating hail, flash flooding and long delays in Bailey, Beat and I were back on the road west for the Ouray 100. This hundred-mile run is the creation of an accountant and "high-functioning crazy person" named Charles who wanted to create something grand in Colorado's highly coveted San Juan Mountains. (Sarah Lavender Smith wrote an great background / preview of the Ouray 100 on her blog.) Charles purposely set out to design the biggest, baddest course for which he could still obtain a permit — a somewhat convoluted series of arms reaching up every mountain out of Ouray, like a sadistic spider. As such, there's nothing flat on this course. Not even remotely. Nearly every step is either climbing the rubbly Stairmaster or skidding down it at a rate of 1,000 feet per mile. The finished product has almost 42,000 feet of climbing over 14 major passes or peaks in a measly 100 miles.

Beat has finished a lot of difficult mountain events in his life, but he was genuinely worried about this one. As a realist who is good at math, Beat weighed his training efforts against the statistics on the course and determined that the cutoffs weren't trivial for him. The race has a 52-hour cutoff, but is heavily weighted to favor speed at the beginning and trudging at the end. Beat knew that meant a lot of hustling for him early on, and he worried that going out too fast would result in the high-altitude angry stomach that plagued him at his last two Hardrocks.

Still, spirits were high during the civilized 8 a.m. start from the town park. Beat even made kissy faces for me as he strolled amid the nervous pack of 80-something runners.

The first crew-accessible aid station didn't come until mile 27, so I figured I had eight hours to myself. I used a couple of those hours for French toast breakfast and copious mugs of coffee, then headed up the Old Horsethief trail toward the Bridge of Heaven. This trail is the final climb on the Ouray 100 course, an out-and-back between mile 91 and 102. It rises from 7,700 feet at the edge of town to 12,500 feet, with enough small rollers to boost a cool 5,000-foot ascent then descent to end a 100-mile mountain race. Ouch. But when you're well-rested in the late morning, it's a rather pleasant stroll — hopped up on coffee and a belly full of French toast, ascending through a tangle of wild raspberries amid sun-dappled shade, with just two other folks on the trail and their nice dogs to say hello.

Last year I connected this climb with a ridge walk to the Bear Creek Trail, but rockslides and flooding had closed that narrow connector, and I didn't think I had the time to complete the full loop anyway. Still, it only took me 2:20 to climb to the Bridge, so I hoped to carve out another hour or so to trace the beautiful ridge.

As the clock closed in on noon, afternoon storms moved in with a vengeance. As is common around these parts, skies shifted from stark cerulean blue to black and menacing within an hour.

I noticed a smear of gray above the Camp Bird canyon to the south guessed that Beat was probably getting dumped on at that moment, but I hadn't yet seen or heard any lightning, so I wasn't too worried. I dropped off the Bridge of Heaven toward a lovely cirque.

I wanted to take few minutes to relax and eat lunch down there, but then I swung around a switchback and saw this monster storm barreling down on my sun-dappled ridge. Claps of thunder rang out from rapidly approaching clouds, which meant it was time to skidaddle. Conditions became rather unnerving quickly, with thunder booming and gusts of wind raging all around me as I descended through thin stands of evergreens and exposed traverses across steep slopes. Humans find misguided security in the idea that they're not the highest thing around, but I know that lightning does not care. The ominous mass angled ever so slightly to the south, so at a trail junction I veered north, knowing I was running on a deadline and not having a clue where this new trail would take me. The New Horsethief trail connected with a rugged jeep road, and I ran until the French toast and liters of coffee turned on me. After that, I jogged and waddled with an increasingly upset stomach for an extra five miles, 17 miles total ... but I managed to avoid even a drop of rain, and I still got back to town in a touch under six hours. Win-win.

The sky unleashed less that five minutes after I'd returned to the hotel room, and the deluge continued as I slowly made my way though weekend traffic and lane closures to the roadside trailhead at Ironton. I arrived less than ten minutes before Beat, but I did make it in time! He was still in great spirits, reasoning that this storm was not bad at all. It only produced "small hail" and "far-away" lightning. I grabbed his burly rain coat and the heavy cooler with his liquid nutrition, and sent him on his way. I particularly love this photo for Beat's over-exaggerated happy face as he puts on his coat, juxtaposed with the nonplussed expressions from checkpoint volunteers. "Oh, you poor crazy bastard."

Beat heads out in the deluge for his first loop around Red Mountain Number One.

I heated up the first Tasty Bite package I've consumed in 15 years (lentils) and more coffee for dinner. Meanwhile, the low clouds moved away as quickly as they'd arrived. Afternoon settled into a clear, cool evening, with temperatures quickly dipping into the low 40s. After Beat went out for his second lap, I decided to grab two hours of hiking for myself. I thought if I felt strong, I could return to a spot that I've wanted to revisit since my brief excursion to Ouray last August. This spot sits at the edge of a tiny tarn near a shoulder of Red Mountain. When I hiked there on a clear evening last year, I was a mess of weird anxieties. Sometimes these emotions accumulate and fester inside of me, and 2017 was a year to amass such unease. On this day in August 2017, I was obsessing about the avalanche that came down on me in Juneau, Alaska, several months prior — picturing the snow cascading toward me, my snowshoe-clad feet balancing atop slow-rolling blocks, my right leg encased in white concrete, panicked stabbing with my trekking poles to free myself, hiking atop un unnerving pile of new debris, then looking back and realizing how precariously close I'd come to being pushed over an eternal edge. These images haunted me for months, and I'd managed to fuse them with disquietude about my health, until glancing memories gained the power to ruin my mood for the rest of the day. So I was in dark spirits at the beginning of my first Red Mountain Loop, until I reached this spot, pictured here in August 2017:

It's a simple place, but incredibly, almost inexplicably, I felt a waterfall-like deluge of peace and tranquility wash over me. I couldn't even guess where it came from, and understand I can't just recreate it on a whim, but that moment was a huge boost for my mental health. At the time I didn't even understand how completely it would wash memories of the avalanche from my thought loops, or how much peace I made with my health concerns. It was just a moment, an extraordinary moment, that solidified this becoming my favorite outdoor adventure of 2017 — a nondescript evening walk along eight miles of an ultra race that I wasn't even participating in.

I didn't even fully connect how significant this moment was until recently, when a friend asked me about the avalanche, and I realized, "you know, I don't think about it much anymore." That's actually rather incredible for my anxious monkey mind, which still loops back to a whitewater rafting incident that happened 17 years ago. I have the Red Mountain loop to thank, and built up some excitement about returning to that spot in 2018 — maybe it will cure another anxiety! (I don't really believe this, or else I would have made more of an effort.) Sadly, my stomach was still a little borked from my morning hike and the misguided Tasty Bite, and my right Achilles has been giving me fits of what I fear may be a touch of tendonitis. So I couldn't push all that hard on the climb, and by the time my hour ran out, it was nearly dark and I hadn't yet arrived at my spot. Strava tells me I made it within a couple hundred meters — so close, yet so far away. Ah well.

Before the Ouray 100 started, I'd made a goal to meet Beat at every single crew-accessible point offered on the course. I've never managed to do this before, but this race makes it particularly easy with out-and-backs to aid stations that are either in town or just a few miles away along Highway 550. Fueling was Beat's biggest concern in this race — the high altitudes and constant climbing make it difficult to take in calories, which combined with nausea can slow him down to an unworkable pace. So I hauled around his cooler full of chocolate milk, ginger beer, Perrier, tonic, and other drinks I procured along the way so he'd have frequent access to cold, appetizing, stomach-settling, and easily digestible liquids. The crewing effort wasn't necessary for Beat's success, but I love the guy and enjoy trying to be as helpful as possible in his endeavors. So I selflessly cut my own hikes short and only got six hours of sleep (ha!) before it was time to head over to Crystal Lake and enjoy stunning morning light and 37-degree air on the tranquil shoreline.

The volunteers at this aid station were half-frozen themselves, and a little confused why they'd only served 10 people so far — at mile 65, in a race that had been going on for 24 hours. "Where is everyone?" an older gentleman from Orem, Utah, wondered aloud. I pointed toward the mountain. Beat rolled in just after 9 a.m., still in a surprisingly good mood.

After serving up ginger beer and one requested Diet Pepsi (which I'd been guzzling liberally, but didn't want to admit to Beat we were almost out), I changed into hiking stuff and headed out about 15 minutes behind Beat. Although I didn't want to push my Achilles too hard, I thought there was a chance I could catch him near Hayden Pass, which I'd heard was spectacular.

The second morning is the point of these mountain races where people really start to show the strain. Selfishly, it's fun to witness because there is so much emotion in their facial expressions and movements. As I ascended Hayden Pass — which gains 2,500 feet in two miles and is just one of the smaller mountains among 14 that runners must ascend and descend — I was struck by the scope of it all. I got a little teary-eyed as I watched runners skitter down the slopes in a rush to meet a cutoff — which was posted as 11:15 a.m., but then the race director decided that was too tight and let people leave as late as 2 p.m. So they still had time, but their fierceness and determination was heartening.

I did catch and pass Beat, and was able to take a few photos of him dwarfed by mountains.

Unique rock formations near Hayden Pass.

I'd surpassed my deadline, but the ridge was so inviting. I hoped I could descend 2.5 miles and drive down to town in the time it took Beat to descend more than 4,000 feet in 5.5 miles. I barely made it!

Traverse on loose rubble — just par for this course.

Views toward Ouray. The Bridge of Heaven is the ridge in the center of this photo. Another interesting aspect of the Ouray 100 — from high points, you can look out and see much of the course.

I'd hoped to squeeze in one more hike to Twin Peaks, but the course veered closer to the main part of town, and the Beat's aid station visits started coming closer together. I also got lazy, and then the thunder and drenching rain returned. Beat motored along, becoming annoyed when we finally ran out of chocolate milk and ginger beer (I was surprised, as I thought we had tons, but Beat really did successfully stick to a mostly liquid diet.) So I scoured Main Street for San Pellegrino and cans of Diet Pepsi. I decided to call the trek through town in the pouring rain good for an evening adventure.

Beat managed to hold everything together until that mean, mean final climb to the Bridge of Heaven, where his stomach finally turned on him. But he still eked out a finish by 4:20 a.m. for a time of 44 hours and 20 minutes — exceeding his expectations of squeaking in before hour 52. He was his usual adorable finish-line self — ecstatic and chatty one minute, then snoozing in a chair the next, back to chatting without even realizing he'd dozed off.

This photo is a group of 50- and 100-mile finishers who were still awake and standing at noon Sunday. One man arrived less than a minute before the 52-hour cutoff, at 11:59 a.m., and another woman arrived just seven minutes after — denying her a buckle and an official finish, which is always a little heartbreaking, although she did accomplish everything else about this intense endeavor. We met some great people at this race, including a woman from Texas who was crewing for her brother with exceedingly thorough preparations (she donated her Ouray 100 "Bible" in case I'm ever inclined to run it), and a couple from Mexico City who invited us to visit.

I'm proud of Beat and how well he did, even if he'll now proclaim it was just a "training run" ahead of his upcoming European adventures. It was also fun to bump into our friend Eszter, who raced the 100 last year as her first hundred-mile run, jumped into the 50-miler this year on a last-minute whim, then finished third in 18 hours and change. What I wouldn't give for that kind of fitness, or at least to once again have similar confidence in my abilities, even if it was misguided. Perhaps someday. But until then, I'll keep enjoying the atmosphere of this intoxicating brand of craziness, and dreaming of peace to be found in future mountains. 

As the Hardrock Turns

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Roger asked whether I'd be interested in joining his Hardrock 100 crew, as a sort of liaison / shuttle driver. I think Roger would readily agree that it's ridiculous for any amateur race runner to require an entourage, but the overarching idea behind crews and pacers (at least outside the sharp end of competition) is a fun weekend for everyone involved. My desire to actually run Hardrock came and went a few years ago — the exclusivity of this race turns me off a bit, and I'm now operating under acceptance that I am a terrible mountain runner whose only unfulfilled racing goal left in life is to finish the Tor des Geants (oh, and Iditarod Trail South Route.) Still, I love lurking on the periphery of these events. It's a sort of interactive front-row seat to an oddball soap opera full of drama and intrigue. 

On Thursday I headed toward Silverton, hoping to tag a mountain on the way. When cramming an adventure into an eight-hour drive with a deadline, proximity to the highway and straightforward routes are paramount, so I chose Mount Harvard. At 14,421 feet, it's the third highest peak in Colorado and fourth in the contiguous U.S. The standard route gains nearly 5,000 feet in 13 miles round trip, so it's not exactly a brief jaunt. But it is solid trail, even through the talus, with only about 50 meters of scrambling. Easy peasy.

I was having a good day — no labored breathing, and a reasonably relaxed pace that got me to the top in 2:48. The mountain was all but abandoned on a late Thursday morning — I saw three other hikers above tree line — and the weather was unbelievably ideal. Temperatures were in the 70s and there wasn't a wisp of dark clouds or a breath of wind.

About a mile from the summit, I smugly thought "I've been hiking less than two hours and there's only a mile left." Then I switched my GPS screen to altitude and realized I was still below 13,000 feet. Oh.

That last mile is blissfully brutal, with the soaring altitude and frequent 45-percent grades. Although I was breathing well, my body still felt like it was being crushed by an invisible force, and I ran out of water more than a thousand feet above the nearest creek (because I'd frozen two liters of water overnight, and six hours later most of it was still ice. Doh.) So I was chuffed when I still hit the top in under three hours, and grateful that I'd budgeted six for the trip. It took me just as long to walk down — between the mild dehydration and altitude, I was a little too nauseated to do any running.

The Hardrock 100 started at 6 a.m. Friday, under clear skies and what I imagine for runners were disconcertingly warm temperatures. A hot day on these high mountains does not make for a comfortable run. This photo shows Australian contingent Andy Hewat and Roger Hanney. Our crew for both of them was Roger's girlfriend Hailey, Andy's daughter Larnie, and me, token American with cultural and geographical understanding of the region. Also on the periphery of our entourage was Jean-Luc Diard, one of the founders of Hoka One One who was in Colorado for Outdoor Retailer, and his assistant Amanda. Jean-Luc contacted me multiple times to connect with Roger but became more of a ghost, filtering in and out of view while embarking on his own strange adventures. But Amanda was welcome company late in the race.

Larnie, Hailey and I drove the rented camper van around to Telluride. With several hours to kill before Roger's arrival, I headed up Virginius Pass to spectate the race leaders. Among the Hardrock crowd, Virginius is a famously steep and rubbly pass, but I was going up and down the "easy" side — only 4,000 feet of climbing in eight miles round trip.

There were still a few sphincter-clenching traverses near the top, only because I hate loose scree and sand on steep side slopes. Good views, though.

The weather had been iffy with bursts of rain (surprisingly no thunder, though.) I didn't linger long at the top, not wanting to descend the steep rubble in wet conditions.

With the rubble behind me, I caught my first glimpse of the race leader, Xavier Thévenard. What struck me most about him in this section was his body language — hunched and straining, and his breathing — noticeably labored as he passed. Clearly he was dominating the race, but I was surprised how hard he appeared to be working, just a little over 30 miles into 100. Whenever I'm as taxed as he appeared to be, I'm dangerously close to a cracking point. Perhaps he was not as strung out as he appeared, or perhaps that's a key difference between elite athletes and clumsy hikers with asthma.

Anyone who cares even remotely about this sport already knows about the drama that went down with Thévenard's disqualification for taking ice and water from his crew a few miles beyond the Ouray checkpoint, so I won't rehash it here. My opinion falls in line with those who believe the consequence was overly harsh for what amounted to a poor choice, but he did break a important rule necessary to establish more fair parameters for all of the competitors. Crews and pacers are a unique aspect of this sport. Ultrarunning requires complete self-sufficiency in extreme environments, then allows moments where an entourage of people are removing your shoes, spoon-feeding you soup, and massaging your legs at designated spots. I find it humorous, and a little bit ridiculous. Although I truly enjoy being a crewperson or pacer for friends, I'm not as inclined to use them myself. Of course I've had pacers in the form of Beat running entire races with me, and there was the Bear 100 sleepover party with my friend Danni. But I tend to shy away. There's a lot of satisfaction to doing something near your personal limit and entirely on your own, as I experienced when I gutted my way through the 350-mile Iditarod Trail hike this past March.

Eventual race winner Jeff Browning. He was more than a mile behind Xavier at the time, but appeared much more relaxed.

Eventual second-place finisher Jeff Rome. All of these guys were more chatty than I was expecting, asking me how my day was going as they hiked past.

Eventual women's winner Sabrina Stanley. I asked if I could take her photo and she responded, "Oh, my mouth is full, let me finish chewing." I admittedly did not let her finish chewing, as she was moving too quickly to wait.

Bryon Powell, editor of iRunFar, with whom I spent some time in Fairbanks before the White Mountains 100 last March. At one point during that week in Alaska, he did a training run on soft, new snow and declared the WM100 would be "absolutely harder than Hardrock" if those trail conditions held. Following this race, I teased him to reassess the two courses, and he admitted that Hardrock is much tougher.

Beat's frequent PTL partner, Daniel Benhammou. He's run Hardrock seven or eight times, and nearly always finishes between 36 and 37 hours. This year he finished in 37:06.

Roger leaving Grouse Gulch, around mile 60, on Saturday morning. Surrounding every brief instance of 10 quality minutes with your runner are prolonged periods of hurry-up-and-wait. Larnie and I left Hailey in Ouray to pace Roger for a 14-mile, seven-hour segment, grabbed maybe three hours of sleep on the floor of a hotel room in Silverton, and then fired up the camper van for the rugged approach to Grouse. Along a narrow bench with a cliff on one side and a gorge on the other, we encountered an oncoming vehicle around a tight corner, where neither of us had enough space to yield. The other driver pulled over as far as possible and I attempted to creep around him, but misjudged the clearance on this unfamiliar vehicle, so the front wheel slipped into the embankment. Larnie yelped, no doubt aware that she was about to die in a fiery explosion, but I yanked the stick in reverse and managed to recover it before we toppled down the gorge. Scary. 

Roger rolled in looking sleepy but strong. After a few bites of food and a 20-minute nap, he seemed good to go. Team Australia Crew did serve a more useful purpose when Larnie's dad stumbled in, declaring his intent to quit. He hadn't kept any food down since Ouray, and couldn't fathom the next 40 miles. Hailey is a personal trainer who has a relaxed but insistent coaching style, and laid down direct orders involving sleep, soup and a rough plan for the next climb. Andy ended up leaving Grouse, something I'm skeptical he would have done on his own.

In Silverton, Hailey and Larnie went back to bed, which is something I suppose I should have done. But it was another beautiful morning, and I wanted to check out another iconic Hardrock setting that I haven't yet seen, Grant Swamp Pass. This hike has huge scenery bang for your buck, and popularity to match. Even though I live in the Front Range, I haven't hiked through crowds that thick in a while. Worth it? Yeah, worth it.

Nearing Grant Swamp Pass. The colors in the San Juans are unreal. Cloud cover washed out some of the intensity, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

Views from Grant Swamp, looking toward the zig-zagging ascent to what I believe is Oscar Pass.

The iconic Island Lake, shadowed by the nasty clouds that were bearing down on me. I intended to climb a small peak above Grant Swamp Pass, but sudden thunder claps prompted a quick retreat instead. Two people on the ridge above the pass decided to bound down a scree slope directly toward me, knocking several not-small rocks my way. One rock sounded so close that I dropped onto the narrow trail and put my hands over my head, sadly my only defense. As soon as I stood, I went off on a screaming rant that would probably alarm and amuse anyone who knows me as my usual mild-mannered self, then took off running down the trail. Between the thunder and the idiots on the scree, my adrenaline surged to near record highs, and I was off the mountain in an instant. Perhaps I can learn to be an efficient downhill runner — I just need to operate in a persistent state of high stress.

Back on the tundra, my adrenaline calmed and the worst of the storm moved away, so I took the opportunity to detour over to Ice Lake.

Along the shoreline of Ice Lake, all anxiety and anger washed away completely, and I felt satiated and tranquil. So blue! Photographs under the overcast sky do not capture the intensity of the blue, but the otherworldly hue had a calming effect that was greatly appreciated in my sleep-deprived, slightly strung-out state.

The clouds settled in and it rained for much of the descent. I was surprised to see many of the folks I'd passed early in the climb, before I detoured up Grant Swamp Pass and Island Lake, still working their way up to Ice Lake amid the rain and thunder.

In the evening our crew — now four women in an amusing state of overtired silliness — headed to the final checkpoint at Cunningham Gulch, mile 91. Roger had been moving so well that we anticipated seeing him before sunset, rather than previously anticipated midnight. We watched an eerie sunset as ominous clouds gathered (sadly I have no photos of this on my camera, even though I was certain I took some.) Then the lightning started — blinding bursts followed within a second by deafening thunder. This storm was very close. Roger, I knew, was somewhere along the high traverse above us, well above treeline. My heightened state of stress came roaring back. Hailey mused that she was worried about Roger being cold, and I said nothing, because I was worried about Roger being a lightning rod.

We huddled in the camper van and the storm continued raging for more than a half hour — longer than I've ever sat directly underneath an electrical storm that refused to move on. Twilight faded to darkness, the patter of rain quieted, and we emerged finally to clearing skies. We stood under the open hatch and watched moonlight stretch across rain-saturated cliffs. The air was still, and I was viscerally reminded of the Iditarod Trail earlier this year, when I walked through the subzero night beside the moonlit cliffs of the Happy River Gorge. This became one of my favorite experiences ever. But I couldn't quite relax and relish the memories, because Roger was now overdue. An extra half hour passed. Then another.

Finally, we saw a headlamp bobbing far overhead along the cliffs. Hailey called out "Cooo-eee!" — something I've only ever heard my friend Leslie shout when hiking in bear country, but just learned is a common Australian bush call. To our relief, the person on the cliff called back in his distinct tone, "Coooo-eeee!" He hit the final descent, hundreds of feet overhead, and took off at a full sprint. The headlamp was flying down the rocky trail and we heard an amusing barrage of shouting and cursing: "$@!*@# LIGHTNING!" Turns out Roger and several others hunkered down in a depression on the other side of the ridge as the storm raged all around, throwing bolts into the valley both below and above them. They'd been above treeline for hours, so hunkering down near rock outcroppings was their only option. I've been there before — just a few meters below Utah's highest mountain, Kings Peak, in the Uintas — and few experiences of my life have been more frightening. This is another reason I have little desire to run Hardrock. I'll just stick to smaller, more escapable doses of Colorado mountains, thanks.

Hailey joined Roger to pace the final segment, and Amanda and I loaded back into the camper van to wait for them at the finish. Along the rough road out of Cunningham, we encountered a runner far off course, who turned out to be our friend Dima. Dima escaped from the storm down a drainage and then followed a jeep road to Cunningham. He told us he was lost and asked where the aid station was. It all happened quickly, and Dima walked away before I had a chance to clarify anything. My assumption at the time was that he was already out of the race but refused a ride just in case he could return to the spot where he went off course. Another vehicle drove toward us, so I waved them down and asked them to relay the news to his wife, who was no doubt also worried about him being overdue. They alerted the aid station volunteers about Dima's situation, and he found himself disqualified by the time he'd arrived. He was supremely unhappy about this, but accepted it and went on to finish the race — unofficially, but he traveled the whole distance under his own power. It was an admirable move, but I inadvertently found myself mixed up in his upset about being only the second person to be disqualified from Hardrock, ever, and may have lost a friend.

Hardrock: The Drama and the Intrigue. Roger and Hailey strode into the finish just after 3 a.m. For a rookie from low altitudes on the other side of the world, Roger seemed to have a nearly flawless race. Difficult, sure, and dangerous — that lightning storm was the real deal. But he executed it about as well as one can. I'm really stoked for him

Andy became the runaway Cinderella story, though. After barely leaving Grouse Gulch, he surged for a while and then faltered again. By the time he reached Cunningham, it was just 11 minutes before the cutoff. Although the cutoff is 2 a.m., it's generally accepted that at that point, traversing the final section in four hours is almost impossible. It took Roger four and a half, while feeling good. As the clock crept toward 6 a.m. and we waited for Andy, I went through the chart to assess how long that segment took most of the runners. There weren't many sub-four-hour segments after those who finished in 36 hours, let alone 48. We stood in the emerging dawn, watched, and waited. Andy's daughter was so nervous. Finally, a headlamp rounded the street corner. With less than four minutes to spare, Andy sprinted full-speed into the finish with his Kiwi pacer in tow.

It was a beautiful moment, of which there are many in an event such as Hardrock. Thanks, Roger, for the opportunity to tune in this year. I hope to catch the next episode.

I am so infinitesimal

Nearly 90 degrees at 10,000 feet, and a steady flow of sunscreen-saturated sweat reduced my field of vision to bursts of light between rapid-fire blinks. After a hard left the road shot skyward at a 20 percent grade, its surface a backward conveyor made of moon dust and loose rocks. With impaired vision and Jello legs, my path resembled a drunken meander, carved in the sand. As has been my recent habit, I conjured an obnoxious but catchy song in my mind to force better cadence. This time, it was "Infinitesimal" by Mother Mother. 

There’s a million, billion, trillion stars 

but I’m down here low 

Fussin’ over scars 

on my soul (on my soul)

on my soul (on my soul)

On my soul, I am so

infinitesimal

The rear wheel bounced and skidded in place. I mashed harder. My heart pumped sludge, my blinking vision narrowed and my head spun, but this sensation felt right again — power-generating desperation, rather than poor oxygen saturation. Then I heard the sound that was my only fear in this tunnel-vision place: a vehicle rumbling uphill behind me. The narrow road forced me to veer to the impossibly soft edge, where I applied every last strand of strength to keep my line straight through inches of chunder. After an agonizing span of time, the small sedan rumbled past at 5 mph (meanwhile, I was clocking about 2 mph.) Finally free of the oppressor, my legs faltered. The bike's rear wheel skidded sideways and I was forced to throw a foot down. Gah! 

The road was far too steep to generate new momentum, so I commenced pushing. Even walking in this heat, under this harsh sun, up this steep chundery road, pushed the limits of my fitness. I barely had the strength to look up when I passed a parked truck flanked by an older gentleman — most likely 70-something — with baggy overalls and white whiskers. He was working on firing up a small chainsaw, and paused as I passed. 

"You're supposed to ride that bike, not push it!" he exclaimed with playful gruffness.

"I'm not strong enough to ride here," I panted in reply. 

"You've got another mile to walk before the top. Good riding up there, though. Worth it." 

The "top"

I thanked the chainsaw-wielding local and continued the upward trudge. I smiled at the thought of how pathetic I probably looked, because that morning, for once, I woke up feeling strong. So strong that I decided to launch my weekly long ride into Boulder on the hottest day of July so far, starting at 9 a.m. when the temperature was already 85 degrees, then head up high to scout new-to-me terrain. My route would require at least 70 miles and close to 9,000 feet of climbing, thus the early start (the goal in these weekday rides is to race the clock so I can cram as much mileage as possible before a sharp 5 p.m. deadline.) My interpretation of fitness vacillates so frequently that it doesn't even mean much to me anymore, to say "I feel strong today." But I try to embrace sensations of strength when they occur, even on the hottest day of summer. 

Since I spent four hours climbing up here, I figured it was time to head down, but vowed to return as soon as possible to explore higher. During the long descent on Sugarloaf Road, my speed topped 40mph as I approached two animals racing along the paved shoulder. Just barely moving faster than them, I soon saw it was a doe chasing a large coyote, with a bushy tail flicking rapidly as it darted into the grass and back into the road. For more than a mile this continued — the kind of thing I would have had time to photograph had I not been descending at break-neck speed myself. The doe was not relenting and none of the coyote's evasion tactics worked. Coyote didn't have a fawn in its jaws, so I figured the deer was winning this battle. I was rooting for her. Finally coyote spotted an escape route and took a hard right into brush, the doe still hot on its heels. 

I reached Boulder Canyon with an hour to spare. Even though I was by then well-toasted, I veered up Chapman trail for an extraneous thousand-foot climb as the temperature soared past 98 degrees. Usually this popular route is crowded with runners and cyclists by 4:30 p.m., but on this afternoon, sweat was my only companion. There were no cyclists on Flagstaff Road, either, which is downright eery. I felt fantastic. Usually heat is kryptonite, but eventually there's a tipping point where it's so bad that it taps into my ridiculousness ethic, and then I thrive (as long as I have access to four-plus liters of water, that is.) 

Our friend Gabi was in town all week, and Beat set up elaborate shuttles to guide her on all of his favorite run-commutes from work to home. My Achilles was tight after all of last week's mountain adventures, so I couldn't join the running fun, but was happy to help with the necessary one-way bike commutes. Thursday brought steady afternoon showers. I thought I'd be thrilled to beat the heat and ride in the rain, but I underestimated how cooked I remained after Wednesday's ride. Dust mixed with light rain turns into an irritatingly sticky paste that bogs down wheels, and I was admittedly a grumpy bear for most of the three-and-a-half-hour slog I'd chosen. 

Notable from this ride was the way I worked so hard to grind up a climb that has become one of my cherished Strava segments, then later learned I'd botched it more than 11 minutes off my PR — the slowest I've ever ridden this route outside the winter months between 2016 and 2017, which included slush and snow. Strava is known for its kudos and achievements and PRs, so I joked with Beat that someone should write an app to send an e-mail that plays sad trombone with the message "You really sucked this time" for every personal worst. I would pay for this app. One needs to have balance in life. 

On Saturday I swiftly made good on my promise to return to the Apex Valley/James Peak region with more time to explore a compelling maze of jeep roads. My body felt better but my bike kept dropping its chain during the slow churning climb — probably my fault for mounting the rear wheel incorrectly; it's always something simple like that. No matter, as soon everything would be solid granny gear terrain, no shifting necessary.

Next time I decided to go jeep road exploring, I will try to find a weekday to do so, as four-wheeler traffic was thick on Saturday. I stopped at this viewpoint to admire James Peak, where a family in a red jeep expressed amazement at seeing me, since they'd passed me near the bottom of the hill at Tolland and had barely arrived themselves. (That's another positive of rugged roads. With the exception of the occasional dare-devil motorcycle, most traffic is creeping along so slowly that they don't even kick up dust.) The man urged me to ride down the trail they were about to hike, and I explained that the trail entered a wilderness area where bikes weren't allowed. It was clear he didn't understand what I meant by this, and continued to express confidence that I could handle it.

"You rode all the way up here, that would be nothing for you."

Instead I pushed my bike up a gut-busting ladder of rocks (that I would later walk down as well.) I crested a saddle just below Kingston Peak. The weather up here was unbelievably perfect — no wind, few clouds, and 70+ degrees at 12,000 feet in mid-afternoon. Exploration possibilities on the other side seemed almost endless, but on this day I was racing daylight, thanks to a 12:30 p.m. start. I mostly doubted I'd make it around for a loop, but I was going to try.

I found a delicious piece of tundra singletrack to ride toward the town of Saint Marys. I could see dirt roads climbing hills in the distance and convinced myself I'd connect them, so I descended a long way.

Then the trail ended at the tongue of Saint Marys Glacier. The snowfield was surprisingly solid and icy for a hot summer afternoon, and it became clear I wouldn't be able to negotiate it short of butt-scooting with my bike. I stubbornly persisted, hiking along the boulder-strewn edge. But as this became more arduous, I also questioned the legality of dragging my bike down a glacier to the crowded access trails at the mouth. The prospect of breaking the law — not the slogarific hike-a-bike — eventually turned me around.

The steep return was nearly all bike-pushing. By the time I crested the Kingston Peak saddle again, it was after 5 p.m. The simple option would be to go back the way I came, but then I met some nice motorcyclists ("Wow," one greeted me. "You are a long, long way up here." ... after I'd descended a thousand feet) who described a way to descend into Central City, where I knew I could connect back to Apex Valley. I must have taken a wrong turn, because I veered onto a steep and baby-head-strewn doubletrack through a deep and buggy canyon, aptly named Mosquito Creek. This was slow, slow descending, and by the time I hit Upper Apex Valley Road, it was after 6 p.m. I used my brand new Garmin InReach Mini (which I love!) to text Beat. "Running really late. You should probably go ahead and have dinner without me."

At Apex Valley, I could have easily descended into Central City and taken the highway home, but curiosity drove me skyward, from 9,000 feet back up to nearly 11,000 feet in the rich evening light. The road surface deteriorated and steepened, until I was again churning on a bed of loose boulders, applying most of my upper-body strength just to maintain a minimally straight forward line. The air was still and utterly silent. I enjoyed gazing over the ripple of foothills and sprawling plains to the east, feeling dwarfed by the grandeur. Some people go to the mountains to feel they've conquered something big. I come here to embrace my reality as an insignificant piece in a big, spectacular world.

Of course, I am still human, and can't always prevent my useless ego from roaring back to life. The bumpy descent atop a primitive road bed filled with loose babyheads was so exhausting that I was on the verge of tears. I took increasingly extended walking breaks — while descending a hill I could technically ride — just to "rest." Finally at the bottom, I texted Beat again to let him know I was still alive. "Finally back at Rollinsville. That ride was so hard. 34 miles in seven and a half hours."

You can bet I'll be back for more.

Sunday was Beat's turn for a long effort — his last long training run before the Ouray 100 in two weeks. Beat has this thing he calls the "InFERNo Half Marathon," which is five times down and up Fern Canyon with a three-mile round-trip approach on the west ridge of Bear Peak. Those 13 miles include 10,000 feet of climbing, and it's difficult to emphasize how difficult the whole thing must be, spending hours negotiating a 40-percent grade either up or down. (I've only ever managed two Ferns, so I don't even know.) Beat thrives in this kind of ridiculousness, and did the whole thing — 10,000 feet of climbing — in less than seven hours.

Conditions were close to perfect on Sunday, with fog and steady warm rain that cooled the air, cleared out the crowds, and coated the dirt parts of the trail (admittedly rare between the rocks) in sticky hero mud. I set out in the mid-afternoon to do just one lap — still 3,000 feet of climbing in five miles — and noted the rarity of these ideal conditions. "PR conditions," I thought.

I descended from Bear Peak extra slowly, and bid Beat goodbye on his fifth climb, since I couldn't even keep up with him then. At the lower trail post, I dawdled in the warm mist until my watch hit 1:20:00, then launched up the muddy trail. With determined focus to keep a steady pace and not drift off the occasionally perplexing route, I marched in a near-red-lined daze until I hit the top, some 2,000 feet higher. My watch read 1:57:xx. 37 minutes! My old PR is over 40 minutes, so that was solid! I was giddy.

Then, at home, a downloaded my track and saw that my GPS had a major hiccup and instead recorded an erratic spider track all over the walls beside Fern Canyon, so the actual segment never recorded. I was mildly devastated, because if it's not on Strava, it didn't happen.

I suppose I'll have to wait for the next rainy afternoon to try it again. You can bet I'll be back for more.