39

Monday was my birthday, marking the end of my 39th trip around the sun. Thus far, I've enjoyed the process of growing older. Each year brings new experiences, adding to a wealth of memories. As my reality expands, my priorities tighten. I become more secure in who I am, less susceptible to social and cultural influences, and a little less beholden to my own ego. Whatever you believe about growing older, it's obviously better than the alternative. 

An existentialist comic who I follow on Twitter recently posted an observation along these lines: When you're a teenager, you believe no one gets you. In your 20s, you realize you don't even get yourself. By your 30s, you start to understand there's not much to get. I'm human, and in many ways just a rehash of a story that has been told and retold throughout history. I live inside an aging body, full of all these hormones that control what I feel and shape "who I am" more than I like to believe. I still like to believe there's a soul trapped somewhere inside, an independent entity that becomes free when I journey toward enlightenment or gaze into The Void. Most journeys, what I discover is that I'm still just a body — hungry, thirsty, aching in new places because I am almost 40, looking forward to returning to comfortable routine and the company of the people I love. 

The best thing about birthdays is a guiltless free pass to do whatever you want. When I was in my 20s and didn't really get myself, I sought out thrills like bungee jumping and energy-draining celebrations — usually the barbecue-type parties one throws at the end of summer. Now that I'm 39, I think a solo excursion in the mountains is the best way to spend a birthday — and most days, really. So I told Beat I was heading to Rocky Mountain National Park to climb Mount Fairchild, and maybe don't wait up for me.

Lama train along the Lawn Lake trail — this is the first time I've seen one of these, actually. I shadowed them for a while just because it was so entertaining to watch lamas. When the guy leading the pack finally noticed me and let me pass, he said, "The lamas thank you, because now they can eat a snack." As they frantically ripped at the grass beside the trail, I thought, "I feel you, lamas. I feel you."

The sky was still crystal blue at noon when I reached the saddle between Mount Fairchild and Hagues Peak, appropriately named "The Saddle." This photo looks toward Hagues, which has a short section of exposed scrambling, and thus falls a little beyond my current solo comfort level. Two-plus years of living in Colorado have cemented an acceptance that I am just not that good at moving my body in the mountains, and you know what — that's okay. I can continue to work on improving my skill set, but there's no need to take big leaps (like I tried with my ill-advised races in the European Alps several years back.) I turned my back to Hagues and began the off-trail ascent up the broad face of Fairchild.

The climb was steep, and amid the harsh air between 12,000 and 13,500 feet, exhausting. Monday afternoon remained clear and relatively windless, but this also made for a bad smoke day. Pale brown haze settled over the valleys, thickening with each passing hour. An aroma of hickory and chipotle filled my nostrils — and with my dull sense of smell, I realize that if I can smell something, it must be bad. I pulled a buff over my face — still something I do from time to time to help with breathing, although I have doubts it protects my lungs at all. As I neared the peak, the terrain shifted from rocky tundra to a bottomless boulder pile. I put my trekking poles away and picked a line, opting to scramble up couch-sized boulders rather than take my chances in steep gullies full of loose talus. As I crawled, I noticed patches of new snow and rime left behind by a recent storm. I ran my fingers through the icy snow and smiled — my first of the season.

Top of Mount Fairchild. Happy birthday to me.

While researching this hike the previous evening, I noticed a ridge that appeared on the map to be traversable, and would allow me to turn this route into a loop, snagging a couple more 13ers with a few extra miles. (Okay, six extra miles.) A quick Internet search didn't reveal tons of beta about the route, but one hiker claimed it went at class two. I'd reached the summit of Fairchild in just over three and a half hours at 1 p.m., so I had daylight to work with. How long could six extra miles take, really? I hopped and crab-walked over a rock-strewn shoulder, which abruptly ended at the edge of an abyss. A veritable rock slide plummeted off this edge, dropping more than 1,000 feet in a half mile. Looking down, I felt frightened. I didn't want to attempt this descent. But I thought about the ways we become comfortable as we grow older. We stick with what we know. We don't take chances. Those sharp-edged memories begin to soften. I don't necessarily want this. So I crouched onto my butt and slipped into the abyss.

The descent took ages. Oozing slowly over boulders with frequent five-point body contact, I still managed to dislodge several rocks, prompting adrenaline-charged leaps of faith to the next boulder. I promised myself I could turn around at any time, but every move made me more anxious to get off this mountain forever. My watch buzzed with 1:10:34 on the screen — a one-hour, ten-minute mile — and I thought, "can't afford too many of those." Finally I arrived at the foot of a knife-edge ridge. From a thousand feet higher, it looked like it could be easily bypassed, but of course the boulder face was much steeper and chunkier than it looked from that height. Just a few minutes into the ascent, I stepped onto a flat table-sized boulder that tilted sideways and threw my body into another rock. I caught myself before a full face-plant, but managed to bash my right shin badly on the edge of the smaller boulder. Intense pain flooded my already-stressed brain, which massively overreacted.

"You just cracked your tibia. You're alone in the mountains and you haven't seen another human since Lawn Lake, and now your leg is broken. You're going to die. On your birthday."

Looking back toward Ypsilon Mountain

It didn't take long to decide I wasn't going to die just yet, but as the cortisol settled, pain continued to throb through my limb. Putting weight on the leg worsened that pain, so I lay down on the flat boulder that I already knew wasn't stable, and soothed myself. "You can just text Beat on the Delorme. He can send help. You have everything you need to survive a night up here ... although if there's another storm like the one that deposited that snow, you're going to have a rough night."

The pain began to diminish, and I became more convinced I'd be fine to hike out. Since I had no knowledge of the route ahead, turning around would have been the prudent move. But as I looked up at the slope I'd just descended, it seemed impossible. Too steep, too cliffy, not something I'd choose to do of my own volition. "But you were just there," I reminded myself. "Climbing is easier than descending." I rolled up my pants to assess the injury. A purple goose-egg was growing before my eyes, like a silly cartoon, but it was clear that I hadn't broken my leg. The unknown looked less scary, at least in my immediate view, so I continued forward.

Little pika, how do you move so effortlessly over these rocks?

My right leg continued to throb, and the bruise caused me to feel even more wobbly. I didn't want to rely on the limb too much, so I crawled on my knees at times, working slowly up a ramp of television-sized boulders. This brought disturbing flashbacks of my experience in the 2014 Tor des Geants, after I tore my LCL in a fall and could no longer put my full weight on my knee, so I army-crawled along boulders to reach the next checkpoint. This is the part of amassing memories that I do not like — the visceral flashbacks.

Finally I reached a saddle below Ypsilon Mountain and looked up. Tundra ramp! I gratefully pulled my trekking poles out of my pack and let them hold some of my weight. My watch buzzed another hour-plus mile. Now more than six hours had passed, and it was 4 p.m. Hmmm. I might have to do some hustling.

The pain from my bruised shin continued to improve until I was chuckling about how much I overreacted back there. But it still hurt, and left me thoroughly exhausted. Those two miles between Fairchild and Ypsilon took nearly everything I had to expend. In a daze I stumbled along the tundra to Mount Chiquita, where I found a trail. A trail! Now for sure I knew I was going to get out of here!

Even with a trail in place, the route continued to traverse rock gully after rock gully. Near Chapin Pass, I saw a duo of gorgeous bull elk just chilling near treeline. This guy repeatedly wrestled with a scrub brush — probably sharpening his antlers or scratching something, but I imagined his emotions as my own. Happy to be back in the trees. "I feel you, elk. I feel you."

I hit Old Fall River Road at 5:10 p.m. and texted Beat. How long did those extra six miles take me? More than four hours. "Eight more miles," I told Beat, mostly as a warning to not expect me home for dinner. I finally paused long enough to eat the first snack I'd consumed since Fairchild, an unbelievably delicious birthday treat of pretzels and Nutella. Buzzed on sugar, I began jogging down the road. My lower leg was swollen and still hurt, but running didn't make it feel any worse, so I picked up speed.

Endorphins overtook my system, and my stumbling daze shifted to flowing joy. Eleven-minute-miles slipped effortlessly behind me, and the motion soothed my pain. The sun slipped behind a curtain of smoke, casting strange light on the canyon walls. I smiled and waved at steady one-way-traffic still creeping up the road. Some drivers rolled down their windows to question whether I was okay, since I was miles from anywhere. I was happy to be back in civilization.

I replayed the day in my head. Since I'd climbed three 13ers, the math worked out perfectly. 3x13 for my 39th birthday. Also, I'd close the loop at just over 24 miles, meaning I'd also inadvertently run (well, hiked/crawled/jogged) my age in kilometers. I took chances, but nothing overly reckless ... the fall was a bit of a fluke, although entirely expected from this awkward body. But I attempted something that scared me and challenged me, leaving a more satisfying feeling of accomplishment than I've had in a while, fitness PRs and all. Giddy that I survived yet another thing. Life is good. 

High on my own supply

This feeling always trickles in around the beginning of the month. My mood begins to brighten. I read the morning news, and while it still bums me out, I don't feel utterly hopeless about the state of affairs. I scroll through horrors on my Twitter feed and think, "good can still come of this." The chronic rash on my shins and feet starts to clear. I check my blood pressure; it's down again, along with my resting heart rate. My gym visits are encouraging; I'm finally back to increasing my weights again after a little slump. Then the effortless personal records start accompanying my runs and rides — best Fern Canyon amid a long run; fastest-yet 68J climb on a fat bike. And I wonder, "why are things going so well? Oh yes, it's August."

Around here, August is generally not a great month for training. It's hot. It's dusty. The dirt roads and trails have been drying out since spring, and are now coated in wheel-sucking sand and loose gravel. Wildfire smoke fills the air every morning, leaving a haze over the horizon and an acrid sting in our lungs. The weather service regularly issues air quality warnings. The UV index is extreme. Historically August has been my least favorite time of the year. Even as a child. August is my birth month, so I feel rationalized in disliking it — the sun is hot, the air is noxious, and I've been languishing in summer doldrums for too long. 

Until recently, that is. Last August was a giddy, high-energy time for me, and this month is shaping up similarly. How do I make sense of it? It was about this time last year that began to notice this pattern — a rollercoaster of both mood and fitness that seems to top out every four months or so, and hit bottom at similar intervals. I started to dread late February, June and October. I looked for biological justifications, and found few answers, so I have to conclude it's self-fulfilling psychology. And yet, how can such wild fluctuations not be anchored in some type of hormone cycle? Today I revisited the thyroid forum I used to frequent (I was a lurker, as you can see by my post count) and found a somewhat useful thread titled, "Can my thyroid fluctuate?" I left this reply:

After posting this question, I wondered: Am I in effortlessly amazing (for me) shape right now? Could I just decide to go out and set a PR, and do it? I realize there's a lot of positive reinforcement in just trying, but this exact moment may not be one of my best. Last week was a 180-mile week (21 miles running, 159 miles cycling) with 25,000 feet of climbing. A fairly big week for me, and just yesterday I pedaled 7,000 feet up a 14'er and got a bit altitude sick in the process. My legs are tired. And I have to ride into town later today. Still ... what if? 

So at 10 a.m., I stepped outside to test the air quality ... deep breath ... not terrible ... and launched my mountain bike down the road. The Homestead Trail is always a solid effort for me — I'm not constantly trying to complete every ride or run as fast as I can, but when I hit the Homestead Trail, I am. This trail plays to my strengths, and it's close to home, so it makes for a great "tempo ride." The segment itself is a two-mile-long doubletrack climb that gains 800 feet in steep bursts. Springtime is PR season in Boulder — the dirt is still hero and the days are generally cool. By August the Homestead Trail is a sand pit, and the steeper climbs are littered with loose rubble. But I already snagged a PR here on Monday. Perhaps I could do it again. 

I cued up some Panic! at the Disco on my iPod an clicked the shifter a couple of notches above my usual granny gear. The power climbs flooded my legs with lactic acid, but I was amazed how much oxygen filled my lungs. Mash, mash, breathe, breathe. Last August I took my PR down to 21 minutes, and was proud of that number. I didn't see anything lower until early May, the last time I had a decent fitness surge. On Monday I nearly broke 20 minutes. Could I break that? A patch of sand caught my rear wheel. I spun furiously to get out of it. Mash, mash, breathe, breathe.

The final pitch is the worst of them all, and it almost broke me. My wheel spun in the sand and I dug deep for the power to climb out. In doing so, I felt of wave of nausea and nearly threw a foot down. How long has it been since I rode so hard I almost vomited? It's been a long, long time. Usually I can't take in enough oxygen to go hard. I composed myself as well as I could and soft-pedaled the rest of the way to the top, still feeling nervous about losing my breakfast. 

The final result: New PR! My three fastest times on this segment happened this week.

And most surprising of all: I snagged the fastest time on Strava. A real QOM! Homestead is a lower-level, less frequented segment among Boulder cyclists, but it's not nothing. I couldn't believe I (barely) surpassed Poot Sook's fastest time. I do not know her, but admit to Strava stalking her a bit when I figured out she lived nearby and rode many of my regular haunts. She is much faster than me. 

So I set out to try it and I did it! I will admit to taking much ego-boosting satisfaction from this little Thursday morning jaunt. 

 It's been a great week all around. On Sunday Beat and I headed out for what will likely be our last James Peak visit this year. I looked into a few different options for a mountain excursion, but Beat's big races in the European Alps are coming up soon, and we both wanted something predictable, with fewer opportunities for injury. Plus, the 21-miler with a loop around Rogers and Rollins passes is just endlessly amazing.

This time, I almost kept up with Beat (okay, he was taking it easy and waited for me at times, but still.) I hoofed my way to the top in 2 hours 33 minutes, and was stoked about that. At altitude my climbs are generally 100 percent hiking — I just don't feel a strong desire to spend limited oxygen intake on shuffling — and still snagged 10th woman on Strava.

 Between Roger's drop bags from Hardrock and Beat's from the Ouray 100, we have enough snacky junk foods in our pantry to last until 2019. For my summit treat I grabbed one of Roger's leftover Snicker Bars and didn't realize it said "Meh" until the peak. Yeah, this is pretty meh.

 The last time we visited James Peak, three weeks earlier, the tundra was still bright green and dotted with wildflowers. On Sunday, patches of crimson and yellow signaled autumn's swift approach. I'm starting to see golden leaves on cottonwood trees in my neighborhood. These signs of autumn always boost my mood, even when it's still 90 degrees outside.

 Between the peak and Rollins Pass are seven gorgeous miles where one can trace the actual spine of the Continental Divide. I love this section for its beauty and views, but find it mentally exhausting. The tundra walk is a patchwork of rocks and tussocks, with uneven footing for the duration. Paying attention to where I'm putting my feet is somehow extremely difficult for me, and I'm trying so hard not to roll my ankle. I've improved on this technique somewhat over the summer, but I still have a long way to go before I am even a proficient technical walker, let alone runner.  My right Achilles also has nagging pains, so I'm trying to limit my running and steep uphill hiking as well ... one 21-mile mountain outing a week is probably okay.

 It was an extremely hot day at 12,000-13,000 feet. Beat and I were begging for the appearance of an afternoon cloud, and there were none. Between the high-altitude UV rays and unbelievably windless conditions on the Divide, if you asked me to guess the temperature, I would have put it around 100 degrees. In reality it was closer to 75, but the "feels like" was intense. I couldn't take in enough water, and my head was pounding. But overall I felt great. I wish my Achilles would let me climb all of the mountains ... but I am trying to keep this from becoming full-blown tendonitis.

After two summers of failing to make time for this classic road ride, on Wednesday I finally rode a bike up Mount Evans. This 14'er has a paved road leading all the way to the top — it's bumpy, cracked and frost-heaved pavement, and narrow with tight hairpins. But it's well-graded and endlessly gorgeous. I'm surprised there aren't hoards of cyclists riding up this road every day of the summer, even though I purposely went mid-week to minimize exposure to car traffic (which wasn't bad, despite perfect weather — less hot than Sunday, with a surprisingly cold but not overly strong wind above treeline, and most importantly, no thunderstorms.)

 Steady, minimally technical climbing on a bicycle is my absolute favorite form of motion. We all have our quirks, and this is mine — I love all of the tedious bits and tolerate anything that requires skill or adrenaline. For this ride I started in Idaho Springs, just off the Interstate exit at 7,000 feet elevation, and pedaled up 7,000 more feet without a break. The road snaked up a narrow canyon, rising out of the pine forest into patches of scrubby spruce, and finally wide-open tundra. I slipped into a meditative rhythm, breathing steadily, oscillating between concentration on the sweeping surroundings, and happy recollections of the past.

The only thing that broke my revery was an occasional iPod moment — my favorite being a song I haven't heard in at least 20 years, "Mary Jane" by Alanis Morrisette (yes, I recently downloaded Jagged Little Pill for five dollars.) This song was on a mix tape that we listened to en route to my first-even snowboarding experience, of which I remember the date — Park City Mountain Resort, October 28, 1996. Wonderful and embarrassing memories of that day 22 years ago filled my heart, and I just had to belt them out, despite wasting a lot of oxygen to sing at the top of my lungs while climbing on a bicycle above 12,000 feet:

It's a loooooong waaaaay dooooown,
On this rolllllllercoaster.

 If there is such a thing as heaven, this will be mine. (And if there is such a thing as Jill Hell, it will involve terrifying whitewater and an eternity of fiddling with buttons on a duvet.)

I felt great as I snaked my way to 14,130 feet and pulled my bike up to the overlook beside the observatory. It wasn't until I hiked the final 150 feet up to the true summit that a wave of nausea overtook me, so intense that I had to lay down on a nearby boulder. And older woman in sandals walked past as I languished there, about 20 feet below the top. "I'm about ready for a break, too," she said.

 I ate a snack and walked around the observatory for a bit, but at that point I was really not feeling good — dizzy, foggy-headed, and still nauseated. I figured it had to be the altitude, and going down would help me feel better. But I was nervous about starting the descent in such a condition. I chose Beat's gravel bike for the ride because it had a beefier set of tires and disc brakes, but it still felt too squirrelly for the initial switchbacks. For all of these reasons, I had to take four or five resting breaks just to manage the 7,000-foot descent, when I needed none for the climb. At least there was incredible scenery and wildlife to make the breaks all the more worthwhile. Look, baby goat! Awwww.

And Summit Lake, adorned with autumn tundra. Ahhhhh. Whether the cause is biological or psychological or a futile attempt to make sense of a chaotic existence, I am going to ride this high for all it's worth. Yay, August. 

Searching for inspiration

I've always been a person who races to train, not the other way around. The impetus for my first race — which was the 2006 Susitna 100 on a mountain bike — was the realization that Alaska winters would turn me into a marshmallow if I didn't do something. Past attempts to engage in a regular exercise routine like a normal adult didn't really take — in fact, after a bad personal spell in the summer of 2005, I was already a marshmallow by the time I moved to Alaska that September. If I wanted to improve my fitness, I needed a project.

"If I were to just head out at 10 p.m. and ride laps around the Homestead Trail in a blizzard, you'd think I was a total nut," I explained to a co-worker at the time. "But since I'm training just to survive this crazy 100-mile race across frozen wilderness, it's completely reasonable."

"No, you're still a nut," Sean replied.

My inner nut continues to crave that daily dose of adventure. With a few exceptions, ever since those fateful night rides in 2005, I haven't been without a project to generate excuses for "training." Like any addict, I swore I didn't need endurance races. I wanted them — for the way they gave shape to my endeavors, expanded my perspective, pushed me beyond comfortable perimeters, introduced me to places I'd otherwise never see and people I'd otherwise never meet, and materialized into intense and life-affirming experiences that would have never happened if all of the ideas were mine alone. Races were fantastic for these reasons and more, but they weren't the end-all. I'd still endeavor to be outside, in any way I could, even with an empty calendar.

With the health difficulties I've had in recent years, it seemed prudent to empty my race calendar and try just living my outdoor life, unburdened by fitness obligations and the stress of daunting adventures in my future. I actually thought I'd get more writing done, keep better pace on housework, renew my drawing hobby, maybe even engage in more social outings that didn't require athletic clothing. But decade-plus-long habits don't die easily. After my muscles recovered from the ITI 350/White Mountains 100 leg-shredder, I was quick to slip back into old patterns. A day is just better when I spend six hours on a bike rather than six more hours staring at a computer screen. And when I thumb through all of the nonsense I've written, I also have to concede that even aimless miles are less of a waste of time. (Although how do we even qualify "time well spent" or "productivity" outside actual life-sustaining activities? A philosophical argument to mull in future nonsense writing projects.)

Then the dog days of summer arrived to test my dedication to unaffiliated adventure. Breathing air filled with smoke from near and distant wildfires, raising a Buff over my mouth to protect my lungs, wearing too much clothing and eye-stinging sunscreen to block harsh high-altitude UV rays, scorching patches of skin anyway, withering in the heat, drenched in back-chafing sweat, slapping at biting flies and mosquitoes. Maybe I don't love the outdoors. Excuses started to form. Excuses not to train. Excuses to sleep in on Sunday rather than venture into the mountains. These excuses scared me.

Brainard Lake and my old pal Sworxy

Not that I'm becoming a marshmallow just yet. It's more of a state of mind — lacking purpose, my brain becomes annoyingly wistful. On Monday, I had to drive into town early for renewed allergy testing. After nearly two years of allergy shots (biweekly injections of noxious substances that cause painful arm swelling and make me feel blah for the rest of the day), I hoped for a positive outcome. The result: All good news! I'm not allergic to pine pollen, as I'd assumed. My reactions to grass are half what they were in 2016, now just "bad" as opposed to "hypersensitive, a few notches below anaphylactic shock." And they actually cured my allergic reaction to cats. I can adopt a kitty again! If only we didn't travel for such long periods away from home.

Anyway, this trip to town was a great excuse to take my neglected road bike for classic ride from Boulder to Brainard Lake. My back was on fire from being poked with dozens of allergens, but beyond that, I felt pretty good. My mood and general fitness seems to be on an upswing right now, and everything tends to come more easily on this side of the rollercoaster. I headed up Lee Hill and Old Stage Road to Lefthand Canyon. After a sporty little descent on rough pavement, nothing lay in front of me but a solid 5,000-foot climb — relentless and leg-crushing.

Among 2,000-plus women road bikers on Strava in Boulder, Colorado, I fall on the slow end of the spectrum, and find perverse satisfaction in letting this erode my self esteem. Diffidence can be motivating, and I chided myself to keep my climbing pace above 10mph. ("Okay, we have to at least crack the top 500 for this canyon.") As the grade steeped, 6 mph was okay, then 5 was good enough. No need to kill myself. I may aspire to athletic adequacy, but I'm still a Type B personality through and through.

After 25 miles and nearly three hours of constant climbing, I congratulated my road bike. "You made it above 10,000 feet!" I said to Sworxy, forgetting that our last excursion, nearly three months ago, was above 12,000 feet on Trail Ridge Road. I parked at a bench beside the glistening alpine water, chatted with a few hikers, and nibbled on a Honey Stinger Waffle. Views were stunning and the weather was ideal — an excellent reward. I wanted to feel that fleeting sense of accomplishment, but instead I felt restless. I missed having the bigger picture just beyond view. I missed the chase.

Perhaps for that reason, when Wednesday's commute ride rolled around, I went on a bit of a chase. Forest Road 509 is the only route that climbs out of Lefthand Canyon toward the beautiful and seemingly seldom-visited forest trails surrounding Gold Lake. I've wanted to do more exploring in that area, but it's so hard to get there. Either I need to ride all the way to Ward and drop down from the Peak-to-Peak Highway, or I need to climb FR509. This jeep road washed out with the floods of 2013, and was subsequently closed. Since then, the "road" has become the domain of motorcyclists and crazy downhill mountain bikers. Going up is just silliness. There's nothing but boulders, loose rubble, and deep, slippery moto-dust that gains 1,800 feet in less than two miles. It's a stout hike-a-bike. I first ventured here last October in a less-stable emotional state and ended up crumpled on the ground, expelling literal tears. But I'm stronger now. Or so I like to think.

It's true that the climb was uneventful, mostly because I now know what to expect. Whether I'm actually stronger, is also mainly a state of mind. It still took me an hour to cover two miles (and climb 1,800 feet, which isn't much worse than my Fern Canyon ascent times, without a bike.) My forearms and shoulders ached, my clothing — a long-sleeved shirt and three-quarter-length tights because I'd inadvertently sunburned my legs on Monday — was utterly drenched in sweat, and I was a little dizzy from exertion motivated by a turn-around deadline that was closing in at a rate inversely proportional to my snail pace. Both my left ankle and right Achilles — my latest problem areas — were complaining due to the fact I was wearing awful shoes (I've been using the same pair of Montrail Mountain Masochist for biking for at least four years, and the tread is entirely gone.) But I felt stoked, because, ha, I beat you, Forest Road 509. You did not make me cry this time!

The trails at Gold Lake were as lovely as I remembered, but since it had again taken me almost four hours to reach the lake, I'd run out of time to explore. Next time, I will leave the house by 8 a.m. at the latest instead of 10:30 (to be fair, I left later than hoped because I spent time faffing around with a leaking plug in the front tire and a problem with one of the pulley wheels in the rear derailleur.) Also, next time I will wear better hiking shoes.

It is funny how inspiration happens. Where my road ride to Brainard Lake left me feeling dissatisfied and wistful, the slog to Gold Lake left me determined. What will it be? Should I just throw prudence to the North Wind and return to the Iditarod Trail this coming winter? Plan a lonely and potentially arduous bike tour around the deserts of Utah and Arizona in March? The 2019 Tour Divide? The Tor des Geants if I can get in? The details hardly matter, as long as there's something, out there on both near and unseen horizons.