2018 in numbers

Like many outdoor enthusiasts, I love tracking numbers. The year-end totals are especially fun. Added together, all the little jaunts up mountains gave me enough elevation gain to climb into Low Earth Orbit. I've run enough miles to travel from Boulder to Washington, D.C. I've ridden enough to get from Boulder to Juneau. I spent more than 10 percent of the year — 37 days — on the move outside. 

Last December, I was so down on all things 2017 that I didn't even bother to compile my year-end numbers. "I exercise way too much to be so bad at it," I muttered to myself. I'm more embarrassed than proud by the bulk of it. 

Ultimately I regretted not having a 2017 in numbers on record. This is my choice after all. My most cherished hobby. My source of inspiration. My spiritual communion. My thin strand of hope for good things to go on in the world. This is my life ... quantified. 

January

Run: 165.4 miles with 38,435 feet climbing.
Ride: 123 miles with with 14,495 feet climbing.
Time: 63 hours, 27 minutes.

January was a relatively warm, dry month that required more creative training for my planned 350-mile hike on the Iditarod Trail, coming up in March. The difficulty of every excursion with my 70-pound cart isn't adequately reflected by mileage or climbing, but such is the limitation of statistics. When I wanted to kick back, enjoy the sunshine, and relax, I managed a handful of long afternoon rides.

February 

Run: 226 miles with 25,519 feet climbing.
Ride: 53.4 miles with 7,008 feet climbing.
Time: 77 hours, 10 minutes.

I was able to kick the training up a notch with more excursions into the Indian Peaks Wilderness, where fierce katabatic winds sweep down from the Continental Divide. No one better understands the utter feebleness of a human in the wild than those who have stood on a snow-swept slope to face a 70-mph wind. Every excursion to Niwot Ridge helped me feel less and less ready for Alaska. I spent the last four days of the month racing on the Iditarod Trail, where I was absolutely flattened by wind and then cold. My training did nothing for me.

March 

Run: 340.5 miles with 25,654 feet climbing.
Ride: 10.4 miles with 1,736 feet climbing.
Time: 120 hours, 23 minutes.

Oof. March was a toughie. The back half of the Iditarod Trail Invitational was a constant battle through wet, heavy snow. I struggled through a depth of exhaustion I've rarely experienced. The 2018 Iditarod ranks up there with the most humbling experiences of my life, eclipsed this year only by a relatively benign cabin trip in the White Mountains on March 18. I took this supposed pleasure trip two weeks after finishing the slog to McGrath. It was supposed to be easy — traveling 22 miles over two days. A storm and subsequent wind buried the trail in knee-deep snow. Deep-set muscle soreness and ongoing fatigue left my legs in such agony that was sure I couldn't go on. I contemplated setting up my bivy and waiting for anything else to happen ... death in my sleep if I was lucky. Ultimately I made it out, 11 miles in seven of my most difficult hours of effort this year. Six days later, out of both spite and love, I started and implausibly finished the White Mountains 100. But damn, my legs did hurt.

April 

Run: 107 miles with 23,051 feet climbing.
Ride: 193.6 miles with 24,764 feet climbing.
Time: 54 hours, 35 minutes.

April started out surprisingly well. Alaska had shredded my quads, which took a number of weeks to fully heal, but my legs didn't seem too bothered by bike rides. I felt relatively chipper in the warm spring air and even took up running — actual running, not sloggy snow hiking or sled-dragging or cart-hauling. Toward the end of the month I broke my pinky toe after stubbing it on my bed.

May 

Run: 23 miles with 6,431 feet climbing.
Ride: 554.5 miles with 72,552 feet climbing.
Time: 65 hours, 56 minutes.

The broken toe was a good excuse to forget running and go all out with biking. I dug up a pair of stiff-soled hiking boots that I purchased back in 2002 and and pedaled my heart out, without a care in the world.

June 

Run: 118.9 miles with 26,149 feet climbing.
Ride: 437.1 miles with 48,740 feet climbing.
Time: 77 hours, 36 minutes.

After the strain and stress of my Alaska races, I decided there would be no more racing in 2018. June reinforced this decision, as I fell back into a slump and struggled with low-key, recreational runs. During rides, climbs that had been a piece of cake a month earlier felt like pedaling through invisible mud. I still went outside a whole lot, because it was June, the mountain trails were opening up, and post-winter-pre-monsoon season is oh-so-brief.

July 

Run: 174.1 miles with 53,241 feet climbing.
Ride: 197.8 miles with 25,036 feet climbing.
Time: 83 hours, 10 minutes.

July came and I perked up, again. This month had lots of fun bike explorations as well as on-foot adventures, as friends from Australia and Switzerland came to visit and requested hard mountain training runs. I spent time in the San Juans during the Hardrock 100 and Ouray 100, and began to regret that I had no similarly intense experiences on my horizon.

August 

Run: 135.6 miles with 50,663 feet climbing.
Ride: 386.4 miles with 51,673 feet climbing.
Time: 85 hours, 24 minutes.

August was my favorite month of the year in terms of exercise. I was riding yet another physical high in a month with abundant adventure opportunities, despite the heat and wildfire smoke. The numbers reflect my zeal, with more than 100,000 feet of climbing in August alone. I finally pedaled up Mount Evans, played in the mountains as early autumn descended on the high country, eked out an incredible solo birthday hike on the edge of my comfort zone in Rocky Mountain National Park, and spent the final week of the month traipsing over Alps above Chamonix, France.

September 

Run: 202.3 miles with 67,756 feet climbing.
Ride: 0 miles.
Time: 65 hours, 12 minutes.

September was a little more difficult for life reasons, but I did enjoy spending the majority of the month in Germany and Switzerland. I embarked on a number of amazing hikes along the Swiss Peaks 360 race course through the Valais Alps, and later explorations in Grindelwald and Kandersteg. I love Europe but it definitely brings out my social anxieties, which is part of why I was struggling. Also, I'll admit there's something wrong with a month that has no bike riding.

October

Run: 60.2 miles with 12,110 feet climbing.
Ride: 340.5 miles with 36,775 feet climbing.
Time: 52 hours, 50 minutes.

October brought snow — lots of snow for October — and I was a giddy puppy. I finally pulled out my fat bike after not riding it at all during the winter of 2017-18, and it has been a happy reunion. This month had great rides, but I again struggled with the little running that I did. My biomechanics are fine, but my breathing took a sharp turn for the worse, and I felt dizzy whenever I kicked up the pace, which is to say run instead of walk. There were a few days toward the end of the month where I decided that running and I should take a real break. But this conviction didn't last. It never does.

November

Run: 83.7 miles with 19,120 feet climbing.
Ride: 262.1 miles with 29,144 feet climbing.
Time: 65 hours, 25 minutes.

November was mostly notable for a bikepacking trip around the White Rim over Thanksgiving, and short excursions in Fruita and Moab. I started to feel antsy for a return to "real" training and signed up for two races — both running 100-milers in March and May — less than a month after I swore off running. Sigh. But hopefully, come 2019, I'll be able to dredge up some confidence in an arena where I have not had much success in the past five years.

December 

Run: 180.9 miles with 19,137 feet climbing.
Ride: 94.6 miles with 9,216 feet climbing.
Time: 70 hours, 24 minutes.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, I caught a death-cold that left me more or less bedridden for the better part of two weeks. Christmastime adventures in Alaska made up the bulk of the month's activity, with super-slow sled-dragging for low mileage but a hefty dose of strenuous time on my feet.

2018 total: 

Run: 1,817.6 miles with 367,266 feet climbing.
Ride: 2,653,4 miles with 321,129 feet climbing.
Cumulative climbing: 688,405 feet (130.4 miles)
Cumulative time on the move: 881 hours, 32 minutes (36.7 days)

It's been a good year. My "running" total is actually my highest yet (I count all on-foot activities as runs, because there's a wide gray line between the two in my world. Usually, walking-pace efforts are the more strenuous efforts.) In the new year, I'd like to skew more time toward riding, but I keep signing up for these silly foot races. Also, someday, I'd like go for a million feet of climbing in a year, but I'll save that goal for a while yet.

Bring on 2019!

2018 in photos

Another year comes to a close, bringing another opportunity to look back on meaningful moments. My annual tradition is to post 12 months in photos, in which I pick a favorite photo for each month of the year. This year's set has a general theme of my favorite places during the year. Twelve photos can't begin to cover them all, but it's a start.

The above photo is from the Cache Mountain Divide, during the White Mountains 100 in late March. I only took a couple of photos of the aurora, as I was so caught up in just watching the display — sitting directly on the snow and gazing upward, not even realizing my hands were freezing. There's no photo or video that I've ever seen that really captures what it's like to witness the Northern Lights. So I don't claim this is a great photo; it just evokes happy memories of one of my favorite experiences this year.

January: Snack break on Niwot Ridge

Early in the year, both Beat and I were training to drag sleds along the Iditarod Trail, so January weekends often took us to the wind-blasted slopes below the Continental Divide. During this hike, we'd just faced confirmed 70-mph gusts on top of Niwot Ridge, and beat a quick retreat for tree line, where we enjoyed lunch in the calm below the storm. I love this photo for the nonchalant look on Beat's face and jacket coated in spindrift while he munches a sandwich in a (relatively mild) ground blizzard.

February: Sled training in the winter wind

Wind is a common presence in my most memorable outings, but it's nearly impossible to depict in a photo. Beat's tiny figure, obscured by a chaotic ground blizzard, almost (but not quite) captures what it's like to experience these winds.

March: Endless exhaustion across the Farewell Burn

I have more compelling, more scenic photos from my 350-mile walk to McGrath this year, but this one is my favorite — a meager black spruce forest amid the expanse of the Farewell Burn in the morning. In front of me is a soft, but at least broken trail. Pressed into the trail are the footprints and sled track of Carole Holly, another Iditarod walker who was usually about a half day in front of me. Her tracks became a comforting companion during a two-day span when I felt utterly unravelled, exhausted and alone. I had a thermos of hot Tang that became lukewarm Tang and then slushy Tang, which I continued to nurse throughout the day, taking tiny and thoughtful sips as though it really was the Elixir of Power I so badly needed it to be. While sipping that sour liquid of life, I'd sit on my sled bag and press my own handprint next to Carole's tracks, reminding myself that this had been done, and thus could be done by me, too. Carole and I ended up finishing the race together after her feet fell apart, and I caught an incredible and mostly inexplicable surge of energy along the final 50 miles.

April: Sleet storm in Canyonlands

Every spring, my Dad spends a long weekend camping in his favorite place in the world, Canyonlands National Park. This year I was able to join him. It was a fun foray into nearly-forgotten childhood traditions (Dinty Moore stew, Saltines and Twizzlers for dinner and dessert) and contemplations on mortality (Dad showed me the spots where he would like his ashes spread someday.) In this photo, we were caught in a brief snowstorm that rendered the slickrock in rich colors.

May: Sky riding on Trail Ridge Road

Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park is perhaps the best road ride I've ever encountered, but there's only a brief window in the spring where it's open to ride (unless you are a brave and/or suicidal cyclist amid summer tourism traffic.) I managed three rides here this spring, and they were all bliss. There's something magical about coasting along a winding ribbon of pavement at 12,000 feet, with beads of sweat still clinging to your skin from a 5,000-foot climb as you clench your teeth into an exhilarating sub-freezing windchill.

June: Dawn over Bryce Canyon

Beat ran the Bryce 100, and I went for a 25-mile morning run that wove together most of the front-country trails in Bryce Canyon National Park. These desert hoodoo landscape shots have long since faded into cliche, but it's just such an incredible place to experience that I had to include it.

July: Endless climb on Hayden Pass

Late in the month, Beat raced the Ouray 100 in the San Juan Mountains. I again tagged along to bring him sandwiches at aid stations and hike pieces of the course. This photo from the second morning shows a typical climb for a race that has 42,000 feet of ascent in just 100 miles — straight up a 45-percent grade. Beat was hurting, but I thought it was an incredible place.

August: My new favorite place, Aiguilette des Houches

We again returned to Chamonix at the end of August. And again, Beat was racing something ridiculous (PTL) while I hiked around. This day was one of my hardest efforts of the summer, a big tour of both sides of the valley with more than 11,000 feet of climbing. I still took the time to spend nearly an hour sitting in the grass at this spot, a popular yet quiet point on a ridge with jaw-dropping panoramic views.

September: Beneath Swiss peaks

The summer theme continues with Beat racing and me hiking in the midst. I think this photo captures some of the best of Switzerland — dynamic skies, imposing mountains, lush grass and forest with a bucolic little farmhouse and well-built trail. The Swiss Peaks 360 was a difficult race for Beat and a difficult week for me. It's a little sad to realize how, even months later, I haven't extracted too many happy memories from the mire despite the incredible scenery. Proving once again that it's not about where you go or what you do, but what you experience within yourself that matters. I still love Switzerland, and hope to return in a better state of mind.

October: Shoulder season on the Sourdough Trail

October brought big dumps of snow early and often, setting up mountain trails for a nice season even if the rest of winter was fairly dry (which has proven true up to this point.) This was one of my first times back on a fat bike after a year-long hiatus. It's been a happy reunion. I always love snowy monochrome photos that are infused with patches of bright color.

November: Thanksgiving on the White Rim

You really can't beat the Utah desert in November light. Although nights were below freezing and days were windy and cool, I think this is the best time of year to tour around the White Rim in Canyonlands National Park. I joined six other women for an incredibly fun four days with unlimited photo ops. This photo is an overlook from a higher plateau called Murphy's, while I was out for a sunset walk before dinner.

December: Moonset over Colorado Creek

Beat and I are currently in Fairbanks, Alaska, where we planned a couple of cabin trips to immerse ourselves in the White Mountains at the best time of year, winter solstice. This photo is from the first trip, a two-night stay on a frosty, wind-blasted ridge at the headwaters of Colorado Creek. While the sun is only out for about three hours here, the nearly full moon circles the sky for the remainder of the long night, and we begin to feel well-acquainted with it. Here the moon is about to dip below the northern horizon for a few hours as the sun rises behind us.

Once again, Happy New Year!

Photo posts from years past: 
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010 part one, part two
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017

Halcyon days, 2018

From Greek mythology, "halcyon days" refers to a period of calm weather and prosperity near the winter solstice. I appreciate the phrase for its modern connotation of happy days in the past, but its original meaning holds true for me as well. Winter solstice is a wonderful time of year, and not just because of holidays ... which I admittedly barely celebrate these days, unless an Alaska friend invites me to a Christmas dinner. No, I love solstice because it's the first day of my favorite season, a beautifully lit time of year, and I also welcome the gradual return of afternoon sunshine. It also helps when these short days are blessed with beautiful weather.

Yes, it's been a good week — the days have been relatively nice and calm, the nights mostly filled with the warmth of returning to my own bed, decent sleep, and considerably fewer odd dreams. I've felt energetic and fit. Most importantly, I'm no longer captive to a deadly chest cold.

I almost forget how quickly I snapped out of the death cold until I reconstruct the timeline. Last Tuesday, when Dennis invited me to join him on a Friday afternoon ride at Brainard Lake, I was still spending nights writhing and coughing with with my head propped up on three pillows to prevent drowning in my own crud. Optimism was low. Three days later my lungs were almost clear and I was raring to go. I couldn't wait to power my monster truck fat bike up some steep, sugary trails.

Clearly I wasn't fully recovered by Friday. We did only two laps for a total of 12 miles at Brainard, but it felt as exhausting as a full-day effort. The singletrack was skier-packed, so trails were often only about eight inches wide. To either side of the narrow track was seemingly bottomless fluff, and my front wheel kept veering into the trap. I crashed at least five times on the first round, often at high speeds because I was trying to keep up with Dennis. Usually it's good strategy to ride with others who are more skilled than you, but for me it's a dangerous proposition. I'm amazed I wasn't more hurt. After a full-somersault that left me buried to my neck, an endo, and a few more regular-old tip-overs, I ended up with a patchwork of bruises on my legs and right arm. Somewhere in there I managed to rip the entire backside out of my pants, which I didn't even notice until I started to wonder why that usually well-protected part of my body was so cold (luckily I was carrying primaloft shorts to cover up.)

It wasn't until we were climbing for the second round that I realized my camera was also missing — it had been stuffed in one of my pogies, and obviously fell into one of the half-dozen holes. I wasn't even going to mention this to Dennis, as it seemed impossible I'd ever find it. Instead I took some time to mourn the loss of yet another camera as we climbed toward gorgeous evening skies (I perked up when I realized I could take sunset photos with my phone. Priorities.) We chatted about our mutual fear of ice and decided to ride along the lake anyway, until Dennis broke through a weak spot near the shoreline and tumbled over a slushy hole. Seeing that he was still dry and unhurt, I felt a little more comfortable with the tally of individual embarrassment, and admitted I lost my camera in a crash more than an hour earlier. He offered to help me find it, and we shared more embarrassing bike stories as we pedaled toward the trail.

As dusk deepened, we donned mittens and dug through my first hole — the one that softened the blow of the full somersault. Nothing. The second hole was impressive. It looked as though someone had excavated a dead horse from the snow. This large crater seemed especially hopeless, but we dug anyway. Incredibly, after only a minute or two, my ice-crusted mitten managed to hook the lanyard, and out came a camera. Amazing! I was so happy that I did a little dance, notching up the embarrassment tally one more point. But we had an incredibly fun run down Waldrop, and I didn't crash again.

Despite the multitude of bruises, I was stoked on fat biking and couldn't wait to get back out on Sunday. I decided to reduce my chance of further injury by taking on the wide, gentle grades of Rollins Pass Road.


I hoped to find a trail used by snowmobiles, but instead had to hike around two AWD vehicles that were badly stuck, just a half mile from the junction. Beyond that, older truck ruts had filled in with sugary spindrift that deepened as the road climbed. By mile three of the snowy road, there was barely any evidence that anyone had been up here in weeks.

Beat and I have tough sled-dragging trips planned for our holiday in Fairbanks, and since I have not trained all that well for such an arduous effort ... (okay, I've done no training) ... I decided it would be good refresher practice if I pushed my bike for a while. There was just enough semi-breakable crust and wind-scoured bare patches to keep me pedaling fifty yards here, ten feet there — just enough to persist with what was often a nearly impossible tromp through thigh-deep drifts. I actually made it four more miles up the road. Those four miles took me nearly two hours, which sparked a little bit of pride. A truly slogarific effort — Yeah, I haven't lost it, baby.

It was a gorgeous day, though, and the meditative rhythm of the hard slog put my head in a peaceful place. I was pretty stoked on life the whole time, even though I hadn't planned on riding alone on Sunday. (Beat was still in the throes of the death cold, and Dennis had come down with a cold himself and had to understandably cancel planned bike explorations.)


From there, my week filled up with mostly mundane chores such as packing for the Alaska trip, finishing a few deadline-sensitive projects, the usual number of medical center visits for allergy shots and blood draws. When I could, I escaped outside to stomp on a couple of PRs. I noticed during my routine six-miler on Tuesday that I was running rather effortlessly and well, so on Wednesday I went out to see if I could best my time on the tough climb up Mount Sanitas. Although my breathing is strong right now, there are other parts of me that aren't quite as well conditioned, so I experienced the now-rare feeling of my leg muscles giving out before my lungs. I still nudged the 1,300-foot ascent under 30 minutes, but only barely. I still have a lot of fun going for personal bests when I believe I can.

As I ride the latest inexplicable crest of my fitness rollercoaster, I've made a New Years resolution to deny its existence as well as I can. Although my latest search for answers has led to some interesting theories on overtraining syndrome, persistent inflammation, and self-preservation mechanisms, I'm currently operating under the hopeful placebo theory and trying to convince myself that a slump simply won't come. That didn't work so well in October, but if all else fails, I'll resist the urge to complain even if it means radio silence. This is my promise to myself. Stay healthy, or no blogging for you.

 Today I had a little more time and what I thought would be warm sunny weather, so I set out for a six-hour gravel grinder. I think I was clinging to memories of last year, when it was nearly 60 degrees the day before the winter solstice. As such, I wasn't mentally prepared for the frigid wind sweeping down from the Divide. Even as I climbed the steep grades of Gap Road, my shoulders ached with cold and my teeth began to chatter.

"Maybe it isn't that warm today," I thought. My suspicions were confirmed when I coasted through Nederland, where the bank clock thermometer registered 23 degrees. "Well, it's still like 40 degrees warmer that it will be in Fairbanks next week," I reasoned ... but the wind chill was not allowing for such self-delusion. I decided I didn't need to practice being cold and finally put on more layers. They were adequate, but I was still a little rattled. Expectation means a lot when it comes to comfort.

Despite not having a lot of bike fitness in my legs right now, I felt pretty good ... even when ice-cream-headache-inducing wind gusts forced me to pedal hard downhill on icy, snow-swept gravel. I only hope this sense of wellbeing can persist through the rest of the year, as Beat and I have some tough, high-mileage days planned for the White Mountains, and the weather forecast is all but promising nearly constant subzero temperatures. I'm so excited!