It's just life on Earth, part one

For the past 10 years, the last image I see at night, in those seconds of viscous limbo between consciousness and sleep, is nearly always the same. It's midnight in the boreal forest, with frosted trees rendered in silver beneath the moonlight. A black figure creeps along the edges and passes into an illuminated spot of light in the foreground: A lynx, with muscled shoulders and shimmering blue-tinted fur, looks up to reveal the depths of its sea-green eyes. This is where the flickering dream ends. Sometimes I startle awake and remember the incandescent clarity of those eyes, and this fills me with longing. 

After several years of mostly playing around during our holiday training trips to Fairbanks, we've finally established a schedule that will better prepare us for the rigors of the Iditarod Trail (which Beat races every year, and I race some years while feeling too unprepared or unfit or burnt out to sign up for the others, but end up wishing I was racing anyway.) Thanks to Beat's tireless efforts and a 2 a.m. alarm for most of the nights spanning the last week of November, we'd booked five nights straight in the White Mountains. From Dec. 26 to 31, we'd be off the grid with no supplied source of water, heat or electricity, seeking shelter in tiny log cabins accessible only by winter trail, at times more than 30 miles from the nearest road. We hedged our bets with some conservative bookings, but our hopeful plan would take us more than a 100 miles through the subzero wilderness, dragging sleds weighing upwards of 60 pounds.

I had done no specific training for this journey. I realize, as I near 40, that I really can't get away this anymore. My base level of strength is not that strong. Dragging a weighted sled while battling the resistance of soft snow requires more power than my muscles can easily give. I now understand that a spring and summer full of leg presses, squats, deadlifts, etc. at the gym, towing my 70-pound cart on dirt roads, and other tedious weight-bearing exercises are 100 percent necessary if I ever want to pursue my "ultimate challenge" of walking to Nome.

For now, even a hundred miles over five days was daunting. My quads ached following our little trip to Colorado Creek, and my hamstrings cramped up while I climbed a set of stairs during our one day off, Christmas Day. I felt anxious as we drove toward Wickersham Dome in the ominous darkness of 9 a.m. — not about the cold, remoteness or self-sufficiency of the days ahead, but about my the state of my sad little legs that hurt so badly back in March.

The temperature was a few degrees below zero when we set out at 9:30, clicking our headlamps off just a few minutes later to soak in the deep violet light of a lazy dawn. The forecast called for overcast skies and light winds, so I expected a long gray march where day wasn't all that distinguishable from night. We planned to walk 30 miles to Caribou Bluff cabin. Beat set a brisk pace from the start, and I alternated my fastest walking pace and slow jogging to keep up. That walking pace is murder for my IT bands, and the jogging feels like trying to run across the shallow end of a swimming pool. This was going to be a long 30 miles.

We dropped into the Wickersham Creek Valley, where the snowpack was so thin that it didn't even bury low-lying crowberry patches in the swamps. Frost-coated needles with berries still attached poked out of pillows of snow, an eerie apparition of summers' past. I thought back to the many times I've crossed this valley. How many? I'm not sure I could even count. The number of miles I've traveled in Alaska's White Mountains must be more than a thousand by now ... perhaps even closer to 1,500. This valley is so familiar to me, and yet still so alien. I've never seen it in the summertime.

Happy memories briefly removed my mind's focus from sore legs, the tug of an unreasonably heavy sled against my shoulders, and the thumping of my heart as I tried to catch Beat on a long straightaway. The temperature was -11F with a light breeze, which I only felt in more open areas. The frosted forest reflected strange hues of pink and turquoise, but when I looked toward the sky for hints of sunlight, all I saw was gray.


Morning imperceptibly trickled into afternoon, and then dusk. I'd landed on the perfect ratio of strenuous effort and tough-but-not-technical terrain to achieve steady flow state, and had peacefully zoned out for some time. Long minutes passed, perhaps hours, before my reverie was broken by an errant epiphany ...

"That's what my problem is! Mid-life crisis!"

Wait, what? Where did that come from? Conscious again of my aching quads and gnawing hunger, I popped a handful of trail mix in my mouth and scoured my short-term memory. The faded daydream didn't reveal itself. Was I thinking about how I don't really want to be a writer, because trying to pursue one's passion in exchange for money isn't actually that great of an idea? Was I having that fantasy about going back to work in the bagel shop again? A daydream about returning to the jobs I had when I was 16 or 17 years old is often the first weird idea that pops into my head when I ruminate on a certain upcoming birthday. I really don't want to be the type who frets about meaningless milestones, but I was rather neurotic about turning 30. Why should 40 be any different?

Every minute of rumination about the lost source of my epiphany brought more heaviness to my legs. I needed to shut this down. "Be Brave" by Modest Mouse came up on my iPod, and I cycled back to flickering memories evoked by music. "This is the theme song for 2015," I thought. Having somewhat randomly chosen "Be Brave" to represent all of 2015, I resolved to revisit every year of my life that I could remotely remember, and pick a theme song. At least this would pass the time.

2016? "Dressed in Black" by Sia. 2014? "Ends of the Earth" by Lord Huron. 

The sky dulled to a charcoal gray, only to become lighter when darkness revealed the distant lights of Fairbanks — the "Southern Lights" as we've referred to them before. Light pollution reflected from the overcast sky, illuminating the white landscape until frosted spruce branches glittered, just like my reoccurring dream. I felt safe. Calm. We passed Borealis cabin. Eighteen miles in. This distance felt like a lot, and nothing at all. "Want to keep going?" Beat asked. "I'm feeling pretty good," I nodded.

2007? "Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens. 2005? Definitely "Gray Ice Water" by Modest Mouse. 

Beyond Borealis, the trail narrowed to a single, punchy snowmobile track. We were lucky to have that, as a couple driving a snowmachine out of the Wickersham Valley stopped and told us they were the ones who had Caribou Bluff over Christmas, and had broken fresh trail the whole way out there. We were glad for their trail, but conditions were still significantly softer and more strenuous than before. My hamstrings started to cramp with every other calf-straining step. The bluff over Fossil Creek climbed interminably. There was no inversion here, and the temperature didn't rise at all. 

2002? "What Never Dies" by Sense Field. 2000? "Tomorrow Tomorrow" by Elliot Smith. 

Finally we strapped on snowshoes. Specks of white flickered in my headlamp, and I wondered if it would snow much. 

1995? Has to be "Ghost" by Clover. 1991? Ha! "Silent Lucidity" by Queensryche. 1990? (big toothy grin) "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips. 1986? That song from the Fievel movie. What was it ... An American Tail? "Somewhere Out There!" 

And there I was, dragging my snowshoe-laden feet through sugary snow in the Alaska wilderness, dredging up any memory real or fake that I could summon from second grade, feeling giddy with little-girl silliness and singing to myself: 

"And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby 

It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky ..."

Take that, mid-life crisis.

During all of these long meanders down the darkest corridors of memory lane, I couldn't come up with a song for 2018. Everything was just too fresh, a barrage of images, too many to abridge. I decided this would be my goal for the trek — to come up with a 2018 theme song, and also to figure out the solution to this so-called mid-life crisis. If only my sad little legs could walk that long.

We climbed the last steep pitch to Caribou Bluff just after 8:30 p.m., for 11 more or less nonstop hours of laboring like a pack animal. A few stars twinkled to the north, evidence that the sky was clearing. We'd checked the junctions of Fossil Creek and Fossil Gap trails, and no trails had been broken beyond the couple's single track to the cabin. We knew we were alone out there, and that clear skies promised deepening cold. We weren't sure what tomorrow would bring. For now, all we needed to do was attend to our basic needs — fire, drinking water, dinner, and sleep. If only life was always this simple. 

Windswept paradise

I'm beginning to think my friends don't believe me when I insist that the Far North in wintertime is my version of heaven. That if somehow consciousness goes on after death, mine will reside here, on the snow-covered tundra under the incandescent light of a low-angle sun. And it will be cold, too — so cold the air chimes, silence echoes from miles distant, and I'll know the peace and clear-minded lucidity I find only in fleeting moments here on Earth. 

Heaven for the soul can be hell for the body, but you see, this hellishness is what gives weight to the wonder. There can't be light without darkness. No joy without grief. No ecstasy without pain. If the yin and yang doesn't extend into eternity, and if there really is some sort of afterlife that involves sitting and singing on comfortable, climate-controlled clouds forever and ever, that would be my version of hell.


For our annual Christmastime trip to Fairbanks, Beat and I booked two trips in the White Mountains. Usually we visit the Magical Land of Tolovana Hot Springs for our first overnighter, but the availability was limited to one night although we were required to pay for two, and the costs have skyrocketed in the past few years. It seemed unreasonable, so I argued that "Colorado Creek is just as fun." Sure, there aren't any hot springs in which to frostnip one's scalp while scalding the nether regions, but you can't beat the price. Or the setting.


The route to Colorado Creek starts at the Tolovana River — one of the lowest spots in the region, where dense cold air settles in for a long winter's nap. Lows were forecast to hit 20 below overnight, which is mild for the Fairbanks of yore, but still a harsh introduction for our first night of the trip (we arrived at the Fairbanks airport at 11 p.m. Friday, grocery shopped for eight days' worth of trail food, slept a few hours, woke up early to unpack all of the gear as Beat re-built the sleds, repacked our gear, drove two hours north on a snow-packed and frost-heaved Elliot Highway, and hit the trail around 12:30 p.m. Saturday.)


From its start at the Tolovana River, the Colorado Creek Trail features 14 miles of gradual but infernally noticeable climbing. Snowpack is low for this time of year, and the trail was coated in packed but slippery sugar snow that barely masked the tussocks. Beat had been suffering mightily from our Death Cold less than week earlier, and had so recently recovered that I wondered if this first trip would happen. He felt better but was still dragging, enough so that I could almost keep up with him ... almost. Darkness came early, and it would have been jarring if I wasn't already jet-lagged from sleeping about three hours the previous night.

It was Dec. 22, when the sun peeks over the horizon south of Fairbanks at 10:58 a.m. and slumps into a spot slightly farther west at 2:40 p.m., for three hours at 41 minutes of daylight. What often is discounted is civil twilight, which begins at 9:30 a.m., ends at 4 p.m., and is arguably every bit as useful to an outdoor recreationalist as the subtle sunlight. I'd argue for a full seven hours in which headlamps aren't necessary. An abundance of light!

It's also interesting to note that the Colorado Creek trailhead, which is only about 50 miles north of Fairbanks, received nearly 20 minutes less daylight on that date. The invisible line marking the Arctic Circle, less than 150 miles north of the trailhead, saw only a few seconds of the tiniest sliver of sunlight. Degrees of latitude really matter up here.

We arrived at the cabin a little before 6 p.m., which felt more like 10 p.m., and went about the usual cabin chores: Starting a fire in the wood stove, firing up the white gas stoves to quickly melt snow, stringing all of our ice-crusted gear on clothes lines, chopping firewood (this cabin had a bunch left behind, which is always a incredible boost in places where the only sources of deadwood can be a half mile away or more), and rehydrating dinner: Hot chocolate and a bag of something mushy and bland but simple and hot, which is what matters. We crawled into sleeping bags and I spent a couple of hours scrolling through my Kindle, not landing on anything terribly interesting to me right now. I felt worked but was actively trying not to doze off. I'm one of those night-circadium-rhythm people who can't easily shift to early bedtime. I will wake up in a few hours and, like a child who took a nap at the wrong time, remain awake and grumpy for the rest of the night.


We slumped out of the sleeping bags a little before 7 a.m. Sunday morning, which looked like 2 a.m. but felt like a bizarre version of late day. Having let the stove go out overnight, the air was frosty inside the cabin and my hydration bladder was partially frozen. Most of the muscles in my upper legs ached, and my lower back was stiff. Blame that one on poor sled-specific fitness. The last time I even strapped on a sled was the fateful March 18 trip to Eleazars cabin. This last experience so destroyed me that I nearly swore off the notion of dragging a sled ever again. These resolutions never last, but selective memory did help me forget the level of strenuousness, especially in uneven, soft, and entirely uphill trail conditions.


We had Colorado Creek cabin a second night, so our Dec. 23 plan was a day trip up the nonexistent Big Bend trail, climbing a wide and weather-exposed ridge. The wind here blows incessantly, so even if a trail was broken, it would be gone the next day. We packed slightly lighter sleds — carrying most of our gear as a safety buffer, but leaving the food behind — and hiked into the slowly awakening dawn.

The temperature was -4F, but as soon as we climbed above the thin strip of forest protecting the cabin, we were blasted by 20-30mph winds. The worst gusts put the windchill around -33F, which is solidly in the panic zone. Beat and I both strongly believe that folks who declare that "windchill doesn't count" have never actually spent much time in the wind. Windchill is all. It's fairly simple to hide from an ambient temperature of -33F — an extra layer often does it. The body's bubble of warmth stays in place beneath insulation. I've moved comfortably for hours at -35F or -40F, although I'm never mentally comfortable when it's that cold.


Windchill, on the other hand, is sinister in its razor precision. It can cut into even the tightest protections, and finds every weakness in one's system. Wind pulls warmth away from the body constantly. If one doesn't have the energy to continuously regenerate core heat, it becomes more troubling much more quickly than similar ambient temperatures. I've never been comfortable in subzero windchill, although I can manage it with care.

It's still early in the winter, and I was lax about my care. My experience is rusty, and I need to re-learn these lessons all over again. I'd neglected to put on goggles. With my hat pulled all the way down and wind-proof buff pulled up to my eyelashes, I could barely see through the thin slit but still ended up with a frostnip scab on my right cheek. Beat with his wolverine fur ruff wasn't comfortable, either. He's spent long blocks of time in ambient temperatures near -50F, and still agrees with me that windchill is worse.

In our snowshoes we punched through brittle crust into shin-deep sugar snow, step after laborious step. Beat was breaking trail, but if I fell more than fifty meters behind him, his snowshoe prints were almost gone by the time I went through. Spindrift obliterated the trail faster than we could make it. I felt uncomfortable on the cusp of being recklessly chilled. Every passing minute was an internal battle over a simple decision — whether pausing to put on more layers was worth the shivery cold that would overtake my body if I stopped at all. Past experience has taught me that it is *always* better to stop, but it's still a difficult thing to accept.

After what turned out to be less than three miles in two hours, the wooden tripods delineating the trail shot up a steep slope through a tangle of alders and knee-deep sugar. The route was nearly impassable — it could probably be done if it had to be done, but for an optional side trip, it strongly tipped the scales toward silliness. We stopped to finally add a few more layers. I put on a primaloft jacket over my wind fleece, and a pair of knee warmers that always add a surprisingly robust amount of warmth for eight-inch tubes of fabric. I felt a little better, but I was glad we were headed back. The trail we broke was fully obliterated by the time we turned around. The wind, which had always been a crosswind, was even more disconcertingly in our face. Turning around made me realize how numb my butt had become. It's a large chunk of flesh that would take a long time to actually freeze, but the sensation is still alarming.

We returned to the cabin at high noon — which is to say just before 1 p.m., when the lazy sun reached its highest point on the horizon. A thick layer of blowing snow over mountains to the south had hidden the orb all day, and we never saw a hint of direct sunlight. Still, it was early. We rehydrated Idahoan mashed potatoes in the bag for lunch. We debated going back out. I was just barely beginning to warm up again and felt demotivated, but I also recognize what a rare opportunity it is to visit such a moonscape at the metaphorical edge of the world. Also, the idea of spending the next 18 hours laying around in my sleeping bag did not appeal.

So I went in the opposite direction and heavily overdressed: all three of my jackets with the down parka stuffed in a backpack for safety. Primaloft overboots on top of my shoes and three pairs of socks. Primaloft shorts and knee warmers. A windproof balaclava over my hat and buff. We left the sleds behind as we planned to snowshoe for 90 minutes tops, heading further out the blown-in but slightly more distinguishable trail toward Wolf Run cabin. The temperature had dipped a little, closer to -8F, but the wind lost some strength in the forest. The air felt significantly warmer.

With my body's equilibrium back to normal, my mind broke away from physiological tunnel vision. Finally, both were free to explore this vast landscape. The way the mind wanders out here is unique, and something I hope to further explore in my posts about the second trip (insert pre-emptive navel-gazing alert here.) The afternoon light, rendered in rich pastels and softened by blowing snow, was surreal. Frost-crusted spruce trees swayed in the wind, looking a little like dancing skeletons and adding to the otherworldliness of this place. We followed the drainage of Colorado Creek itself, wending toward the Limestone Jags. My butt was still slightly numb, but my heart was at peace.

When we returned to the cabin, we were surprised to see our friend Eric. He had told us he might come out, but he was also sick with a cold, and trail conditions had not been all that conducive to fun biking. But he loaded up his panniers and rode out anyway, and we had a fun night of low-level cabin partying with ice cream cones, a big bottle of Fireball and more warm mush in bags.

The hike out was mostly uneventful. Temperatures dropped to -16F, but the wind had been reduced to a gentle breeze, so it felt more or less like summer. Eric passed us about three miles out after battling through thick drifts on the ridge, and likely zoomed the rest of the way out, as wind-polishing had also hardened the lower trail significantly since two days earlier. Beat found the iPod Shuffle that I dropped on the way out, and there was much rejoicing, since the small Shuffles aren't manufactured anymore, and are worth more than gold to me. My hamstrings were cramping on the descent, which seemed like a bad sign for our big trip coming up, but I chose not to dwell on it. It was Christmas Eve. The low sun set without shedding a hint of direct light on us. I never wanted to leave.

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!