Every day is like Sunday

In one of the better exchanges on my recent social media feeds, someone made a common observation that life in the spring of 2020 is a lot like the film "Groundhog Day." She was trying to remember how exactly it was that Bill Murray extracted himself from the purgatory of reliving the same day for eternity.

"He got out when he decided to stop being a selfish asshole and help others," was one response.

I was tempted to post the photo of that lockdown protester's painted windshield sign — "Your health is not more important than my liberties" — with my own response: "Then we're doomed."

I did not post this. I try to keep a lid on my cynicism about American culture, that our toxic combination of individualism, exceptionalism and division means we're going to weather a long and painful storm, and there's not a lot any of us can do about it. We donate to local causes while lamenting our loss of income amid a simultaneously fractured and flooded freelance economy. We try to "stay productive" while questioning if anything we do has any meaning. We try to connect with people but feel a strangeness about watching life happen behind a screen. We're grateful for safe spaces, but we also feel smothered by limitations. We're anxious about the disruptions, but also hungry for more lasting change.

It's a mess. I am braced for many more months of this storm. Something that drove it home this week was an expectation that most Google employees will keep working from home for the remainder of the year ... at least seven more months of the current routine. This brought a visceral flashback of being 16 years old, grounded to my bedroom for "sluffing" (skipping school), lying on the floor and listening to Morrissey sing about a coastal town so forlorn that only a nuclear bomb could jolt it from its stupor. My teenage mind embraced this as an anthem for the paradox of life: Expansive imagination, limited freedom.

"Every day is like Sunday. Every day is silent and gray."

Memories of this scene sparked a smile about all of the layers of relevance. If we (I) continue to act like a grounded teenager, we're just going to keep spinning our wheels, never getting anywhere. I recognized this attitude in myself this week when I felt overly exuberant every time I let myself out. The outdoors have become my personal shelter from the storm. Now more than ever, I need this break from my wild imagination and runaway ruminations. Seeking respite in anything, whether it's Morrissey or long bike rides, is briefly satisfying. But in the quieter hours, when despondency creeps closer to the surface, I realize I need to work toward a better balance.

All of this is a long way of saying that I enjoyed my physical activities but struggled with most everything else this week, which I suspect is the case with a lot of folks right now. My inner teenager is telling me the answer is "MOAR RUNNING" and I admit to giving in to these urges. It sure beats writing bad poetry, which I'll also admit that 40-year-old me is dangerously close to trying.

My stats for this past week ended up similar to the week before: 20 hours, 40 miles on foot, 90 miles on a bike, boatloads (20,000 feet) of climbing, but with two rest days to break it up nicely enough that I didn't feel physical effects until Monday, with similar complaints (Achilles tendon tightness, stiff calf muscles and some residual allergy symptoms.) Every May, as summer closes in, I go through a sort of seasonal mood slump that resembles what a lot of people experience in early winter. The allergy flare-ups, fierce solar glare and lip sunburns serve as a reminder that outside is becoming a less hospitable place. I know this sounds insane to sun-lovers. We all have our challenges.

May in Colorado usually provides some respite to smooth the transition. After a particularly wintry April, this May has been mostly a bust on the snow front. Disappointing. We did receive a dusting and temperatures in the high-20s on Friday morning, which just happened to the morning I planned an ambitious road bike ride. Unwilling to be deterred by winter weather on the one morning I wouldn't have wished for it, I just stuffed a few more layers in spare pockets and kept an eye out for black ice. It was a lovely misty morning and I felt fantastic, zipping up Lefthand Canyon and enjoying being the only cyclist on the road. Amid the brisk pace I simultaneously sweated and shivered for most of the climb. The sun came out just in time to melt the road ice for a long descent along Peak to Peak Highway and St. Vrain Canyon. The amazing effect of this route is that the 20-mile climb is not all that hard, and yet it affords a nearly uninterrupted 30-mile descent. It's an incredible ride beside sheer rock cliffs and a roiling whitewater creek, as thrilling as any amusement park rollercoaster, in my opinion. The only payment for such fun day out is the 12-mile grind from Lyons to Boulder on Highway 36, which on this day was a particularly hard slog into a rare southeasterly gale.

 My other notable outing this week was a long run with Beat on Sunday. He put together a route to leave from home and link the far-flung peaks of Twin Sisters and South Boulder in a perfect loop, with only two short out-and-back spurs to tag the peaks themselves. It was a rugged route with a lot of rocky trails and some overland 'shwhacking, demanding 8,000 feet of climbing in 28 miles (and 8,000 feet of descent, which on foot demands a whole lot of effort, unlike descending St. Vrain Canyon on a road bike.) I guessed it would take us nine hours to complete, and temperatures weren't supposed to climb much out of the 40s with a potential for afternoon rain. Still, my brain has shifted to summer mode. I packed a small hydration vest with two 16-ounce bottles of frozen-solid electrolyte drink, two liters of ice water, a water filter, a tiny 3-ounce wind jacket, thin gloves, thin beanie, and various electronics. The night before, I pre-packed each side pocket with an assortment of snacks, but then emptied one of the pockets to make room for my phone in the morning. I never re-packed these snacks or my phone. Subsequently, I had to appeal to Beat to let me carry his phone (I'm not sure I could mentally endure a nine-hour run without a camera.) I also realized that I was going to have to ration my food.

 We made our way around the backside of Twin Peaks and summited around mile 10. This photo shows our destination for many hours later, the two peaks in the middle — South Boulder on the right and Bear on the left. To get there, we would descend Eldorado Canyon (notch to the right) nearly all the way to the valley floor, then ascend 3,000 feet to the peak with close to a marathon on our legs already. Good fun!

 While scoping out satellite images, Beat discovered a faint old jeep track through Walker Ranch that might allow us to bypass paved road running altogether. I dislike 'shwhacking, especially during green-up season, but I was open to trying something new. The faint track quickly petered out, but the initial overland hiking through the old burn was easy enough. Then we started to descend into a gully. We crossed a small creek and ended up in a tangle of thorny brush and stacks of deadfall, and I was quick to lose my patience. Beat wanted to hike right of that rocky outcropping in the center of this photo, but having observed the hillside while taking the photo, I thought left looked far easier. He relented, we went left, and it wasn't all that bad. We spent close to 45 minutes hacking out this "shortcut" to avoid 1.5 miles of paved road running. Was it worth it? Yeah, it was probably worth it.

Beat has also recently discovered alternative trails around parts of the Walker Ranch loop, so we were able to get through much of this section while avoiding crowds.

 Descending toward a raging South Boulder Creek. Now about 19 miles into this route, I was beginning to feel bonked and particularly wobble-legged here. My inventory of remaining snacks, which I had rationed well so far, was one package of peanut M&Ms, one small package of fruit snacks, and half of a ham sandwich. I had hoped to save the fruit snacks for last, but faltered enough on the climb out of the canyon that I popped them like energy pills, in two big gulps.

This is the start of the long, rolling and bouldery descent into Eldorado Canyon. I was listening to the audiobook for "Labryinth of Ice," a gripping account of the Greeley Polar Expedition of 1881-1883. I had reached the chapters where the men, with food stores dwindling and a third winter closing in, staged an escape with small boats and sledges. The crumbling shelf ice swallows most of their gear, and they ultimately end up riding an ice floe to the northern coast of Greenland. There they build huts out of stone and moss, and attempt to hunt seal and walrus in anticipation of hunkering down for the entire Arctic winter.

As Beat and I loped easily if wobble-leggedly down the canyon, I contemplated this scenario — wiling away months of darkness and unfathomable cold in a seal-skin sleeping bag, moving as little as possible to conserve energy. I reflected on the last night of my last adventure, with its hours of 40 below and deep snow in the hills outside McGrath. It's difficult to understand the oppression of 40 below until you've experienced it. You're surrounded by a world capable of freezing flesh in a matter of minutes, and your only protection is a bubble of artificial insulation and the energy you burn to generate heat. As energy levels diminish, it feels like this sinister world is closing in on you. You understand fully just how fragile you are, and just how indifferent the world is to your needs. When I awoke to those crushing temperatures outside my sleeping bag in March, I swore I'd never take my warm bed for granted again. Only two months have passed, and that perspective is already fading.

Here in the present, on a cool but cloudless Sunday in Eldorado State Park, we encountered a crush of weekend crowds. We'd expected this. We've done well to avoid these popular spots. But after two months, and with no end in sight, we decided we were tired of staying away from our favorite trails just because they're crowded. I descended carefully with my buff pulled over my face. I thought I was ready to face the crowds, but it was disheartening to see just how little a seeming majority of people appear to care about anything. Maybe 1 in 20 were wearing face coverings, and people who were clearly not related to one another were crowding switchbacks in large groups, blocking passage in a way that required either sketchy off-trail scrambling, or simply busting straight through the crowd.

It's frustrating. Covering our faces in public and limiting social contact with people outside our households seem like simple acts that nearly everyone can accomplish. Common sense plainly shows how such distancing and blocking can reduce the exchange of respiratory droplets. That so few seem willing to do so, and then accuse those who do of blindly following politics, is baffling. I feel like grumbling, "This is the way biology works, people. It doesn't care about our affiliations." But this is the way things are, so we won't be returning to Eldo anytime soon. Shame. It's such a lovely place.

 We climbed out of Eldo through the greenest field I've yet seen. We live at 7,200 feet, and staying at home means I haven't spent much time at lower altitudes. It was lovely to see a place where spring is in full swing. Pasqueflowers were in full bloom, and cute little yellow blooms were popping up across the hillside. Unfortunately, there is something here that ignites my allergies, and my airways tightened as I climbed. Also unfortunately, my multiple switches from cycling to running packs this week resulted in accidentally leaving my inhaler at home. I had to deal with low-level asthma symptoms and breathing difficulties for much of the long climb up Shadow Canyon. Limited oxygen on top of low glycogen made for a hard battle up those final 3,000 feet of ascent.

 I was stoked to finally make it to the top of South Boulder Peak, a place that had looked so far in the distance just a few hours earlier. A day of exploring new trails with Beat, standing at the top of mountains, listening to a fantastic audiobook while reflecting on Alaska experiences, and drawing inspiration for our current challenges, all within the vicinity of home, made for a gratifying day.

Looking back at South Boulder Peak from the summit of Bear, which we hit for good measure before wrapping up the 28-mile loop. This was a great Sunday, and I wish every day could be like this Sunday. But when a tight Achilles tendon and creeping fatigue demanded a rest day on Monday, I all too quickly fell back into dark ruminations and moodiness. Striking a balance seems increasingly difficult right now, but I think I can take a lesson from "Groundhog Day" and the importance of finding ways to be both productive and helpful. It's difficult, because in other ways, our current plight feels similar to that of the forlorn Arctic explorers in the Greeley expedition, piecing together moss and stone huts as meager shelter from a brutal winter. And yet they must have survived, because somebody went on to share their story. I'll have to plan another long run so I can listen to the rest of the book and find out what happened. 

A dozen months go by as you wait for a sign

I knew stay-at-home life was starting to get to me when I planned a grocery run on Friday and anxiously anticipated it all week. Don't get me wrong; I dislike shopping on a good day. The current social distancing mandate nearly doubles the amount of time and discomfort in these tasks — wearing a breath-obstructing mask, standing in long outdoor lines under the hot sun, stacking a cart full of groceries twice so I can bag them in my car, wiping down everything I touch, and seriously why are the toilet paper shelves still empty? 

However, this week was the first I didn't need to get a catch-up allergy shot, which meant I'd have the stamina for some sort of adventure. Since I returned from Alaska, every outdoor activity I've embarked on has started from my front door. This would be the first time in weeks that I ventured a bit farther, so even the prospect of setting out from town was exciting. I pulled the road bike down from its wall mount, pumped up the tires, lubed the chain, and checked the top tube bag for the same light rain layers I was using last spring (so that's where that hat ended up!) Nearly a year has passed since I last rode this bike. Grit from the sudden storms that frequently washed through the canyons in May 2019 still clung to the frame. I brushed off the sand as I wistfully remembered those rides. How simple things were back then. I had such big plans for summer 2020. Training for the Silk Road Mountain Race called for big days in the saddle, and I schemed wide-ranging road rides like double passes over Trail Ridge Road, climbing Mount Evans from Evergreen, maybe even a multiday nostalgia tour (riding up to Wheatland, Wyoming and tracing my 2003 route back to Salt Lake City.) So many possibilities! 

 That was then. Now I live in a world where a grocery run feels like an adventure. It's not necessarily a bad thing. When we adjust expectations to match reality, perspective quickly follows. A three-hour blitz from North Boulder was excitement enough — especially with the potential for an up-close view of the mountains.

After what felt like a prolonged recovery from the Iditarod, I've rapidly rebuilt strength and stamina in the past two weeks. This surge of energy has weakened my resolve to keep things easy for a while, and I'd already logged a reasonably tough week of runs and rides before Friday. My legs were rubbery and the 85-degree heat felt oppressive. I pulled my buff over my face, intending to keep it up the whole ride — mostly for optics —but I'd forgotten how terribly difficult it can be to breathe through hot, saturated polyester. I managed ten miles before I cracked, and then just pulled it up when passing other cyclists. But I was passing other cyclists, an admittedly exhilarating feeling. Soon my rubbery muscles loosened and the heat faded behind a stiff but cool headwind. The road bike became an undetectable feather underneath me, and I felt like I was running on air with turbo engines strapped to my legs.

 The climb from Boulder to Brainard Lake gains a cool vertical mile — 5,400 feet with minimal rolling. Just beyond the gate I encountered far too much snow to continue, although I fantasized about slicing the narrow road tires through slush, "just like a hot knife in butter." I was less than two miles from an incredible mountain vista, and I realized then how much I wanted that — just to sit on that solitary bench near the shoreline and gaze upward.

But on this day, I did not have the tools to gain access to such a paradise. I only had a featherweight bike, so instead I turned around and gobbled up a 20-mile descent, complete with one short climb, in 45 minutes. The bike hit speeds of 44 mph, which is a little recklessly fast for a squirrely rider such as myself, who only hops on a road bike a handful of times each year. It was pure bliss though, as close to flying as any sensation I've felt. Road biking probably is the most risky activity I engage in, and yet I didn't feel unsettled until I pulled back up to my car, changed into street clothes, and switched out my snot-soaked Buff for a cute patterned facemask that I purchased from a Boulder woman who typically makes bike-commuting gear. What was this strange dread?

A recent Tweet from Joe Simpson, who narrowly escaped death during a mountaineering accident in the 80s and wrote a brilliant book about it, "Touching the Void," summed it up well: "It's quite odd driving to a supermarket idly and wondering if this is the moment I pick up a fatal disease and die. Never thought I'd have that thought process again."

I've wondered why I feel so rundown after these trips to town. In earlier weeks I blamed the allergy shots. Perhaps this week I can blame the vigorous road ride. Either way, "town day" is often my most draining part of the week. I'll slump home, feeling vaguely out of sorts. I'll develop a headache, and become convinced my throat is scratchy. I'll pop a bunch of vitamin C and check my temperature and SpO2. Nothing's out of the ordinary. Just hypochondria again. Or is it? 

Consciously, I don't feel like I'm irrationally scared of COVID-19. I take it seriously, both because I want to be a good citizen, and also because I suspect I have a fair chance of serious complications. I contracted a simple case of pneumonia in 2015 that took me down several notches; things haven't been the same since. Now I'm a person with underlying conditions, asthma and Graves Disease. Still, I've spent years teaching myself how to embrace fears. I also believe the science that shows how most of us will likely be exposed to this eventually. I'm capable of acceptance and an "it will be what it will be" sort of attitude. As I move toward accepting that this is going to be with us for a while, however, despondency creeps in. If going to the grocery store feels this weird and arduous, how can travel happen again? Or racing? Riding and running with friends? Visiting my parents? I maintain a great deal of freedom and movement, and I relish these simple joys still. But it's difficult to let go of anticipation and future dreams that so recently were just an ordinary part of life.

Saturday dawned misty and gray. It was nice to see some proper spring weather, something I've missed since we skipped directly from winter to summer. Beat and I had a long run planned for Sunday, and I intended to rest up beforehand. I spent the morning cleaning the basement and chipping away at a writing project that currently feels like hammering a flimsy nail into stone. Malaise was building and I decided to combat it with a bike ride.

"I'll be gone an hour, tops," I told Beat. Heavy thunderstorms were forecast to hit at 4 p.m., and I was leaving at 2 p.m., so the motivation was there to keep it short. But as I pedaled into the cool afternoon, my legs felt amazingly peppy. With limited effort I could fly up the hills, feeling strong enough that I checked my watch near the start of a coveted 2.5-mile Strava segment. In four years I've posted 75 rides through this segment, so PRs are not easy to come by these days ... I haven't cracked the top ten since 2018. But I decided to for it. At mile two I dabbed in a muddy mess of ruts. I thought for sure I'd lost it, but my watch was still showing reasonable progress. I charged all the way to the top of the hill only to encounter a truck inching up the final pitch. The vehicle stalled on a sand-covered slab and stopped, blocking the entire road. There was no way around. After wavering a few seconds I threw my bike over my shoulder and sprinted up a side slope. The driver probably thought I was nuts. I was tempted to yell "STRAVA" as I ran past, but did not.

I missed my PR by two seconds. But I snagged a few other long-standing segments. I felt so pumped that I just had to continue riding. I descended the rutted county road and pedaled toward a usually quiet forest road that winds toward the reservoir. The road was still gated, and there were only a few cars at the trailhead on this cool and gray afternoon. Despite sandy conditions I managed a few more PRs on lesser-traveled segments. In doing so, I turned my relaxing one-hour ride into 20 miles of tempo with 3,000 feet of climbing. Beat said if I crapped out on Sunday, he would have no sympathy. I replied that it was worth it.


Beat and I have missed long runs. Even with potentially nothing to train for this year, we still long for a proper beatdown on rough and interesting terrain. We schemed a run that would allow us to both leave from home and explore new terrain. The route linked a couple of trails that until now had been dead ends to us, tracing remnants of social trails and old roadbeds. We try to avoid trespassing, so Beat cross-checked his track with a property map to ensure we stayed on county and national forest land. Even close to home, we can still find some lovely trails that see little use.

 "Little use" sometimes means lots of slogging. This shaded traverse held onto a lot of snow, and it took us a while to bust through. Shortly after I took this photo, Beat lost a shoe and bloodied his knee.

 Connectors also require some road running. Jogging toward this pasture, I thought, "those people sure have a lot of horses." As we passed by, I realized it was a herd of elk.

 We ran toward the trailhead for the forest road where I rode my bike the previous day. I was amazed at what an out-of-control zoo it had become on this sunnier and slightly warmer Sunday. Vehicles were parked up and down the county road a half-mile away in both directions, blocking driveways and obstructing the traffic lanes so much that it was barely passable one way. Cars passed constantly, and we occasionally had to jump onto steep side slopes to let them through. Thanks to a 4WD-only connector, this spot is essentially located on a dead-end spur off of a secondary dirt road — about as far from the beaten path as you can find in Boulder County. To see it so crowded, after years of appreciating its relative emptiness was ... strange. This scene also had a somewhat dystopian feel, like dodging a zombie mob with off-leash dogs. I'm not afraid they're going to pass around a virus; I'm afraid they're going to run us over in this seemingly blind rush to fill a void of time.  I concede that I can't criticize people recreating if I am also out recreating in the same place. It's just strange, that's all. Where do all of these people go when it's not the end of the world? Theaters and stores, I suppose. It's just as well that they're enjoying the great outdoors, but I wish it could be done in a less noxious way.

Anyway, we were grateful to leave the busy road and veer onto an empty trail, where we hiked and scrambled to the top of Twin Sisters Peak. The altitude of this peak is 8,700 feet, making it one of the highest in the region. It seems to be seldom visited. Access is limited by several miles of road walking on either side (or a decent 4WD vehicle) so even I don't come here often. This was Beat's first visit. He was impressed. The panoramic views here are incredible, stretching from the plains to a vast mountain skyline, from Longs Peak to Mount Evans.

Our original plan had us descending Flagstaff Road and returning via Walker Ranch, but we wanted to stay away from the inevitable crowds. Instead we made our way down a faint jeep road to another social trail, quickly reconnecting to the traverse to Meyers Gulch. Despite having to climb around frequent deadfall, wade deep snow and bash through thorny bushes that ripped my shins to shreds, we agreed this was an ideal sneak and vowed to return.

This detour lengthened our overall route just enough that we started talking about tacking on four more miles to round out the run to a 26.2-mile marathon. We did so in the hardest way possible, marching straight up a long-neglected old road behind our neighborhood. But we got it done, and I felt reasonably energetic and loose the entire time, despite the lack of long runs in recent weeks, and despite riding my bike a little too hard for two days prior. I did become dehydrated, having carried only three liters of water for seven hours in the hot sun (the transition from winter to spring always throws me for a loop, because with a seemingly minimal shift from 35 degrees to 65 degrees, I go from needing a liter of liquid to a gallon.) My payment for indulging in a long run has been a mild headache and a tight Achilles (argh, how I abhor my right Achilles tendon. This "touch of tendonitis" has been an ongoing issue for two years now. I can drag a sled 300 miles over deep snow with no problems, but will it let me climb hills or run a couple dozen miles? No!)

Also, today — Monday — I have been feeling emotionally down ... more so than I have in weeks, when I first began to come around from the shock of March. I could blame the latest headlines about bursts of new cases and deaths as states collectively decide to just get on with it ... that's part of it, sure. But I also need to consider a likely tipping point when I become a little too zealous with physical activity, especially after so recently recovering from such a hard Iditarod.  I took a rest day today, but I still feel down. That's just the way things are right now — such a rollercoaster of emotions, trying to balance wildly undulating uncertainties, even as day-to-day life slows down.

So it's funny, and maybe just a little bit sad, that when I ponder what might cheer me up, I immediately turn my thoughts to my upcoming trip to town, and where I might ride my road bike when that exciting day comes. 

Figured out, I'm good

Note: Thank you for all of your comments on my last post. It was really fun to have a good old-fashioned blog comment conversation with you.  

This week, for the first time since I stepped off the Iditarod Trail on March 10, I started dreaming about a next adventure. It was a breakthrough. It meant that not only did I believe in *a* future (I admit, my mind really catastrophized the first weeks of COVID reality), but a future in which I could still move through the world and seek risky yet exhilarating experiences. It can't be so just yet, but someday, perhaps sooner than I imagine, more adventures will be had. This perspective has boosted my mood more than I even expected, and allowed me to acknowledge that I still have issues to work through regarding my recent Iditarod adventure.

 "You need to figure out how to forgive yourself," my counselor concluded after our online session this week. It's been nice to hear an objective assessment because I'd convinced myself I was totally fine with how my Iditarod effort turned out this year. Even if I'd continued beyond McGrath, I was never going to reach Nome before travel restrictions and community shutdowns ended my attempt. And the trip to McGrath alone left me so worn down that I spent the next month deep in a recovery hole, convinced that my autoimmune disease had resurged. I shudder to think how bad things could have become if I'd pushed my body any farther. And, anyway, there are more pressing issues in the world right now. Races are not important. But I'm disappointed. I am. And I'm angry with myself. I am. And it's good to just admit this and then figure out how to work through it.

Surrounding this acceptance is an acknowledgment that I need to let go. I'm not going back next year for another attempt — even if there is an Iditarod race next year, which I think will remain in question for a while yet. On Wednesday I joined a Zoom meeting with several of the women who raced the Iditarod this year, along with two dozen others who wanted to listen in and ask questions. It was a lot of fun to get together with all of these ladies again, especially in the context of our weird at-home quarantine lives across four time zones, rather than in close quarters on the snowbound trail. I laughed harder than I have in a while. But the meeting held a hint of sadness for me as well. The other women seemed so pumped about the future, whereas I'm not sure when or if I'll ever go back. The Iditarod has been such a huge part of my life, and Beat's life, that's it's extremely hard to imagine moving on. But moving on feels important for me ... which is why I was talking about 2020 being my last attempt months before the event itself. I need to envision a future with variables that extend beyond the cycle I've ridden a bit too comfortably for years — for more reasons than one, I now realize.

 I will admit, though — old habits and coping mechanisms do not go down easily. A couple of weeks ago, after it started to seem likely that we won't be traveling to Asia or Europe this summer, Beat mentioned he might try fastpacking the Colorado Trail with his friend Daniel. I've been talking about hiking the Colorado Trail for years now, but never too seriously because we travel so much during the summer, and a thru-hike is weeks if not months of investment in one thing. Amusingly, after Beat mentioned fastpacking, I looked up the fastest known times and discovered the women's self-supported record is still reasonably attainable — 15 days, 2 hours for 486 miles. This works out to about 32 miles a day on average. That's exactly what I was trying to do on the Iditarod Trail. Sure it's at altitude with more climbing. It's tougher terrain as well, but with a much smaller load. And no deep snow! And no snowshoes! And no 40 below! Hmm, I thought, there's a way I could try to avenge my DNF without going back to the ITI!

Ah, well. Well ... sigh.

Still, a solo hike across Colorado in September has been a nice dream to carry in my still-tired heart. On Thursday I got out for my first mountain excursion since I returned from Alaska, joining Beat for a quick evening jaunt to Bear Peak. The summit is just three trail miles from our front door, but I've continued to mostly avoid trails in order to remove myself from crowds. Leaving around dinnertime was a good move, as we saw one couple near the trailhead and then nobody after that. We had to peak to ourselves, a rare occurrence at any time. I felt uneasy as I teetered and stumbled over the rocks — it's been so long since I've done any sort of scrambling. Still, my heart was soaring. The jagged spine, the red rocks, the sheer scope of the plains 3,000 feet below our feet — all of it jaw-dropping, as though I'd never seen this view before. April 24 marked four years since we arrived at our new home in Boulder, so I did a quick glance through Strava segments to figure out how many times I've been to the top of Bear. The answer is at least 88 times. It had become this mundane thing, but now my perspective has been renewed. In some ways, stay-at-home mandates are similar to a creative writing prompt. You have these limitations to work with. What do you see in them?

And yes, I recognize the laughable nature of thinking of an 8,500-foot mountain as a "limitation" when some folks are confined to apartments and neighborhood streets. But it is interesting how — no matter who or where we are — each one of our "everyday lives" becomes mundane ... until it isn't.

 On Saturday, Beat was jazzed to join me for a bike ride. This too was a momentous occasion, as Beat doesn't really ride bikes anymore. Don't believe me? He's recorded 88 miles so far in 2020 and 149 miles for all of 2019. But while travel is restricted, bikes are the best adventure vehicle even for somewhat reluctant cyclists. Beat and I schemed a 50-mile loop from the front door, sticking almost entirely to dirt and trails — with one gut-punching pavement climb — and a potential off-trail shortcut to get home. The weather was cooler and breezier than ideal — about 45 degrees with 10-20 mph winds out of the west, so we usually had to battle headwinds while climbing. My comfort level alternated between shivering in the icy wind, and sweating because I was overdressed for 45 degrees.

 Beat routed us through the East Mag trails, which I've recently avoided during my long rides because I always seem to be in a hurry to get somewhere else. On this day we were racing only daylight, and singletrack seemed a good addition to the adventure. I thought we'd run into some snow, but not a foot of slushy sludge covering most of the trail system. Beat took it in stride because his bum was already hurting and he appreciated the hiking break. I had a visceral reaction to pushing my bike through the snow — something closer to anger than annoyance. I was over it before we even started. It was just too close to the arduous conditions on this year's Iditarod Trail, and I wasn't ready to confront them, just yet.

 But then we were riding bikes again and all was well. I showed Beat my dirt-road bypass around the Peak to Peak Highway, which I discovered sometime last year. He appreciated the scenic views and quiet, traffic-free corridor. "This makes it a totally different ride," he said. Even though we still needed to gain a thousand feet of altitude here, it did feel like a pain-free sneak around the drudgery of the pavement climb.

 Then we hit the Switzerland Trail, which I expected to be slushy and muddy. After seeing the snow conditions on East Mag, I worried it would be impassable. But heavy four-wheeler traffic kept it slushy and muddy.

 The slush proved arduous, and we rode and pushed hard to stay ahead of trucks that were plowing through the slop behind us. Even with the beautiful weather on a Saturday afternoon, we'd enjoyed relatively quiet riding — with the strange exception of this segment. As we dropped below the snow line, there seemed to be cars and people everywhere. One driver in a black jeep shot out from a side road, cutting me off so closely that I had to skid and swerve into a side ditch. He also cut off an oncoming red jeep. Both vehicles slammed on their brakes, and the black jeep stayed in place, blocking the entire road. Soon I heard yelling, so I swerved around the mess and beat a quick retreat to the Sugarloaf trailhead. I may need to put Switzerland Trail on my list of places to avoid during weekends until shelter-in-place restrictions are lifted, and people find better ways to disperse.

 With 4,000 feet of climbing on our legs, we began the long ascent up Magnolia. It's a gut-buster from the start, with 17-percent grades that top 20-percent around a few switchbacks. It's been so long that I'd almost forgotten that sensation, where I'm grinding at red-line effort and still certain the rear wheel is going to stall and I'll topple over. We ground out another 2,000 feet to the point where my "Homestead sneak" met the road. I'd scouted this shortcut on foot in February. Like then, the hillside was completely snow-covered. I balked at cutting up the fall line like I'd done in February, when I was trying to escape post-holing and was no longer following what had already become an increasingly faint trail. In searching for a more obvious entrance this time around, we climbed too high. Then we bashed around in the woods for several minutes before I insisted we "cut our losses" and take the long way home. This meant trading five miles and two small climbs for 13 more miles and five small-to-medium climbs. But it involved no snow wallowing, no bushwhacking, and I was sure it would still be faster and easier than hashing out this shortcut. Beat, with his hiker-adventurer preferences and sore bum, was a good sport about my decision.

The sun was setting as we returned home — seven hours, 50 miles, and 7,400 feet of climbing in a perfectly timed ride. It was a gorgeous evening.

Sunday, in turn, was a chore day. After we finished gathering firewood last week, I mentioned to Beat that this hard-labor project was somewhat fun, and maybe we should consider harvesting more good pinewood for the coming winter. Careful what you wish for. Beat found two dead trees to fell, both located down a steep slope about 200 meters from the house. With the snow now melted, I had to employ Allen the Taskmaster to drag logs up the hill, then stack them next to the garage. Each log must have weighed 15-25 pounds, and I tried to take three at a time, huffing up the bumpy hillside as the 70-degree sun beat down. I was drenched in sweat and wobble-legged by the third haul, and I ended up doing about a dozen of these hauls.

 Beat cuts away at the "slash pile." He seemed to be having too much fun with his chainsaw, but I'm not pretending it isn't hard work, too. He worked for three-plus hours and I logged two hours of hauling. It was harder than riding a bike for seven hours. Originally I was going to run today, but not after this. I was knackered.

Beat hauled a few loads in the old sled, and it seemed to work okay despite the lack of snow. I wonder if we'll do this again next week. I should probably try to tear out cheatgrass from the flower beds before we have too much green-up. I enjoy the yard work and it's a nice excuse to spend more time outside, appreciating my surroundings. But this doesn't change the fact I'm still allergic to spring (less so than before, thanks to allergy shots, but not immune), and COVID times are not the best times to become a sneezy, red-faced mess. But it is nice to continue to pursue hard labor projects and long bike rides as simple yet effective ways to calm a restless mind.