Return to mountains

 It's been another one of those weeks, hasn't it? Despite my efforts to limit time on social media, I still caught some of the terrible videos that have been circulating. I may have spent nearly as much time crying in the bathroom as I did during those emotionally volatile weeks in mid-March. But it is beginning to seem like positive change is happening. Coronavirus may still have the upper hand, but there's reason to believe that the deeper, more persistent diseases in our society are, at the very least, rising to the surface and being exposed to the light.

I've been fairly quiet on social media because this seems like a time to watch and listen rather than interject. But in the context of this blog, I think it is important to address the issue of diversity in the outdoors. I believe outdoor endeavors can add so much beauty, joy, personal growth and understanding to people's lives. Over the years I've followed several organizations that work to empower underrepresented women to opt outside:

Black Girls Trekking: A couple of years ago, I read an article in the Guardian about the anxiety of hiking while black. Embarrassing as this is to admit, it didn't occur to me until recently just how justifiably vulnerable women of color can feel when it comes to "bad things that happen in the woods." This organization focuses on equipping individuals with knowledge and support to address these fears and confidently venture outside.

Unlikely Hikers: Jenny Bruso launched an impressive initiative with this group, which promotes the stories of underrepresented individuals and, prior to the pandemic, organized dozens of group hikes all over the country. She welcomes anybody who sees themselves as an "unlikely hiker," including people of size, people of color, people with disabilities, queer, trans, gender-nonconforming, and others.

Color Outside: This group offers workshops, retreats and coaching for people of color. 

Indigenous Women Hike: An Instagram-based community of indigenous women who find healing and connection to the land through hiking. In 2018 they led a hike on Nüümü Poyo — also known as the John Muir Trail — while exploring the often-uncomfortable truths and complex history surrounding the region. Their stories have led me to work harder to learn the names and histories of ancestral lands that I have grown to love.

Native Women's Wilderness: Another group that works to bring indigenous women together in the outdoors. The nonprofit organization has been raising funds to send COVID-19 relief packages to the Navajo Nation.

The BIPOC Bike Adventure Grant: Bikepacking Roots created this grant program to reduce barriers so black, indigenous, and people of color can discover the joys of this relatively new and admittedly homogeneous sport. The grant is set up to help recipients pursue adventure by bicycle, whatever their vision of adventure might be. It seems a worthy cause to donate a few dollars, after putting your money to work in justice-seeking organizations such as the NAACP Legal Defense Fund, Southern Poverty Law Center, etc.

I'm incredibly grateful for the time I was able to spend outside this week. After what feels like — and in fact, was — months away, I was finally able to venture toward the higher mountains along the Continental Divide. Our home peaks and trails have been nice, but I missed these mountains in a visceral way. I even started to dream about them ... once the anxiety dreams about the Iditarod Trail began to fade, I started seeing alpine tundra and craggy ridges in my sleep.

Anyway, on Wednesday most of the snow along Brainard Lake Road had melted, and I was finally able to coax my road bike all the way to the basin — 50 miles and 5,600 feet of almost continuous climbing toward the puffy white clouds in the sky. Physically, I've been feeling a bit off this week — I'm not sure if it's the emotional turmoil, recovery from Beat's birthday run, the fact that it's June and June is just a bad month for me, or a simple environmental shifts such as heat, pollen, etc. Really, it could be anything. My watch hasn't even been scolding me for unproductive workouts, but my fitness feels like it's slipping a bit. That's okay.

I will mention that I finally had a check-in with my endocrinologist two weeks ago. Throughout March and early April, I grappled with night sweats, more debilitating anxiety, high blood pressure, high resting heart rate, and other classic symptoms of Graves Disease — which, I acknowledged, could also be classic symptoms of being undone by an endurance race. So I waited until May to get checked, and was surprised by the results. My blood pressure had dropped to 100/60 — borderline low. My thyroid hormone levels are on the low end of normal, and my TSH is higher than it was in November, and now nearing the high end of normal range. I became concerned that the Hashimotos antibodies I carry may have been activated, but my doctor didn't seem worried. There's not much I can do about it unless my TSH skyrockets, and for the most part I feel fine, so I'm optimistic. I am also very relieved that Graves Disease hasn't relapsed, because the implications would be more serious.

On Thursday, Beat and I headed to Rocky Mountain National Park to ride Trail Ridge Road. After the park re-opened in late May, I'd hoped to head up for one ride before the highway opened to vehicles. I planned a date and Beat took the afternoon off. Then, on Wednesday night, the park announced the road would open the following morning. Blast. Beat doesn't love riding roads, so I thought he wouldn't want to deal with national park traffic — which can be the most annoying kind of traffic. But I had talked up my love of the scenery on this route enough that he still wanted to try it out.

We got a relatively late start and the weather became intermittently stormy as soon as we hit the road. We climbed toward 12,000 feet, where the wind was biting and sinister clouds gathered around the peaks. Thunder rumbled, and at times we were surrounded by curtains of rain, but managed to dodge all but a few errant sprinkles. The views were lovely but we were buffeted by a hard-gusting, quartering headwind that knocked us around quite a bit — especially me, who made the mistake of riding a gravel bike rather than a more stable mountain bike. We descended to the Alpine Visitor Center in hopes of escaping on the still-closed Old Fall River Road. We knew the gravel alternate was likely still buried in occasional snowdrifts, but we were willing to endure some hike-a-bike rather than descend with the bully wind threatening to blow us off ledges or into traffic. But the route was closed with a ranger guarding the entrance. The entire visitor center was blocked behind tape, so the only wind-break was the outhouse, which we huddled behind to eat our sandwiches. Even with a coat, I was shivering by the time we got going again. I think it was close to 90 degrees in Denver that day, but there's something about that Trail Ridge corridor that holds onto winter, almost year-round. I sure do love it up there.

Sunday brought us back, finally, to the edge of the Indian Peaks wilderness. Since April, recreationists have been out in droves and everything feels much more crowded than last year. Given my support for more inclusivity and diversity in the outdoors, I won't complain. But the recent explosion in outdoor activity has made it more difficult to find places where we can enjoy late starts and solitude in a half-day of hiking. Niwot Ridge is no secret, but it feels like one of those places. We'll take one of the last open spots in a large parking lot, push through a steady stream of family hikers along a half-mile of the Sourdough Trail, then veer over to the rugged doubletrack that climbs to the research station. Often we'll see nobody. On Sunday, we saw about a half-dozen other groups spread out over four hours.

Niwot Ridge is our go-to spot for testing winter gear, because it is home to some of the most fearsome weather in Colorado. It's a treasure trove of extreme conditions, which is why CU built a series of research stations along the ridge. Winds frequently top 90mph, and it's rare to find any winter day without a 50mph gust. Windchills dip far below zero, and it's nearly impossible to remain upright, let alone walk directly into the wind. Thus, it's perfect for Alaska training.


The research station buildings are currently locked tight. These weather-ravaged sheds look a bit apocalyptic in the best of times. The waterlogged COVID-19 signs really make it seem like a place left behind at the end of the world.

Returning to Niwot Ridge feels like coming home. But it also feels strange in June, when I can make the ascent from the trailhead to the boxcar shelter in just over an hour rather than three, and then march confidently into the teeth of the wind without feeling like it might take my life at any moment. We made quick time to far research station, about 6.5 miles from the trailhead, and continued a bit farther along the rocky and increasingly narrow ridge that rises toward Navajo Peak.

We headed up there mainly for the views, and to look for a wind-sheltered spot to eat our sandwiches. I wanted a closer look at the ridge, to assess whether I could work up the courage to climb Navajo Peak someday. The answer is no. There's a nasty-looking chimney — shown right of Beat's head — and as it turns out that's a false summit, not even all that close to the real summit. I love mountains, but I sure am afraid of mountains. I even teetered uncomfortably while picking my way along the boulders. Every summer my body gives me fewer reasons to trust it on dangerous terrain. I fear I am slipping farther away from many of my Colorado ambitions, rather than building the experience and confidence I hoped would develop when we moved here four years ago. I'll probably never attempt a mountain ultra like the Ouray 100, an Indian Peaks traverse, or the Nolans 14 line. At this point, I'll be stoked if I can coax myself up Longs Peak someday. My mountain legs just haven't materialized. The season is too short, the rocky training grounds too distant, the sense of balance too precarious, for me to hold much hope that I'll ever become a competent traveler in this world. But I can still visit. And I can still dream.

A few large snowfields remained lower on the ridge, and it was fun to break out into an awkward, loping run for the descent. The afternoon heat and rapidly rotting snowpack turned the surface into a slippery, punchy minefield perfect for destroying ankles, but I let loose all the same. I wish I could be so carefree all of the time. It feels like so much time has passed since I last relished such an unhindered sense of freedom — the wind, the snow, the vast horizon of hills and plains spread out in front of me. The wait was worth it. 

I always believed in futures

I’m unusually heartbroken about the world.

Heartbroken must be a default state for anyone who lives in the world — at least for anyone who pays attention. But I think many U.S. citizens will agree that the last week of May was one of the more heartbreaking weeks in our shared memories. It began with the Sunday New York Times headline “U.S. deaths near 100,000, an incalculable loss,” and ended with another full-banner headline, “Spreading unrest leaves a nation on edge.”

The uncertainties are amassing like storm clouds, pulsing with lightning. You count the seconds before thunder, listening to each boom grow louder as skies darken. You look across the landscape, this world you love. The grass is pale green, tinged with brown. The aspen trees are parched; their brittle leaves crackle in the gale. The mountains are a patchwork of beetle-kill spruce, with needles as orange as the flames you fear will soon consume them. This is the world you love, ravaged by drought and buckling under erosion — centuries of racial inequality, environmental destruction, cultural ennui, widening divisions, fraying leadership, a global pandemic, social isolation, and economic devastation. Now the storm has arrived.

You know that many of the circumstances that caused this drought are wrong. You acknowledge your role in its spread, especially those of us who were sheltered and privileged enough to not quite understand its reach until it arrived at our doorstep. You’re ready to stand with your garden hose and fight what you can. But you also understand that the storm doesn’t care. There’s little you can do now but watch the sky, and wait.

I felt distinctly heartbroken this week. I promised Beat I would limit the time I spent reading newspapers and hot takes on Twitter, but I couldn’t look away. Knowledge, understanding and truth are still more important to me than pleasant distraction, even as my emotional outlook spirals. I tried to concentrate on writing projects that still bring comfort and reflection, but the heartbreak was too overwhelming to make much progress. The heat of summer doubled down, bringing thunderstorms every afternoon. They came so early this year. And it’s already been such a long year. Like many, I soothe myself by counting the days until December, when everything that happened this year will be over. But I know time doesn’t work that way.

Sunday was Beat’s birthday. I’ve been more resistant to some of his recent adventure ideas — many which involve carrying a bicycle up and down brush-choked hills to reach dubious social trails — but I told him I’d join him for whatever he wanted to do this weekend. He did not surprise me with a less-than-easy answer: He wanted to run the Boulder Skyline, a popular route that tags the five prominent peaks over the city, plus an oft-overlooked hill called Anemone. But since it’s so popular — thus crowded — and since it’s now the hot, hot summer, he wanted to run it at night. As in, start at sunset and run the 26-mile loop, with all of its technical rocky trails and lurking predators, in the dark, until dawn.

“That sounds horrible,” I replied. But I had agreed to do anything he wanted.

Saturday was a bad day for thunderstorms. They began early, with thunder booming overhead before 11 a.m. Bands of strong wind and rain moved past our house throughout the afternoon. We originally planned to start running at 6 p.m. Dark clouds prompted us to move it back to 7 p.m. That time came and went as we lingered at our front door, listening to thunder rumbles.

 “As long as we’re not too close to Green when it moves overhead, we’ll probably have reasonable protection,” I reasoned. Of course, you never know. Last year, a man and woman were struck by lightning in a wooded area just over a mile from our house. The man died. This spot was directly on our route. We’d pass by in less than a half-hour. You never know what might happen. But at some point, you’re going to either decide to hide indoors all summer or take your chances with the world.

So we headed out under sprinkling rain. Beat asked if I was going to put on a rain jacket. “No, it’s still way too hot,” I grumbled. I love the outdoors but I’d probably hide from summer if I could, if I believed my mental state wouldn’t crack entirely.

We ran down our road, and I fired up my music. This red iPod Shuffle sat unused for months, ever since I spent most of a day meticulously curating a playlist. It was an unusually warm day in January, and I was laid up in bed with the respiratory virus I fought for most of the month. I thought I would need a particularly motivating playlist for my Nome attempt, so I combed through thousands of mP3s as well as old CDs and chose 250 songs that I thought would generate the best memories, the richest nostalgia. I titled the list “Iditarod 2020 — Songs for the hard times.” But then the whole Iditarod was hard. I never removed this iPod from my bag of trail electronics, where it still sat in May.

 When I turned on the red Shuffle, the first random song sparked a few tears — as many things have this week. Jimmy Eat World released “Futures” around the time I moved to Alaska. I must have listened to that album dozens of times while training through the winter for my first Susitna 100. It still evokes visceral memories of pedaling along the Homer Spit while icy waves crashed on the shoreline. The album’s title track from 2004 really feels like something for … now.

“I … I always believed in futures. 
I hoped for better in November. 
I try the same, losing lucky numbers. 
It could be a cold night for a lifetime. 

Hey now, you can’t keep saying endlessly, 
My darling, how long until this affects me? 

… 

I … I always could count on futures. 
That things would look up, and they look up. 
Why is it so hard to find a balance 
Between decent living, and the cold and real? 

The gray sky deepened; I couldn’t tell if the storm was closing in, or if this was just twilight. We climbed through a mist-shrouded forest on empty trails and arrived at the top of Green Mountain. The western mountains were fully obscured. It looked as though night had already arrived along a shadowy strip of the eastern plains. To the south was an undeniably nasty storm, a solid gray curtain lit up by frequent lightning flashes.

We started moving quickly down the mountain, but within minutes the storm was on top of us. Fierce rain pelted my shirt and face, but it was still too hot to bother with a jacket. We both counted the seconds before thunder. Six seconds. Five seconds.

“This cell isn’t that close,” I reasoned. But it felt close. We kept running. By the time we reached Flagstaff Mountain, darkness brought an illusion of calm. Curtains of lightning moved farther east, and the sky grew quiet. The half-moon illuminated the clouds, already breaking apart.

We descended toward the city lights. I found myself looking toward Denver, still shrouded by storm clouds, and wondered if we might see something alarming from this distance — a large building on fire, or plumes of black smoke. We kept running.

Our second big climb was Sanitas, a favorite of mine and everyone else in Boulder … which means it needs to be avoided if one wants to avoid crowds. I hadn’t visited since February. We moved more slowly than usual, with fatigue already settling in. I noticed uniform stone steps over what was once a chaos of boulders and roots.

 “Look at all the trail work they’ve done,” I said to Beat.

 “Huh?” he replied, and I continued. “Maybe this was all here last time. I suppose I wouldn’t necessarily notice; I’m usually redlined.”

We sat on the abandoned summit and enjoyed our sandwiches as we gazed across the mesmerizing grid of lights. The soft twinkles beneath a patchwork of moonlit clouds were so peaceful. Such a beautiful illusion. We continued down the long and runnable trail into Sunshine Canyon, then commenced the always unexpectedly harsh ascent to Anemone.

While traversing that rolling ridge, I heard the loud echo of sirens and saw a stream of spinning red and blue lights along what looked like 28th Street. That could be anything, I thought. I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly midnight. I picked up my pace to catch Beat and wish him a happy birthday. He was still moving well, while I was beginning to experience that fatigue slump where it feels like I don’t have complete control of my legs. So I was surprised, as he came back into view, to see him topple forward, feet overhead as his body pitched sideways. I sprinted toward him, fearing the worst because it looked like he hit his head. But he was okay, just scraped up and bleeding from both knees. I wondered if both of us were going to return home bloody. It’s been quite some time since I made it through a long run on these Boulder Skyline trails without some sort of mishap involving gravity. And running all of them in darkness was something I’d never tried.

 We descended to the city and cut through a park, where we stopped to fill up our drinking water from a fountain we were surprised was still functioning. I wiped the fountain down with Wet Wipes while Beat sat and did the same on his mangled palms and knees. A person with a budget bicycle slept soundly in a nearby picnic area. We continued along Sixth Street toward Chautauqua, brazenly running through one of the wealthier neighborhoods in town after 1 a.m. I thought about all of the privilege that allowed me to do so without feeling fear — that these residents were unlikely to call the cops on us, and even if they did, I wasn’t too worried about it because we weren’t doing anything wrong. I marveled that there was ever a time when I believed that not being wrong was enough. Such incredible privilege. A strong mix of emotions surged through my tired body.

The harsh beauty of our Skyline route is that it saves all of the toughest parts for last. We had just started the boulder staircase climb up Fern Canyon when we started seeing droplets and then pools of blood along the trail. The blood looked far too fresh to belong to an injured dog or hiker. It was 2 a.m. Who else was out here? Just when I started to think about predators, we came upon the carcass of a coyote pup, seemingly very recently dropped by whatever carried it up here. I looked around as primal fear took over. Did we spook a mountain lion away from its snack? Even a pup seemed like a big thing for a bobcat to carry, although this may have been the work of another coyote. Or a black bear. None of these were animals I necessarily wanted to meet in the night.

We continued crawling up Fern, and I kept hearing rustling in the brush and shining my headlamp toward pairs of eyes lurking in the shadows. Most of these incidents were probably imaginary. Strange how we’re programmed to default to fear, even when fear can’t possibly protect us.

When we reached the top of Bear Peak I felt relieved, although there was no reason to believe this spot was safer than anywhere else. The thunderstorms were long gone, and we were too many thousands of feet above the city to hear sirens. City lights spread out like a tranquil sea in front of us, as islands of residential lights twinkled amid an expanse of darkness to the west. It was a peaceful place to share with Beat when there were no other humans around for miles. In fact, we hadn’t seen another person on the trails since we started. Beat noted that this alone was worth running through the night. I agreed.

We tagged the top of South Boulder Peak, and I was beginning to believe I’d make it through this whole thing without tripping and falling or rolling my ankle. I had been so convinced it would happen that I was carrying an elastic bandage and extra Wet Wipes to mop up the inevitable blood. I am prone to catastrophic thinking. I tend to imagine worst-case scenarios so I’m either mentally prepared or pleasantly surprised. I reminded myself that I really have no way of knowing the future. It’s far past time to get on board with some optimism and direct my actions toward the future I want to believe in.

 “… Hey now, the past is told by those who win. 
My darling, what matters is what hasn’t been. 
Hey now, we’re wide awake and we’re thinking, 
My darling, believe your voice can mean something.” 

Crimson light appeared on the eastern horizon as we descended toward home. I started stumbling more and slowed my pace to be especially cautious. I’d only just embraced a glimmer of optimism. I didn’t need bloody knees now. Even though he was injured and just as sleep-deprived as me, Beat seemed elated. He thrives on these absurd adventures, which is why he chose this for his birthday.

“See, this was fun,” he teased me. He insisted on tacking on a short out-and-back to ensure we logged a marathon distance, even though we were doing a rocky grunt of a route with 8,000 feet of climbing and weren’t even really running. I was determined to avoid unnecessary striving. We both received our wish when I arrived at home with exactly 26.2 miles on my watch.

 “Happy birthday, Love,” I said as we walked back into the house, now saturated in color by the dawn sun. “Let’s get some sleep.”

In the heat of the summer

 Does anybody else look back on their final week before lockdown with the same incredulous fascination usually reserved for odd dreams? I find myself ruminating on those days in Anchorage, Alaska, back when the air was still sharp and the streets were lined with five-foot walls of snow. My body was so depleted from 10 days on the Iditarod Trail that it felt like something that didn't quite belong to me, a leaden suit that I hauled around while listlessly pacing the sidewalk outside my hotel room and imagining I was still walking to Nome. Gratefully, friends swept me away from a descent into self-pity. We went shopping for herbal adrenal boosters and fancy chocolate. We rode bikes amid the surreal ice sculptures of Knik Glacier. We crammed into a crowded brewpub. Our shoulders and backs were literally pressed against the shoulders and backs of strangers. I ordered an ahi tuna salad drenched in wasabi dressing, marveling at these incredible textures and flavors after days of frozen nuts and dried fruit. I remember a sign advertising a big St. Patricks Day celebration, and already doubting that it could happen. Employees were disinfecting the door handles when we walked together into a crowded restroom to vigorously wash our hands. I wondered aloud if restaurants might close, and one friend assured us that it couldn't happen. That was Friday the 13th, in the month of March 2020.  It was the last day, for me, before this dream world came to a halt.

Now we're facing down the long summer and a lurch toward a new normal that no one can predict. What it will even look like is anyone's guess. Like most people, I fluctuate between dread and flickers of optimism. I've settled into acceptance about living with the threat of a virus that no one understands. Now it's economic news that seems to spark my anxiety more. I can only see it through the lens of my personal experiences. I watched the 2008 recession drive deep cracks into the already-fragile newspaper industry, and that's ultimately what drove me toward the "side-hustle" side of journalism. Then the "side-hustle" side seemed to take over the industry. Content became a free-for-all, information became opportunistic and fractured, and the "fake news" era brought us to the point where we are now — an entire population unable to parse truth from fiction, drifting aimlessly through a "choose-your-own-reality" culture. What will this mean for life amid the threat of a virus that no one understands? How will it affect our ability to come together for the vast amount of rebuilding and restructuring that must happen? Nothing seems good.

One thing that seems certain to me, is that life isn't going back to the way it was before March 13. So much is still unknown, of course. Maybe the feared second wave will never come. We're still close enough to the before-times that perhaps we'll recapture a lot of it. Many people seem to feel this way, judging by all of the races that have been rescheduled for autumn, and the trips people are rebooking for 2021. But a lot of restaurants and retailers are closing up for good. I can't imagine a world where most people are going to cram shoulder-to-shoulder into brewpubs anytime soon, regardless of government policy. I am starting to think I may never return to a gym, so I'm about to cancel my membership. I feel bad about this — my gym is independently and locally owned by a nice couple. But my side-hustles have been trimmed, and I can't afford to support unviable business models indefinitely.

A few days ago, Beat joked with me about starting a YouTube channel and gave suggestions for potentially viral and thus income-generating content. I felt a flare of anger that surprised me, and snapped that I'd rather stock shelves in a grocery store. Later I pondered why his comment riled me up so much. I was one of those lucky recession kids to graduate into the dot-com bust of 2000. For my entire career, I have watched the ongoing devaluation of my chosen passion happen in real time. Now storytellers need the eyes of millions just to make a few dollars. It's not just journalism. Almost every aspect of writing and publishing has been devalued. Many are wondering if anyone will still buy books or magazines, or if this era will deal a similar blow to all paid-for content as 2008 did to newspapers. I fear this devaluation will come to many industries, and it creates a scary vision of the future. What will still have worth, at the end of this?

 I write this out to make sense of my generalized anxiety, which still ebbs and flows, but which I hope to combat more directly. I know the best thing I can do is spend my time on things that have meaning — and meaning is such a personalized thing; I'm not even sure what exactly has meaning to me. With fewer ideas in the face of so much uncertainty, I've been spending my writing time working on old projects, trying to give some shape to nebulous ideas, and also relive past adventures. But who even wants to read about any of this? And is there any point in writing if there are no readers? Or is the act of recording ideas and moments in time enough to be meaningful? I ponder this when I'm out on a run, still going through the motions of training ... but for what? And why? Right now, I'm not sure.

 Really, it's still about the same things it has always been about — freedom and solitude, moments of awe, and being alive in the world. Our 28-mile run a couple of Sundays ago left me a bit downtrodden, but I went out anyway, plodding slowly and well behind Beat. My Garmin watch rated these training sessions as "unproductive" and outright scolded me for needing more recovery. Staying home is more justified than ever, and it would have been wise to just take a few rest days. But I felt angry that even Garmin wanted to keep me cloistered.

That Friday, I had chores to do in town and a forecast for cool and rainy weather that would be unpleasant for many activities — except for finding relative solitude on a popular trail. Climbing Bear Peak from the Cragmoor trailhead was my first-ever Boulder adventure back in 2015, and it's still a favorite for pushing limits. There's a nice 1.5-mile warm-up to the one-mile, 2,000-foot climb up Fern Canyon, where I gunned it about as hard as I'm capable right now. Head sweat and rain both pelted my arms as I marched, still unable to hit my "max," but maintaining a solid tempo heart rate all the same. In this I managed my fastest-yet Cragmoor segment, and third-fastest Fern. Take that, Garmin! I celebrated by tagging South Boulder Peak and looping back through Shadow Canyon, seeing surprisingly few others on all of these normally crowded trails. Even my watch conceded that this training session was "productive."

 Our big adventure for the weekend was a 63-mile ride with close to 9,000 feet of climbing. Another one of the decidedly privileged issues I've been struggling with recently is the "sameness" of our outdoor activities. I recognize that by almost any standard, there is plenty of novelty in my lifestyle. I've been working on cultivating better appreciation and new discoveries in my surroundings. When I was training for the Iditarod, I had no problems dragging a 90-pound cart up and down my home road, week after week. I enjoyed this monotonous grind, relished in it even, because it had purpose. I've been looking for a similar sense of purpose in my current day-to-day, but enlightenment hasn't quite come, yet. I still need to appease a gnawing desire for longer and higher, the new and undiscovered, or at least revisit a place I haven't seen in a while.

 Saturday was a rest day. Like most rest days, I was almost incurably grumpy by evening. These mood swings have become more difficult to avoid. Even my therapist thinks that I should make an effort to go outside at least once every day, even if it's just to go for a walk or sit by our goldfish pond. It's all part of working toward the enlightenment that I'm still far from achieving. I've been pursuing races and goals for so long that I'd almost forgotten they were always the means, not the end. Racing is a great excuse to train, but the point has always been to spend as much time moving through the outdoors, exploring mind and body and the vast world beyond my front door. Predictably, by the time we got rolling on Sunday, I was about as content as I could be, just spinning and breathing and watching the world go by.

This route has a lot of bang for its buck — useful for generating inspiration and energy for another long week ahead. The temperature was nice and there was barely a breeze out of the west. I fell behind on food and water, then faltered on the steep climb up Logan Mill and Escape Route. But refueling generated a second wind, and I felt refreshingly strong pedaling up the final 2,000-foot ascent even as Beat began to flag. I may still be searching to find a purpose for these day-to-day adventures, but I can immediately enjoy the rewards.

This week, things got hard again. Summer hit the Front Range like the early arrival of a freight train. The wind and heat have been relentless. Boulder had its first 90-degree days, which okay, I can live with that. But that wind. When I hear it raging, all I can think about are these green hillsides that will soon be brown, and those clear blue skies that will soon be filled with smoke. I dread the upcoming fire season, now that the mountains are nearly snow-free and the heat is cranking early. I fear another summer like 2018, when the air was often so smoky that it became difficult to exert myself outside. And right now, living with this virus that nobody understands, I want to be extra conservative with my lungs and immune system. Summer, with all of its airborne particulates, may be the hazard that forces me into the grumpy purgatory of cloistering indoors.

On Wednesday, I had several unsavory chores to complete including allergy shots, so I thought I'd treat myself to a "new-new" adventure. I brought my road bike, originally thinking I'd check out Lookout Mountain in Golden. The backstory is that several of my friends are attempting to "Everest" this weekend, meaning they will attempt to climb 29,029 vertical feet in a series of nonstop cycling intervals. They're doing it as part of an organized charity event, and I admit to harboring supreme FOMO curiosity. However, my current limited bike fitness, lingering physical and mental fatigue following the Iditarod, and unwillingness to weaken my immune system with such a taxing effort means I won't be attempting such a thing this weekend. Someday, though, it seems like an intriguing challenge. I crunched the numbers of several nearby climbs, and decided that Lookout Mountain is probably the best candidate for an Everest. It climbs 1,200 feet in 4.5 miles on a 5-6 percent grade, so it's efficient but not stressfully steep, and the distance allows ideal intervals between exertion and breaks. It's lower altitude (for Colorado), and I've heard traffic can be not-too-annoying on weekdays, although in the current times, I have my doubts. That's the problem with Everesting on a bicycle. Gravel routes require more energy, but paved routes require dealing with traffic day and night. The more I thought about it, the more I decided I wouldn't try this ever. So I abandoned my Lookout Mountain scouting trip and headed for something longer and higher — Golden Gate Canyon.

That's the short-story-long about how I ended up in Golden on a scorching afternoon, sitting in my car and reminding myself I didn't *have* to do this. Beat had just texted me about 50mph gusts in the foothills near our house. Down in Golden, the south wind was so strong that it rocked my car as I changed into bike shorts and a jersey, with arm sleeves to protect my sensitive skin from UV rays. Outside, the temperature was 88 degrees. I had one bottle of spiced apple cider-flavored Skratch sports drink that I had forgotten to throw in the freezer. When I sipped it, it had the exact temperature and taste as hot apple cider. Nice when it's 40 below in March. Not so nice when it's 130 degrees warmer in May. I strongly didn't want to do this ride, but I'd driven myself all the way out here, and anyway this is the one day of the week I really get "out." So I straddled the bike and churned into that impossible headwind, before turning into the canyon where it became an even more perilous swirling crosswind. Gusts frequently threw me off my line. To make matters worse, the canyon road had no shoulder and was much busier than I anticipated. Handling the bike amid these gusts and road hazards was tricky enough that I had to stop and throw a foot down each time I wanted to take a sip from my bottle of unpalatable hot apple cider. With each stop I was tempted to turn around. But this was a "goal" and it was "new," so I stuck with it.

Finally, about nine miles into the route, while nearing a short gravel segment I needed to ride to complete my loop, I started to feel better. Traffic was much lighter, and it was a scenic canyon with gently rolling hills and pine groves. Temperatures were a little friendlier at this higher altitude, but the wind was cranking higher than ever. As I neared the crest of a hill, a gust finally pushed me all the way off the road, and I toppled into a fence. "Okay, that's enough biking for today," I thought, and turned around right there.

Then, as I battled those gusts along the precarious descent, I thought, "that's probably enough road biking for this year."

Summer is coming. With summer come the crowds. As with all things,  it's anyone's guess what this summer will look like. But I know that each spring, I rediscover a love for road biking — the freedom and zeal of moving quickly along a smooth, flowing surface. And each spring, after a few rides, I remember how much I dislike riding in traffic.

I'll probably give road biking more chances. But I don't think I'll plan a Lookout Mountain Everest attempt. I miss having goals, but that isn't the right goal, right now.

In the meantime, I'll continue to miss Alaska, and winter, and restaurants. And I'll continue working toward necessary enlightenment, that the here and now is all there is, and it's enough.