The necessity and frivolity of personal challenges

I was nearly home after spending five hours crawling along snowy, vehicle-clogged roads in typical Colorado winter traffic, wrapping up a day where I woke up at 4 a.m. and drove eight hours round trip for what felt like frivolous, not-worth-it reasons. I was just grumpy, questioning why I ever bothered to leave the house during COVID times. All I had to show for it was an out-of-commission fat bike, a full bladder, and an empty stomach from hours of being trapped in a vehicle. (One of my personal moral codes for travel during COVID times is to avoid going indoors when I'm out on the road, which is a bit arbitrary when I still walk into grocery stores in Boulder County, but I chose to stick with it even though I would have died for a burrito. Okay. That's not true. Obviously, I'm not willing to die for a burrito or I would have definitely stopped at the Silverthorne Chipotle despite COVID times.) 

So I was a mile from my house and about as surly as can be when a song came on the radio that was my favorite song as an angsty eighth-grader in 1993 — "No Rain" by Blind Melon. Of course, I found myself singing along with the same wistful resignation I felt then. Even though we believe we grow up and move on from our volatile adolescence, deep down we're still just a conglomeration of hormones — the same ridiculous teenager, now worn around the edges by life. 

And I don't understand why I sleep all day, 

And I start to complain when there's no rain.

And all I can do is read a book to stay awake,

And it rips my life away, but it's a great escape. 

"That's what I'm going to do tomorrow," I thought. Since I couldn't ride my fat bike into the mountains surrounding Leadville for twelve hours, instead, I would just sit inside my own house and read.

The original plan wasn't too ambitious, just another little endurance challenge to calm my restless mind for a few more weeks. Two virtual races presented themselves as the perfect opportunity: A 45-mile informal fat bike race near Buena Vista on Saturday, and a global virtual fat bike race called the Fat Viking on Sunday. My plan for the solo effort was a 100-kilometer route in Leadville, covering everything I enjoyed riding so much three weeks ago as well as all of the spurs I was eager to explore if conditions allowed. I planned to camp along the Arkansas River on Saturday night, something for which I had to dig deep to drum up excitement about, given the forecast overnight low of -2F. Still, I appreciate the way COVID times have reawakened my inner dirtbag, the 20-something woman who used to sleep on a tarp at desert trailheads and hide a tent in a cluster of trees on the side of a Kentucky highway. Why did I start spending all that money on hotel rooms when I have a perfectly good sleeping bag I can roll out anywhere? (In my advancing adulthood, I strongly prefer it to be somewhere legal.) 

Still, winter camping can be a bit rough on the 41-year-old body. Instead of driving out Friday night, I opted to wake up early for the three-hour commute to the "Cottonwood Crusher." Although my inner 13-year-old is loathe to wake up at 4 a.m., it is nice to escape the Front Range on a Saturday and enjoy traffic-free roads. I was already in Buena Vista by the time the sun came up, revealing a mass of ominous clouds over the Collegiate Peaks. When I stepped out of the car to take a few sunrise photos, a breathtaking blast of cold wind warned me that the conditions for this ride would be "sporting." 

A group of about 30 riders gathered for a nice socially distanced start. This "race" was completely informal — no fees, no support, no cutoffs, no rules. The Cottonwood Crusher was little more than an agreed-upon route and an expectation that each person would be entirely responsible for themselves. It's the best of all worlds, really. I enjoy having all of the freedom and independence of a personal ride while still benefiting from the camaraderie and motivating parameters of a race. And my inner dirtbag enjoys paying no race fees. All of my recent "races" and "vacations" have happened for the cost of gas and groceries — usually less than $100 for as much as a week of fun. Yes, dirtbag life is a good life. 

Another photo of the start. It was blustery but warm — about 25 degrees. Still, the wind made the weather feel Arctic, as wind does. 

At 8 a.m. the group started up a steep grade toward Cottonwood Pass. Several inches of powder covered the packed snow surface. It was sugary snow that didn't consolidate well, so I was already dreading the first snowmobiles that were certain to tear up the trail. But the initial riding wasn't too difficult, except for the 25 mph cold headwind. 

After a couple of miles of slow grind, I joined up with Beth, a nurse from Crested Butte who completed the ITI 350 on a bike last year. Since 2020 Iditarod conditions were so difficult and slow, she and I actually spent quite a bit of time in close proximity during that race, despite the fact she was "riding" a bike and I was walking with a sled. We shared heaps of cathartic commiseration along the wind-blasted Iditarod Trail. I last saw her when she pedaled away from me for good about halfway through the ITI outside Rohn, so it was fun to run into her again in a humorously similar environment almost a year later. We worked hard to hold the thin white line drawn by the leaders, fought snow devils, and adjusted layers as switchbacks shifted our orientation to the brutal wind. She was cheerful and determined, which bolstered my excitement for the ridiculous challenge. 

The scenery along the climb to Cottonwood Pass was incredible. The effect of wind and cold made it feel like a high alpine mountaineering expedition. I'm told this is just a boring old paved road in the summertime. It's difficult to imagine. 

Conditions became even more sporting above treeline. By then we had been passed by enough snowmobiles that we could no longer trace a line that wasn't torn to shreds. The wind was amazing. These two guys passed and said they weren't up for the 12 hours this 45-miler was sure to take, and planned to turn around at the pass. I was thinking, "I don't mind if it takes 12 hours. I drove all the way out here to ride. The more hours of riding the better." 

We pushed through deep fluff to bypass an avalanche zone. When we returned to the road and started to ride again, I noticed I could no longer reach my shifter lever with my thumb. It seemed to have slipped back several inches. Strange. Maybe that was just an effect of having too-cold hands. I pulled on mittens and stuffed my hands back into my pogies. In doing so, I managed to knuckle-click the top shifter several times, moving the derailleur into nearly the smallest cog on the cassette. When I tried to downshift, the lever just spun free. No clicks. No leaving this impossibly hard gear. 

Well, crap. I pulled off the right pogie and fiddled with the shifter for several minutes below the pass as Beth disappeared over the horizon. The lever was definitely just spinning free, doing nothing, while the derailleur stayed locked in the hardest gear. I had even clicked the top lever a few more times, so now I was really screwed. I decided to push the bike the rest of the way to the pass, hoping I might find some wind shelter up there — maybe even an outhouse! — but it was not to be. I at least found a wind-scoured strip of gravel where I could potentially drop a screw or tool bit and maybe not lose it forever in deep snow. I spent another 15 minutes tightening and loosening a screw, spinning the lever, and hoping to find a magic tension where the likely stripped mechanism would click once again. I was so angry. Mechanicals make me so angry. I've joked before that I really shouldn't be a bike rider because I secretly despise bicycles (needy, time-consuming machines, grumble, grumble ... and I do neglect them to an embarrassing degree.) But I just love riding bikes too much to give them up. 

Several more cyclists reached the pass and turned around as I stood in the searing wind, straddling the teeth of the Continental Divide at 12,000 feet and freezing my ass off. Cheryl arrived and said she too planned to head back down. She asked if I would join her. But I wasn't ready to give up quite yet, even though I was already shivering and could no longer feel my fingers. She left and then a big group of friends showed up, including Erika's partner Cullen who is a competent bike mechanic and seemed eager to help. I felt guilty about everyone standing around at the coldest and windiest spot on the entire course while Cullen did his best to get me rolling again. He managed to adjust the derailleur to a lower gear, but agreed that the shifter was toast. The best I could hope for was single-speeding in this spinny gear ... although if I fat-knuckled the top lever again, which seemed likely, I might be in for an increasingly long walk out. 

I decided it was time to call it. I was terribly disappointed — not because I would have to DNF this race, which didn't even really exist, but because now I wasn't going to be out for 12 hours riding my bike up and over the Continental Divide on this day, nor would I get to spend 12 more hours riding my bike 62 miles the following day. I didn't even bring snowshoes, and I don't like the idea of leaving an expensive bike unattended in my car, so I didn't have a plan B. It was over before it even really started. Bummer. Cullen, Jim, and Pete continued down the cold and windy route west while the rest of us turned east to return to the trailhead. 

Classic fat bike technique: Straddling a bike while boot-skiing to descend a steep slope in squirrely conditions. Snowmo churn left the trail in much worse shape for the descent. Coasting often leads to swerving in such conditions, so I usually shift into my highest gear and pedal to help maintain traction. Since that wasn't an option, I swerved and boot-skied and occasionally twirled the pedals maniacally in an effort to keep the rubber side down while careening down the hill. It was actually a lot of fun. Erika, Betsy, and I stuck together, stopping often to admire the scenery. 

We spent the next couple of hours tailgating in the parking lot, standing in a wide circle, talking and laughing while waiting for the first finishers to come back. It was a great afternoon to spend with friends. Ultimately, I wasn't too disappointed about skipping the slow grind of the remainder of the course, especially after Beth returned to report worsening conditions on the other side of the pass that led her to turn around after just a few more miles. However, I was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to embark on my long solo ride in Leadville the following day. Erika and Cheryl urged me to take my bike into a nearby shop, sharing their connections to increase my chances of scoring a last-minute repair. I mulled it over but decided I didn't want to do this for a number of reasons, not the least of which was stepping inside an out-of-town business during COVID times and begging for special treatment when my motivation was dubious at best. So I decided I'd just cut my losses and drive home that day. 

Sitting in Colorado traffic makes me so angry. It's just so tedious and it's reliably consistent, every weekend from November to April, plodding to and from ski areas. Inevitably enough people crash to force one or more highways to close, which was the case on Saturday. So I had to divert through an alarmingly crowded Breckenridge downtown and ended up on the parking lot of I-70 anyway. I should have just camped and woken up at 4 a.m. Sunday to drive home, but it was too late to change my mind now. Saturday was just a long day in the car ... the fat bike ride already seemed like this strange dream. That's when I decided I didn't want to leave the house on Sunday, or maybe ever again. 

Reading all day sounded like a fine plan, but I was still hungry for good, hard effort to replace my ghosted 100K. I came up with a strange but appealing plan to ride a century on my bike trainer — the longest route and all of the hills in virtual Zwift world while listening to an audiobook. I thought it would take six or seven hours and it did: 6:54. I drank five full bottles of water and nibbled on trail mix from my fat bike stash. I enjoyed myself immensely. Trainer riding has the same meditative quality of summer road cycling without any of the stressors: No traffic, no sunburn, no harsh smoky air, no wind. I view Zwift as a relaxing pastime, although I tend to go hard and burn a ton of energy and feel exhausted at the end. For this reason, it's all-around perfect. I was enjoying my audiobook and lost myself in the zips and zooms of the virtual world. After finishing, I felt nicely satisfied with my effort. It wasn't 100 kilometers of snow biking at altitude, but it wasn't nothing. Still, like treadmills, trainers have a bad reputation for being instruments of torture. With this in mind, I flippantly titled my ride "Punishing myself for DNFs" on Strava. 

Photo from a Jan. 21 ride to Upper Apex Valley, a cool 60K with 5,500 feet of climbing that I completed as a pre-race shakedown to make sure everything was in order with the fat bike and legs.

In my view, the trainer century wasn't punishment at all. It was a salve for a restless mind — not quite the elixir I was seeking, but soothing nonetheless. Still, afterward, I received several messages from well-meaning friends and acquaintances that more or less told me that it was okay I didn't finish my race, these things happen sometimes, don't worry, you're still awesome. My reaction surprised me — I was a bit offended. Do I come across as a person who places all of my self worth in these silly sorts of challenges? Enough so to be devastated by failure in a relatively short non-race? Races are fun (they are!) and they're a useful path to self-renewing rewards thanks to daily training and recovery. But they're not an end-all. I can quit the endurance game anytime. I still have art and music and writing .... even if my writing has been unsatisfactory lately, and I'm only continuing to grind away at it out of habit, hoping it will take hold of my spirit once again, all while dreaming and scheming yet another new challenge — ideally something high and cold, or deep into the night, peering into the abyss while reaching toward the sublime. 

Beat on top of Niwot Ridge — so close and so very Arctic — on Jan. 23

My feelings about endurance racing have been all over the place since I left the Iditarod Trail on March 10, 2020 — everything from ambivalence to fierce renunciation to resigned devotion to renewed determination. It's both meaningless and something I think I might need nearly as much as I need love and shelter — if not physical endurance, then a mental endurance challenge such as reading "War and Peace" or finally finishing one of these fragmented writing projects. Hiking the entire Iditarod Trail was for me the crux of both physical and mental endurance — an ultimate challenge. Realizing a hard truth that it would likely always remain out of reach might have ruined my year were it not rapidly eclipsed by the grief of a global pandemic. Still, I never really processed that loss — the loss of my Iditarod dream. I just threw it like a sharp object into a corner of my anxious mind and soothed the scars with small but meaningful efforts. 

Amid the little challenges, I became physically and mentally stronger. I accepted what I had to leave behind in 2020 and gratefully embraced what remained. I still fretted about lots of things, but I took more control of my anxiety and sometimes harnessed that erratic energy into more productive ends. I continued to move through the world. It was a smaller world than past years, but it still possessed all of the same joy and wonder, and it still put me in my place — a speck on a speck in an expanding universe, reaching toward a truth I will never grasp. 

I guess what I mean to say is that purpose is subjective, that I will almost definitely ride 100 imaginary miles on my trainer again, and I'll continue to dream about far-off, improbable challenges that I almost certainly can't realize, but can visualize in a way that offers many of the same rewards. Maybe someday I'll find myself on a Baffin Island fat bike expedition after all. And if it happens in the real world, I will definitely invest in a full tune-up for my bike. 

Empty fitness

I've been somewhat of a space case this week — a combination of anxiety and ambivalence about the future, as well as fatigue from my most effective coping mechanism. The more energy I spend, the better I sleep. The more time I spend moving, the less time I spend doomscrolling. Sure, exhausting my energy cuts into creativity. But how useful are essays and books, really, when the world is burning? 

I still strive to be mindful of my body — aches, pains, potential injuries, the metrics I often track such as blood pressure, heart rate, blood oxygen saturation, and recently, body temperature. While I retain permanent suspicion about the functionality of my thyroid gland, for the most part, I feel as healthy as I've been in years. Nothing has been nagging me; even sore muscles usually clear up within a day. My resting heart rate has dipped into the 50s, a number I thought I'd never again see when I was waking up to 85 bpm in 2017. I'll read articles with headlines such as "Yes the pandemic is ruining your body," and think, "My mental health is on the rocks and I'm probably not going to escape this virus ... but for now, the body's doing okay."

On Monday morning, fewer than 48 hours after I finished my fat bike 200K in Leadville, I was curious how my legs might feel during a recovery hike. About three inches of snow had fallen over the death ice that typically coats local trails this time of year, but I decided to give Green Mountain a go since I had many errands to complete, and this trailhead was on the way to town. I had no plans to push the pace, but as soon as I hit the trails in my microspikes, I found surprisingly "grippy" conditions — the kind of traction that somehow lets me move faster because I feel like I don't even need to think about where I'm placing my feet. It's a weird sensation, and makes me wonder if this is how more sure-footed folks feel most of the time. Either way, I didn't have to expend all that much effort to reach the top in 58 minutes, which is close to a PR for me. 

At the peak, I ran into local legend Justin Simoni, who joined me on the summit boulder to bask in warm sunshine for 20 minutes and chat about his incredible mountain projects over the summer. Justin is someone who I admire because he quietly takes on some of the most audacious local projects imaginable, such as riding his bike all over the state to climb the hundred highest summits in Colorado, all of them, in a single journey. I was eager to express my admiration for his "Vanishing Point Project," wherein he traversed the jagged spine of the Continental Divide from Milner to Berthod Pass, staying as high as possible — meaning literally climbing along the technical ridge — to summit more than 50 mountains in 75 miles. If I could change one thing about myself, it would be to gift body and mind with a similar ability to move freely through such daunting terrain without fear — although I recognize the danger in such endeavors, even for those with confidence and skills. Anyway, we both gazed longingly at Longs Peak while Justin described how he was going to ride his bike from Boulder and climb to the summit along the technical Cables route sometime later in the week. I admitted that in five years, I hadn't been the top even once, and it wasn't for lack of trying. 

"You can do it," he said breezily. "You can do anything I can do."

I laughed awkwardly because that is so far from being true that we can't even see one another across the gaping divide between us. Yes, I no longer believe in the "you can do anything you set your mind to" platitude. And you know what, that's okay. But I do intend to pursue more doable mountain projects with all of my heart this coming summer — if nothing else, to give my brain something on which to anticipate and focus on in a positive way. 

Developing "2021 dreams" that I can believe in feels important right now. Given the current trajectory of the pandemic and the slow rollout of vaccinations, it seems foolish to believe that we'll be gallivanting on carefree adventures by summer. I am braced for 2021 to be a lot like 2020, with limited travel and contact with friends, no official races, no social events, and mostly local excursions. Beat is more optimistic than me, having already signed up for PTL in France at the end of August. I deferred an entry to the Silk Road Mountain Race and have redirected my dreams to the backyard — should I thru-hike the Colorado Trail? Attempt the Pffifner Traverse? (This is a much easier, though not exactly Jill-friendly version of Justin's route across the Indian Peaks.) I have been strong on the bike lately, so perhaps I should consider something like the Montana Bike Odyssey, which manages to cover 1,800 miles in a single state. All of these could be self-supported, socially distanced, big and scary goals in a year when we're probably not going to wake up and find the pandemic magically ended. It does soothe my anxious mind to imagine realistic goals, rather than the uneasy void of nothing at all. 

If nothing else, I just want excuses to maintain this level of activity, because I am so fit right now! It seems a little more sad and pathetic when I admit I am running and cycling 20-plus hours a week because I'm terrified that insurrectionists are going to attack the Jan. 20 inauguration and plunge the country into violent chaos, and I can't handle the self-perpetuating stress. If I'm training for the Colorado Trail, well then — you go girl! Anyway, on Thursday I set out without water, food, or a wind layer on what I figured would be an hour-long neighborhood jog. Winds have been high all week, and on this day was gusting in excess of 40 mph when the high temperature was 35 degrees — so not exactly warm. But I was also donning a new pair of Kahtoola Nanospikes, which offer smaller studs that are less obstructive on rocks and yet still grippy on death ice. I was surprised when I started down an icy trail and found I could run, not just skitter as I often do to avoid slipping forward in studded shoes. Plus I was wearing my most comfortable running shoes, Hoka Speedgoats, and suddenly felt that I could do no wrong. With the fearsome wind shoving me to and fro, I turned onto the somewhat technical, hilly, 10-mile route that is the Walker Ranch circuit and logged my fastest of 27 matched runs (as per Strava) — despite the wind and frequent presence of hard ice and the fact that it's January and not trail-running season. A PR is such an individual, insignificant victory, but it never stops feeling good. 

On Friday, I had to put a little more money where my mouth is in regard to summer mountain dreams. Eldorado Mountain is a nearby peak on the southern end of the Flatirons. It's a mountain I gaze at from the dining room window over coffee every morning, but had never climbed. There's no established route to the top, and although the only public access point — the north ridge — never goes above class 3, it's still intimidating enough that I'd never attempted a route-finding mission from Eldorado Canyon. A friend recently showed Beat the way, and he invited his friend Daniel and me to join him on an afternoon excursion. 

It was probably the least windy day of the week, but still breezy enough to throw off my equilibrium at times. Daniel of course decided this was shorts weather. We made quick work of a direct ascent through the woods and clambered onto the ridge, which like most mountains in Colorado is a jumble of boulders with questionable stability and the occasional, unscalable cliff to work around. Beat did well with the route-finding. Although I complained about cutting off the trail too early, I did enjoy myself, even when the vertigo briefly kicked in. 

The trickiest moves came at the top, where we stood facing the huge radio towers that have an actual road leading all the way to the summit. The road winds up the mountain from the south on land that is entirely private and closed to the public, but it's still amusing to climb a relatively technical and remote-seeming mountain only to find an obstructive chunk of civilization at the top. I imagine this is how climbers in the Alps must feel. 

On Saturday I set out with my little vest and minimal spare layers to ride my gravel bike over to Coal Creek Canyon. My route followed a series of rolling gravel roads so steep and relentless that it's easy to rack up 6,000 feet of climbing in a 35-mile ride. The weather has been so dry that nearby roads have reverted back to late-summer conditions with loose and chunky gravel, washboard, and sand. Rough. Even though I was running well this week, pedaling still ignites a more deep-set quad soreness leftover from Leadville, so the ride was a bit of a struggle from the start. I was enjoying myself, though. It's just nice to get out for some alone time and listen to audiobooks. Right now I'm listening to "Collapse" by Jared Diamond. I'm pretty sure I first read this book back in 2004 or so — back when I was certain George W. Bush would bring about World War III and the end of civilization. Is it better to be a forever-disappointed optimist or pessimist capable of finding hope in less-than-apocalyptic outcomes? I think the latter is the way to go.

Enthralled by a historical account about the swift decay of Mayan civilization, I ground the pedals through the fearsome wind to a ridge above 9,000 feet. Gusts knocked me sideways and I couldn't even see the Continental Divide through a solid wall of blowing snow. Even though the sky overhead was clear, thick snow flurries tore sideways through the air. Predictably, a deep chill set in the moment I stopped climbing. I'd already put on my tiny wind shell and mittens, so my only choice remaining was to suffer. I was at least two hours from home. I left the house expecting mild temperatures, but a nearby weather station would later reveal it was 27 degrees here with winds gusting to 56 mph, for a windchill scraping single digits. The cold drove through my flimsy clothing, directly into my core. 

I have only myself to blame for poor choices. Even though advancing adulthood hasn't reduced the frequency of poor choices, time has at least made me more accepting of consequences and more willing to do what it takes to remedy these consequences. As my hands and feet went numb, I made random turns onto unknown streets in order to climb for a while, then turned again into a painful descent. With this method, I was able to stave off shivering for minutes at a time. I knew if I lost the sensation in my extremities entirely, I could always step off the bike, run for a while, make windmills with my arms, do jumping jacks if necessary. It would take forever to get home and my fingers and toes were guaranteed to hurt the entire time. But I wasn't worried. I knew it would work. And it was what I deserved, because dammit, I could have easily brought a coat on this ride if only I was willing to acknowledge that through it all, it's still winter. 

By the time I slumped into the door, reasonably rewarmed after a series of long climbs but deeply fatigued, I felt a rush of satisfaction. I made it! I survived! What an adventure. That it didn't have to be so harrowing, that it was never required to ride so close to the edge, was briefly lost on me. I put my experience and fitness to good use to boost myself safely through what occasionally felt close to life-and-death conditions. The difficulty of my ride was life-affirming — even if completely unnecessary. 

I suppose moments like this are reason enough to continue pursuing fitness even if I have no races or concrete goals on which to spend it. That, and it's worth it to blissfully live in the moment and forget about the future for an hour or five. What week is it again? 

A perfect Pursuit

The first full week of 2021 tamped down any delusions that the new year might improve on its predecessor. In a news cycle that's happening at 16x speed, you might remember that January 4 was the day it was revealed that Trump attempted to shake down Georgia's secretary of state and a new Congress was sworn in with that "amen and awoman" prayer. Ah, those were quaint times. I had a full day of errands planned but stole a few hours of the morning to ride my fat bike around the singletrack surrounding Brainard Lake and Peaceful Valley. 

Trail conditions were challenging. These trails are difficult in the best of scenarios — packed by foot and ski, they're razor-thin. You can't throw a foot down without plunging into deep powder. This season's snowpack is still extremely low, so there are miles of exposed boulders and tree roots. The previous weekend blasted the region with wind, partially filling in the trail with spindrift, a sugary sort of snow that is both slippery and impossible to consolidate. And no one had been through since the overnight winds, so the packed surface was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding snow. 

I had a 20-mile loop ride planned and stubbornly stuck with it despite the beating these trails doled out. The bike washed out on a hidden patch of ice and I slammed down hard on my right shoulder. Ouch. I became tangled in the frame twice when I lost the trail and toppled into crusty snow, bruising knees and thighs. At lower altitudes, the trails rode similar to summer conditions but worse — a rock garden covered in two inches of snow, just enough to hide some of the most insidious obstacles. Ugh. I'd like to say fun was had, but I limped through the rest of the day and woke up so sore the following morning that I struggled to get out of bed. 

"I'm still too old for mountain biking," was a thought that I had. 

You might remember that Tuesday, January 5, ended on a positive note with the Georgia election, but then came Wednesday. Like most Americans, I watched in horror as the insurrection that everyone predicted would happen actually happened, and burst into tears when I saw the photo of a Colorado congressman comforting a terrified colleague as they took cover, because it illustrated just how close this came to becoming an unthinkable tragedy. Seriously, what have we become? Still stiff with a sore shoulder and fresh bruises blooming on both legs, I slumped onto the trainer and pedaled through a fit of rage up a virtual 3,000-foot mountain. At one point, Beat came downstairs to ask me if I was going to break the exercise bike. The physical pain was a welcome — if temporary — relief to the anguish that was coursing through my veins. This felt like a sharp turning point in history — like Sept. 11, but worse even, because the call was coming from inside the house. 

The Leadville gang at the start: Cheryl, Betsy, my fat bike "Erik," Erika, and Jim

Then came Friday, January 8 — the day of the Fat Pursuit 200K. Like most of the other winter races this season, the original race in Idaho was canceled due to COVID concerns and moved to a "virtual" event. Admittedly, I never signed up for the virtual race. I already completed my Wild Winter Way 160-miler three weeks earlier and got a good endurance fix there. I also buried myself in the process and was just coming around to feeling recovered when a plan with four friends to stage a similar event in Leadville gained momentum. It's difficult to connect 125 miles of rideable snow trails anywhere in Colorado, but Leadville has an enticing system of groomed multiuse paths, singletrack, and snowmobile trails in a stunningly scenic location. We put together a 41-mile figure-eight loop that I figured we could ride three times. A single lap had 4,000 feet of climbing, rolling between 10,000 and 11,500 feet. The stats pointed to something that was probably going to be even harder than the original Fat Pursuit, although laps did mean we could resupply often. 

I'm not sure any of us had our heads and hearts fully invested in the 200K. My headspace was particularly toxic for motivation, leaping over the usual qualms about pain and boredom to "why does any of this matter?" "what does it all mean?" and "maybe it's time to invest in that cabin deep in the Alaska wilderness and live out my days chopping firewood and wandering through the woods and waiting for the climate change wildfires to consume me." Yes, catastrophic thinking is a specialty of my hyperactive brain. My most effective method for tamping down anxiety is, of course, a long and physically demanding effort. Despite not signing up for the race and not caring whether I finished even if I did sign up, I remained motivated to seek that flow state and its foggy tranquility. The desire for escapism held tight even though my shoulder and knees were still tender following the Monday bike crashes and my quads were disconcertingly sore because I rode the exercise bike into the floor on Wednesday. 

We planned our virtual event to start at noon Friday, the time and day that the real Fat Pursuit 200K would have taken place. The late start also gave all of us time to drive from our various corners of the state, as I again planned to conduct this somewhat remote travel without venturing indoors. A larger group of 20 or so riders and several runners were starting a self-supported 200K on the original course in Idaho at the same time, which offered a fun feeling of solidarity. We enjoyed an auspicious start: bluebird skies, sunshine, and warmth. According to my car thermometer, it was 25 degrees. When the breeze died down, under direct sunlight at 10,000 feet, this felt like 70 degrees. Most of us were drenched in sweat before we'd ridden a mile. 

We made an effort to stick together for the first lap, but it's always difficult to manage a group ride in the winter. All of us predictably needed to stop at intervals to remove layers and adjust tire pressures. I stuck to my usual mistake of keeping all of my layers and became so sweaty that even a two-minute stop to wait for my friends left me wracked with shivering. When we got going again, I was out on the front like an impatient husky on an Iditarod dog team. That's how I felt, at least. Between the shivering and sprinting to warm up again, I burned up a lot of energy that I knew wasn't sustainable. But I was having fun. 

Jim riding the Mineral Belt Trail one switchback below. 

The Mineral Belt Trail forms a 12-mile loop around the town of Leadville, winding through several historic mining sites along the way. There were lots of plaques and I admit I didn't stop to read any of them, but it is intriguing to see relics of a time when tens of thousands of humans resided at the windblown cusp of treeline, gasping through long winters at 10,000 or even 12,000 feet while they scraped silver and gold from the barren mountainsides. Spotting the remnants of a cabin collapsed on an exposed ridge while shivering in a fierce midday wind really brings to light what a strange species we are — the miners with their futile gold fever, and me with my futile pursuit of The Truth. 

We turned onto snowmobile trails baking in the sunshine to climb and climb. Trail conditions were difficult, with most machines running mountain-worthy, deep-lugged tracks that tear up the surface. In warm temperatures, this stirred-up chunder resembles mashed potatoes, a common descriptor used by winter cyclists. Mashed potato snow will drain the strength from legs more quickly than the steepest climb, and these were steep climbs on their own. I reduced my tire pressure to 3 psi. It would stay there for the rest of the ride, adding resistance to the rare hardpacked-snow surfaces, but necessary to ride at all in soft snow. My point is — this type of riding is strenuous. It is why a seven-mile fat bike ride in Colorado is considered a long ride. Targeting 200K is a little ridiculous.

It was incredibly scenic above 11,000 feet in the East Mining District. Every time we stopped for layering and photos and snacks, the first words out of my mouth were, "What a day!" 

We crested the climb at "Ibex City," where I assumed there must be stone foundations of a ghost town underneath the snow. I was so cold here. And I knew a 1,500-foot descent into the west wind was not going to boost my core temperature. 

Descending on mashed potatoes is tricky — a squirrelly, swerving maneuver that often incorporates "boot skiing" to ensure the rubber side stays down. It's fun, though. It's okay to crash because often the worst consequence is a creating a bike-shaped snow angel, although one must be mindful of tree wells. I was a bit miserable because I was really cold. I just wanted to get back to base camp and change out of sweaty layers and put on the fuzzy wind-resistant fleece that I didn't think I'd even use on this ride, but brought anyway. Cheryl and I waited for about five minutes at the Mineral Belt Trail intersection, but then I couldn't take it anymore and we both took off. Notes to self for future winter group rides: Bring the big puffy. Don't sweat. 

I made a quick turnover at base camp, adding about the same number of layers that I wore when it was -45 outside McGrath last March and gulping down a peanut butter sandwich. Even with puffies and calories, it still took most of five miles before I felt warm enough to relax. The last hints of direct sunlight slipped behind the Mosquito Range skyline as I made my way around the dam. The loop around Turquoise Lake covers 16 miles of road that is groomed for winter use and typically sees heavy snowmobile traffic. As the temperature dipped, the trail began to harden. Typically this would be a good thing for wheels, but warm daytime temperatures followed by a rapid freeze create tiny frost crystals on an uneven and deeply corrugated surface. The effect is fittingly called "Velcro snow." Like mashed potatoes, Velcro snow will suck the strength out of legs faster than the steepest hills. 

I was grinding up one comparatively tiny hill when a snowmobile came puttering up from behind. Perhaps they were a novice driver ... they seemed reluctant to pass me on the wide trail. Finally, I pulled as far to the right as I could and put a foot down. Still, they seemed to be just idling in place. I turned to the helmeted driver and said, "You should pass. I'm pretty sure you have more horsepower than me." I'm not sure they heard, but they waved and continued puttering up the trail. Usually, fresh snowmobile tracks are softer and slower than a more set-up trail, but Slow-mo Snow-mo created a smooth, almost groomed surface that was a relief to ride. I followed them for a while, at a blistering 3 or 4 mph, until their lights disappeared around a corner and out of sight. 

I wouldn't see another person on a trail until daylight — 14 hours later. Sunset turned the thin cloud cover into a wash of pink and violet. I felt the same vague feeling of dread that I always feel when I'm outside and alone as night descends. With darkness my senses invert — as vision narrows, even the smallest sounds are amplified to an alarming degree. The crunch of snow — moose? The rustle of tree branches — lion? The distant whine of the lone snowmobile — is Slow-mo Snow-mo a murderous stalker? This only lasts a few minutes before then my senses adjust. Snow crystals sparkle in the faint glow of my headlight. The sky opens to a patchwork of stars. A mouse scurries across the trail. The vapor of my breath swirls in mesmerizing waves. This is just the world. Don't be afraid. 

Nighttime is my favorite time to be outside. I'm not out here often, because I am a lazy soul who also values sleep and warmth and varied scenery. But when I make the investment in a night ride, I'm always amazed by the expansiveness and silence of my surroundings. Even familiar places become mysterious. I relish in the unbroken solitude. I finished my first of three full laps and briefly chatted with Erika's partner, Cullen, who was heading out to meet the rest of the group at a campsite near the edge of the lake. Since I was still wearing most of my clothing I just left my layers on and set out on the northern portion of the Mineral Belt Trail, which circles the edge of town. It was freshly groomed, but the base was still soft, so I made painfully slow progress beside houses and their warm lights in the late evening.

I was grateful to leave the bike path and commence the steep climb toward the East Mining District. A harsh wind pressed through the trees and I could feel my legs losing steam. What I had easily pedaled up eight hours earlier suddenly sent cramps through my calves. My sore shoulder began to complain more loudly, until I adjusted my hydration pack straps to hang most of the water weight off my left side. As the grade steepened, I stepped off my bike to push. Despite the slow conditions I hadn't had to push my bike yet, and my whole body seemed to balk at the prospect. My overboot-clad feet slipped on the loose snow and my sore shoulders slumped in defiance. I really didn't want to push my bike. Funny how that works. 

I hopped back on and mashed the pedals, knowing I was spending more energy than I should. I didn't want to end up like I had during my 160-miler, at the end of my rope with nothing left to give. For a half mile, there was a section of trail that was badly torn up by a truck that was stuck earlier in the day. I had to lift my bike over some deep trenches, which was annoying, and by the end of the wrestling match I truly couldn't ride the bike up the hill. So I marched, and in marching almost instantly drifted into a deep flow state. I slipped away from a sense of place and time. I was back in Alaska, on the Yukon River, so it must be 2016. I looked up at the sky — wisps of clouds, patches of stars, a glint of orange light. I blinked with a startle of familiarity. Why do I always return to this place? What does it mean? It doesn't mean anything, of course. It's just a mechanism of the memory, a vacuum between waking and sleep where the mind fills the empty space with images. Mine is often the same. I recognize the place, but I don't understand its significance. It frightens me. 

This is just the world. Don't be afraid.   

I became more lost in these waking dreams during the descent, enough so that I ended up back at base camp mostly unsure of how I got there. I was feeling more energized, but I resolved to eat a big meal and take a short nap because that would set me up for a stronger second half. Erika was snoozing in her car and came out to say hello as I heated up a Mountain House meal and coffee for "morning." It was 1 a.m. and 4 degrees. I texted Beat. "It took me 13 hours to go 60 miles." My mind was too foggy to determine whether that was good or pathetic. I'd forgotten to bring a spoon so I attempted to fashion one out of the stove's windscreen, but ended up just gulping the meal directly out of the bag. Then I crawled into my fluffy sleeping bag and pulled the hood around my face, feeling a wash of gratification, as though I'd never been cozier in my life. Homer Simpson's voice popped into my head: "I'm just a big toasty cinnamon bun and I never want to leave this bed."

My alarm went off four hours later, at 5:30 a.m. Surprisingly, I didn't feel too reluctant about getting out of bed. Actually, I felt pretty good. I slept well — uncharacteristic for me after a long effort, especially one that had already resulted in muscle cramps. I put my boots on, drank a few sips of still-hot coffee, stuffed the thermos in my frame bag, and began pedaling toward the yellow glow of a nearby car wash. A tiny sliver of the crescent moon rose over the Mosquito Range. It was 3 below zero. I still felt like a big toasty cinnamon bun. I felt great! 

Next came another lap around Turquoise Lake. I decided to ride this round counter-clockwise, as descending in the opposite direction seemed long and gradual compared to the steep climb on the other side. (The road winds around the lake but there are three hills along the way, the longest of which ascends more than 800 feet.) The northern half of the loop had been freshly groomed, which did prove less "Velcroy" and reaffirmed my decision to climb in this direction. Dawn brought intensifying snow flurries until there was about an inch of fresh powder on the ground.  

I started to see people again — first, two skiers who offered me whisky even though it was 7 a.m., then recognized my bike and gushed about it because it's a custom titanium frame from Steamboat Springs. The sky cleared up and then clouded again. Snow flurries fell and faded. Time was running in a strange counter-clockwise direction as well. Even though I'd slept well for almost four hours, the rest wasn't enough to remove the strain of depleted glycogen and empty muscles. My mind continued compensating with waking dreams. I found myself singing quietly to the Iditarod Trail, as I sometimes do on the Iditarod Trail, even though I wasn't on the Iditarod Trail. A favorite from 2016, by Lord Huron: 

"I am not the only traveler.

Who has not repaid his debt.

I've been searching for a trail to follow ... again.

Take me back to the night we met."

I decided to make a third lap around Turquoise Lake rather than return to base camp, reasoning that it would be good to finish up this section while it was still somewhat early and traffic hadn't completely torn up the newly groomed segment. Truthfully, I was loving being "out in the wild" and couldn't stomach the thought of grinding out ten extra miles of road, even though the road offered what was more or less free miles compared to the snowy grind. Either way, I had to do the 200K. Of course, I didn't have to do the 200K. But by now I saw no reason not to complete the ride. It would be silly to quit when I felt fine and was having fun, mostly ignoring my audiobook and instead trying to remember all of my favorite songs from Iditarod 2016. "Think I'm Sick" by Icon for Hire:

"The night knows me by name.

It's a shadow trained to dull the pain.

All the black begins to blur.

Resist at first and then immerse."

I returned to 2021 in an abrupt arrival back at base camp, my mile 99, sometime around 1 p.m. Betsy was there preparing to head home. She'd ridden 70-something miles and was happy with that. I planned to complete one more lap around Mineral Basin, tacking on a bunch of groomed CMC singletrack at the end to make up for my missed road miles. I trundled up the trail as fresh cyclists zoomed past me. I made a turn on the road I thought led to the East Mining District, but I'd turned about three miles early. I ascended nearly 500 feet to a reservoir that I definitely did not remember before I realized my mistake. 

By the time I reached the correct climb, it was snowing heavily. Fresh powder masked the tire ruts, and I started washing out and crashing. I toppled into soft snow at least twice before I finally hit something hard with my sore shoulder and cried out in pain. I sat up, prepared to have a temper tantrum about the injustice of riding a bike poorly in a world where snow sometimes falls from the sky — and then I thought of it in that way, and broke out laughing. After everything that's happened during the first full week of 2021, why in the world would I cry about bicycling? I reflected back to the crash that hurt my shoulder, which was Monday ... only five days ago? It felt like a year. One of the reasons I love endurance cycling is the way it stretches out time, moves it forward and backward until you feel like you've endured a lifetime in the span of a day. Given the events of recent days, it seems that 2021 will do a pretty good job of that on its own. 

After that third or fourth crash, and with the steepest section of the climb still looming above me, I realized there was no reason I *had* to loop around the mining district. I could just return around Mineral Belt for the same number of miles and ride a whole bunch of singletrack without burying myself. Sore shoulder and fluctuating awareness of time aside, it was amazing how great I still felt after a century-plus of snowy grind. Still, my heart rate pegged with even the smallest climbs, and it was clear I wouldn't have much left without another long rest. 

Sunlight faded behind the overcast sky, shifting almost imperceptibly into night. I descended Mineral Belt to a point about two miles from base camp when I reached the singletrack intersection. My watch read 118 miles and I thought there's no way a trail system could fill that much extra space without out-and-backs, but it would be fun to try. I took Betsy's advice and turned left, wending through the dark woods around tight switchbacks and swooping curves. The trails were in perfect condition, with just enough new snow over the groomed surface to add traction. Fat bikers call this "Hero snow." I turned left and left again, and soon I was hopelessly lost. I couldn't have found my way out if I tried (note: there were trail maps at most intersections and I had a GPS, but I was in no capacity to interpret either.) All I could do was turn left, lean into the sharp hairpins, gaze up at the snow-covered pines and down at pillows of snow in this wintry gumdrop forest, and sing - loudly now.

I'd long since ditched the audiobook and was listening to music, an old playlist that I'd pulled up from dregs long enough abandoned to sound new again. The random song on my ancient iPod Shuffle could not have been more perfect. "Help I'm Alive" by Metric:

If we're still alive 

My regrets are few 

If my life is mine 

What shouldn't I do? 

I get wherever I'm going 

I get whatever I need 

While my blood's still flowing and my heart's still beating 

Beating like a hammer.

 I turned left and laid harder into the pedals. The narrow trail undulated up and down, cranking and coasting, leaning and breathing, ragged breaths and empty legs that in reality still had so much to give. I pedaled harder. My heart was pounding and I had no idea where was or where I might end up. Each turn seemed to push me deeper into the forest. The darkness intensified. The snow glistened. Hot blood coursed through my arteries, feeding a zeal that I could no longer contain. It seemed plausible to just turn left forever. Maybe I'd just ride in circles until the sun came up. I mean, I was nearly out of food and water, but why not? 

Finally, a trail spit me out onto Mineral Belt and I almost reluctantly pedaled back to my car, which was now alone in an empty parking lot. Everyone else had gone home. This was a little disappointing, I admit, as I'd hoped to hang out with the group and maybe recruit Cheryl into camping one more night. My watch read 124.5 miles on the mark, which is close to exactly 200 kilometers, but I rode another half-mile in circles around the parking lot for good measure. It was getting cold again — already just 8 degrees at 6:30 p.m., and accumulating snow portended a difficult drive back to Boulder. 

I made note of the time — 6:27 p.m. 30 hours and 8 minutes elapsed. 22 hours and 8 minutes of moving time. 125.01 miles with 11,693 feet of climbing. Too bad I never signed up for the reorganized Fat Pursuit, so it didn't actually count for everything. "This was too fun to be a Fat Pursuit," was a thought that I had. I've raced the real version four times and every time it's crushed me in different ways. To not venture close enough to an edge hard enough to be crushed is not really "pursuing" ...

Or is it?