Not a bad way to live

I love bicycle touring. But whenever I try to conceptualize what exactly it means to me, words mostly fail. Still, as I sat on the edge of the Mattole River soaking my shin during our first night at camp, an analogy drifted to the surface. Bicycle touring is like taking a hobo bath. You stand at the river's edge, skin caked in a paste of sweat and dust, wavering with uncertainty as the clear, cold water rushes by. With bare feet you wade into the cobbles, wincing at the initial pain of blunt cold and sharp rocks. Knees buckled, goosebumps prickled, you lather yourself in soap while absorbing the simultaneous thrill and discomfort. Your body is laid bare to the world, at the mercy of elements beyond your control. "There are so many more civilized ways to do this," you think. "Easier ways." With that thought, you take a deep breath and plunge into a swirling eddy. Cold shock electrifies every nerve as tiny grains of sand scrape along your skin, whisking away the excess grime. Everything else comes fully alive; you're floating, weightless, and free. For that moment, there's nothing more you need in the world besides a river eddy and a little bit of soap. The transition from civilized member of society to river-bathing hobo is startlingly quick, and yet so natural that you almost regret the need to come up for air. But when you do, you feel refreshed — a new person.

Yeah, bicycle touring is a little like that.

Leah and I planned this last-minute tour of California's Lost Coast and Humboldt State Park — last minute in that we sat down with her friend Dylan to map out a route on Sunday afternoon, and were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on our way north by early Tuesday morning. There wasn't much time to plan or overthink things. We just packed what we had, and realized we didn't need the rest. We set out from Ferndale, California, for a free-wheeling girl's trip that would be "four or five days," "maybe 215 or 250 miles," "about forty percent dirt," and "probably really climby." Dylan pointed out good places to camp at our projected mileages, but none of us took into account the fact that the elevation profile matters so much more than mileage when it comes to pace in this type of touring. Even with the supposed advantage of wheels, you can only cover so many miles when your heart rate is maxed out at walking speeds. No matter. We had our bikes, food, water, and camping gear. Everything we needed in the world.

We parked my car at the Ferndale Police Department under the invitation of the friendly officers of that little Victorian village in the Eel River Valley. We were getting a later start than we hoped, about 2:30 p.m., and were already worried about chasing darkness to the first campground, forty miles down the road. As we described our route to the police officer on duty, he cut us off as soon as he heard how we planned to leave town. "Mattole Road is steep," he said. "And there are logging trucks on the road that drive fast and don't always move over. And it's steep. But if you make it up there, you'll be rewarded."

The Ferndale police officer was not wrong on any account. Right out of the gate, we climbed from sea level to 2,000 feet in less than six miles. And not on a steady grade, either — the narrow road transitioned from fairly flat, rolling traverses to gut-busting, twenty-percent-plus grades, with nothing in between. Leah was riding a small Surly Long Haul Trucker — rigid steel with 26" mountain tires, front panniers, and a rear rack. I had my Moots, titanium soft tail with 29" mountain tires and bike bags. I like to think I balanced out my light mountain bike advantage by carrying the tent and water filter, but Leah's bike was still heavier. Getting those bikes up these hills was a real grunt, with an sustained level of exertion that felt decidedly punishing for a "leisure tour." But we did opt to take the hard way. And the police officer was right — the rewards were great.

For every thousand-foot-plus ridge we crested — and there were several — there was an equally incredible drop into the sea. Hurtling down seemingly vertical pavement at tear-inducing speeds, sparkling waves filled my frame of vision. Just when I was certain I was on the verge of splashdown, the road whipped around a hairpin switchback and flung me back toward the wall of mountains I would have to climb, yet again. It was incredible, punishing, exhilarating riding, that Mattole Road, made even better by the fact that we were pedaling toward bigger, wilder places.

Mattole Road dropped down to the coast for six miles. A stiff tailwind hustled us down the road at an effortless twenty miles per hour while we kicked back to enjoy the only easy miles we'd find for days. Whenever the route eased up enough for chatting, I often told stories from my cross-country bike trip in 2003. Much about our Humboldt tour brought back nostalgia from simpler times. After I mentioned that the trip from Salt Lake City to Syracuse, New York, took 65 days, Leah asked, "How did you manage that?"

"We were on a tight self-imposed budget, eleven dollars per day (each)," I said. "So whenever we stayed in a hotel, that cut pretty deep into our funds. We took hobo baths. We stealth camped a lot, sometimes hiding in the forest beside a road or sleeping in power-line right-of-ways. We ate a lot of beans, rice, and this terrible stuff called texturized vegetable protein. We mailed ourselves supplies via general delivery, so we also had to choke down pancakes that tasted like taco seasoning after sitting in the same box for six weeks. I think all of that is a whole lot easier when you're younger; I'm not sure I could stomach that kind of lifestyle for very long anymore." I paused and looked out over the waves crashing on the coastal rocks. "Still, it's not a bad way to live." 

We reached the campground with just over an hour to spare before sunset. Our day's tally was 37 miles with 4,200 feet of climbing — an "easy" half day that left us feeling plenty knackered. The A.W. Way County Park was fairly quiet on a weeknight, and offered a scenic perch next to a wide bend in the Mattole River, full of swimming holes. After the Stagecoach 400 left me with several unpleasant infections earlier this spring, I vowed to uphold a much higher standard of hygiene and a slightly better standard of nutrition on the Humboldt tour. We headed over to the river to scrub our chamois and take hobo baths. I soaked my sore shin as my wet skin absorbed the last bit of sunlight on the rocks, then we climbed back up to camp to cook dinner — pasta and tuna. We retreated to my tiny tent — a Big Agnes Seedhouse 2 that I had feared would be too cramped, but turned out to be a nice refuge for pleasantly tired bodies. I fell asleep with my Kindle on my lap, quietly contemplating words by Annie Dillard:

“What does it feel like to be alive? Living, you stand under a waterfall. You leave the sleeping shore deliberately; you shed your dusty clothes, pick your barefoot way over the high, slippery rocks, hold your breath, choose your footing, and step into the waterfall. The hard water pelts your skull, bangs in bits on your shoulders and arms. The strong water dashes down beside you and you feel it along your calves and thighs rising roughly backup, up to the roiling surface, full of bubbles that slide up your skin or break on you at full speed. Can you breathe here? Here where the force is the greatest and only the strength of your neck holds the river out of your face? Yes, you can breathe even here. You could learn to live like this. And you can, if you concentrate, even look out at the peaceful far bank where you try to raise your arms. What a racket in your ears, what a scattershot pummeling! It is time pounding at you, time. Knowing you are alive is watching on every side your generation's short time falling away as fast as rivers drop through air, and feeling it hit.” ― An American Childhood

On the road again

Well, Mount Whitney left me with shin splints. In truth it was a while coming, but after descending 7,000 feet of rocks last Tuesday, I was fully hobbled for a few days. Rest, ice, repeat. It's really only my right shin that's causing me grief, but enough that I had to cut running out of my routine. Ah, well — what better time to go on a bike tour?

My friend Leah, a school teacher in San Francisco, is all about making the most of her summer break. Even though she just returned from San Diego at about the same time I was limping home from the Sierras, she's raring to go again and the window is perfect for both of us to spend a few days pedaling through the ancient forests of Humboldt County. She outfitted her Surly Long Haul Trucker with mountain bike tires, dropped the stem, and installed a front rack for her own ideal bikepacking rig. We headed out to the Marin Headlands on Sunday afternoon for a test ride, and were treated to a rare brilliantly clear day.

Leah's friend Dylan, a former resident of Northern California and fellow Stagecoach 400 finisher, designed a dirt and backroad route for us. He even threw in the location of secret swimming holes and blueberry farms, and made sure to route us through the Avenue of the Giants.

This is a comfort tour; we're only riding about forty to fifty miles a day — tough and hilly miles, no doubt — but still, there will be actual down time. As such, I needed to load my Moots for "comfort touring," no easy task when you're not running racks. I figured out a way to hang my tent and sleeping pad off the handlebars, and packed plenty of warm clothing and a sleeping bag in the back. Leah is carrying the stove, and I managed to stuff my repair kit, pot, coffee, one hot meal, lunch, and snacks in the tiny frame bag. I took it on a test ride up Black Mountain and man, comfort touring gets heavy (I still have to carry my water, water filter, Kindle, and a few other small items in a pack.) I'll probably use my gas tank as well so I can pack my big camera and Sour Patch Kids. We'll be mostly out of cell phone range and entirely away from computers for the better part of five days. I don't often really get away like this, and I'm looking forward to it.

As for the shin, it manages okay as long as I mostly stay in the saddle and of course don't use pedals that I have to click in and out of. I'm also bringing a compression sleeve and bandage in case it flares up. Hoping for the best. I can't really afford a prolonged shin injury at this point in the summer, but I don't think the bike tour will put too much pressure on it.

Because I'll be out of range for a few days, I wanted to post a pre-emptive congratulations to Eszter Horanyi, who executed a brilliant ride in this year's Tour Divide. As I write this, she's only about 200 miles from Antelope Wells, and will undoubtedly come in somewhere in the sub-19-day range. Can't say I didn't call it. And if her call-ins are any indication, she's probably almost disappointed that the limitless smorgasbord of junk food is about to come to an end. Nice work, Eszter. Way to make the course record unattainable for the rest of us. Ha!

I also wanted to send my respect to the current "Red Lantern" of the 2012 Tour Divide, Tracy Burge, who is pedaling her way through southern Montana. Tracy battled flu and possible giardia infection early in the race, decided to scratch in Butte, and then suddenly changed her mind. A friend of mine in Missoula, Ed, camped with her the other day and sent me an e-mail:

"She is back on and while she won't finish the race in the 30 days, she is going to ride the whole thing. She is a wonderful woman. We camped with her, and I rode a bit with her the next day. We of course mentioned you and she admires you greatly, and has read your book. She has been thinking about you on the trail, knew a few places you bivy'ed, and admires your toughness even more."

I do hear from readers from time to time, and am always touched by their notes. If any words I write somehow inspire or boost others during great adventures, I consider that my highest success. Thanks, Tracy. I admire your strength and perseverance, and I'll be cheering for you all the way to Mexico. 

Mount Whitney

It was to be my most ambitious endurance effort yet — a single-day climb to the top of Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the Lower 48. Twenty-two miles, more than 7,000 feet of climbing, to an altitude of 14,500 feet. The date was August 2001, and I was 21 years old. My dad had applied for a permit back in January and invited me along. When he landed what was even then a difficult permit to get, he said, "It's once in a lifetime, but it won't be easy. Do you think you're up for it?"

I enjoy taking solo trips from time to time. Beat was in Switzerland on business, and I decided to spend two or three days in the Sierras for UTMB practice — working on techniques in uphill "speed hiking" and downhill jogging. But after two days of solid five-hour efforts at altitude, and a rough night in of sleep in camp, I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling partially shattered. Sunlight was just beginning to touch the floor of the canyon, and I felt a familiar empty-stomach anxiety that I still associate with waking up early to go on big hikes with my dad. "It's only hiking," I told myself. "Just 22 miles."

A lot happened in the interim between January and August 2001. I landed my first post-college, career-type job as an editor at a weekly newspaper in Murray, Utah, and then lost it and four weeks' pay when the publisher abruptly shut the doors. I started working as a graphic designer and convinced myself corporate logos and real-estate brochures were the right path for me. And I met a guy who convinced me that I should put the whole career thing on hold and see the world, or at least the United States, before I descended too deep into adulthood. I dropped everything and loaded up my Geo Prism in May. We trekked across Zion National Park, swam across lakes in Texas, and dug trenches around our tent in the torrential rains of North Carolina. I sprinted away from a pit bull attack in Maine, climbed the highest peak in Idaho during a July snowstorm, and helped row a raft more than two hundred miles down the Green River. After the trip was over, I emerged with an actual tan on my legs, definition in my biceps, and a conviction that I had never before and would possibly never again be so strong. 

My start was still what most people would consider late, around 8:45 a.m., which is a good time to begin a trek up Mount Whitney. Most of the day hikers leave much earlier but the backpackers haven't yet hit the trail. Despite a full quota of permits for the day, it seemed like I had the trail almost to myself. Because I felt so lousy, and because reaching the summit was the ultimate goal, I had already decided I wasn't going to focus on "training." I wouldn't stress when my paced dropped below 20-minute miles, and I'd stop and take more breaks if I had another coughing fit like the one I experienced early that morning. Mount Whitney really is a rare opportunity — the kind of experience one should savor.

Our hiking party was me, my dad, and my dad's friend Tom. We drove from Salt Lake City to Lone Pine on "America's Loneliest Highway" across central Nevada. My cross-country road trip had inspired me to purchase new high-tech hiking gear that I was quite proud of. The last time my dad and I embarked on a long hike, I was still wearing cotton T-shirts and jean shorts, and hoisting a school backpack full of refilled Gatorade bottles. Now I had convertible nylon pants, polar fleece, a Camelback, even a Katadyn water filter. I was styling. 


The weather was close to perfect, perhaps on the warm side of ideal, but it's hard to complain about sunshine in the Sierras. Even after I broke out of my morning funk, I wasn't in a rush to increase my pace. I set my legs on cruise control and gazed up at the granite walls rising thousands of feet over my head. The chiseled spires and crumbling slopes had an air of familiarity, much more recent than I knew them to be. I was surprised by how much I remembered from my first visit here, and it was interesting to revisit the memories through the vibrant filter of a decade of experiences.

For all of the strength I had built during the summer of 2001, I was still prone to making mistakes. For starters, I thought wasabi peas sounded like great trail food, and brought an eight-ounce bag. I managed two or three handfuls before I felt ill. I also had a half pound of banana chips. As I sat down next to my dad for our mid-morning snack, an opportunistic marmot scuttled up from behind and snatched them right out of my lap, the entire bag. Undeterred by my yelling and chasing, the marmot scurried away with most of my edible food. My dad took pity on me and handed me a granola bar. 

My legs' cruise control stayed steady until I reached the trail's infamous hundred switchbacks, and then my strength started to falter. GPS registered over 12,000 feet now, and my lungs began to burn.  Even with everything I've learned about appreciating life for its fleeting moments, there are still times, sometimes, when I just put my head down and trudge.

We passed through a notch and climbed over the sharp edge of the summit ridge at Trail Crest, elevation 13,600. It was already as high as I'd ever been in my life, and I paused to take in the vista. For what seemed like hundreds of miles, all I could see was stark granite, lifeless lakes, and snow. It struck me as eerie that a landscape too high to support most life was now far below. I wondered what it must be like to climb the world's truly high mountains — almost like touching the moon. 

From Trail Crest there are only another 900 feet of elevation gain to the summit, spread out over 2.5 miles. The trail runner in me wanted to write this stretch off as easy, but in Whitney's context, I was being pummeled. I don't know why I brought that GPS, because it only seemed to taunt me. My pace dropped to 31-minute-miles, and then 39. I actually felt like I often do at the end of a long endurance ride — vaguely nauseated, achy muscles, dehydration headache. I sipped on my water, but I didn't really expect it to help. Trudge, trudge, trudge.

My dad and Tom were now far ahead. The peak looked close enough to touch, but the trail sign warned it was still 1.9 miles away. Other hikers were strewn along the ridge like refugees, leaning on their packs, sipping water bottles, waiting for breaths they knew they wouldn't catch. Part of me longed to sit down next to them, wait it out, not worry about seeing the top. I'd heard that, short of proper acclimation, most people have an individual elevation limit under which they operate just fine, and over which they fall apart. I suspected mine was right around 13,000 feet. It was as high as I'd ever been. 

Even with my slow pace, I caught and passed most of the hikers who were still making their way to the peak. I ended up reaching the top in the midst of a large group of young adults, likely college students. As a hundred-year-old stone summit hut came into view, the woman right in front of me blubbered, "Oh my god, I'm getting all emotional. Oh, I think I'm going to start crying." I kind of wanted to roll my eyes, but I couldn't deny the rush of energized blood that was sweeping through my own heart.

My dad waited for me for a bit, and the three of us walked to the top together. We shared hugs of congratulations, pictures of the geographic marker — with a reading of 14,496 feet — and more granola bars. "It's the top of the country," my dad said. "Well, except for Alaska." I grinned with a sense of accomplishment. It was a struggle to get there, which I realized made it all the more rewarding. I'd never been so high, or felt so strong. 

Standing at the the highest elevation of my life yet for a second time, I suddenly wished that I hadn't climbed this mountain alone. It would have been better to share this moment again with my father, or with Beat, who I guiltily remembered was still busy doing actual work on the other side of the world. As much as I enjoy and need my solo outings to re-energize, my best memories remain with the people I love. Just then, a coughing fit erupted, and for a moment panicked that I might see blood on the rocks. I didn't feel all that bad, but I also know that I've spent a lot of energy over the past decade conditioning my mind to ignore my body's warning signs, and I don't have any real experience with pulmonary edema to know when it actually hits. But no, my cough was clear. I was fine. I was as high as I'd ever been.

We were less than three minutes into our descent when disaster struck. As a large group of hikers approached the peak, my dad stepped off the trail to let them pass. He caught his foot on a boulder and tumbled into the rocks. Tom helped him up as my dad clutched his own hand. His thumb was grotesquely twisted, almost dangling off the joint. We still had 11 miles and more than 6,000 feet to descend. Tom collected snow in a plastic grocery bag, and passed chunks to my dad so he could ice his broken thumb as we worked our way down the rocky trail. I don't even remember our pace slowing all that much, and my dad still chatted amicably through what I can only imagine was excruciating pain. 

Even though it was at the time my most difficult endurance effort yet, I still didn't remember this trail being so difficult. It was steep, strewn with rocks, and the footing was bad, which made for equally slow descending. I couldn't believe my dad had hiked all the way down here with a badly broken thumb. Sometimes I tell the "Whitney broken thumb" story to my friends to illustrate where I got my clumsy gene, and why I have to be so overcautious. My dad laughs about it now, but his injury took many months to heal, several surgeries, and I'm not sure he ever got his full range of motion back. On the trail, my dad didn't complain once. He's strong like that.

I felt a little better as I lost elevation, but by this point my possible shin splints were acting up, and it was all I could do to not limp, let alone try to run. The 22-mile hike took me 9.5 hours, a pace that, sadly, would amount to a big DNF at UTMB. Not that I viewed these much higher elevations as a realistic gauge of my fitness, but the experience was eye-opening about difficulty of the goals I've set. Sometimes I think I'm so much stronger than I was a decade ago, and sometimes I wonder if that's really the case. But then I remember that I'm exactly as strong as I need to be, when I still have the opportunity to visit places like Mount Whitney.