Friday, April 11, 2014

Iditarod playlist

Someone recently asked me about the music I listened to during my recent races — an Iditarod playlist. Listening to music while exercising, training, or racing outdoors is a controversial subject. Some people are adamantly against it, and those who object to racing playlists often carry the assumptions that those who need music are emotionally weak, bored, or trying to drown out fatigue and pain. They accuse us of shutting out the world, but I don't see it that way at all. I don't use music to shut out experiences; I use it to enhance them. I connect with music much in the same way I connect with wilderness, and in my view, music and outdoor experiences intensify each other in equal parts. 

 I don't listen to music all of the time — perhaps not even most of the time during a multiday effort — but I still consider it a vital part of my experience. As such, I carried four iPod Shuffles for the 350-mile trek to McGrath, all loaded up with different playlists. There was one Shuffle that I filled days before the race with mostly new-to-me music, and a few of those songs resonated deeply during the Iditarod. It became by far my favorite Shuffle, and I ended up just recharging that one (with a battery-powered charger) and listening to it throughout the seven days I was out on the Iditarod Trail. Although there were more than 200 songs on that Shuffle and well over 800 total, if I were to pick an "Iditarod playlist," this would be it. Included are photos Beat took during our time together on the trail. 


"Black Out Days," Phantogram

If I was looking for two ongoing themes in my favorite songs during difficult endurance efforts, most are either outright silly or high-energy yet tinted with sadness. I suppose it makes sense. Emotions can be greatly exaggerated out on the trail. Music gave shape to the melancholy, while at the same time outlining an underlining joy. I remember this Phantogram song first came on during the first night of the journey, as we crossed the Dismal Swamp beneath green waves of Northern Lights. The moon was out and the trail was distinct enough that I could turn off my headlamp and walk through the darkness, gazing over my shoulder at the aurora for a long while. I often sang out loud when the lyrics resonated: "If I could paint the sky; Would all the stars shine a bloody red?"


"Reflektor," Arcade Fire

The entire Iditarod Trail is lined with reflective route markers, either permanently affixed to trees and tripods, or tied around wooded lath in the snow. During the long winter nights, these reflectors capture even the dim light of headlamps from a long distance away. Finger Lake, at mile 135, is a checkpoint at the end of a long series of frozen swamps. All of these swamps look the same, and it's the kind of place where you think you've arrived about three hours before you're actually there. As we made our way through the interminable swamps, every distant reflective marker somehow convinced me it was the lights of the lodge. Of course "Reflector" provided the perfect score for every mild disappointment I experienced when I realized I was wrong: "I thought I found a way to enter. It's just a reflector. I thought I found a connector. It's just a reflector." At one point, Beat was several hundred yards ahead and I indulged in singing loudly: "It's just a reflection! Of a reflection! Of a reflection! Of a reflection! ..."

"Jump Rope," Blue October. 

"Jump Rope" is one of those songs that just landed on my iPod, and I hated it at first. It annoyed me so much. My Shuffle was usually stuffed beneath all of my clothing layers, pressed against my skin to keep the battery warm. But if I could reach it at all, I would skip this song. For whatever reason, the random song generator really liked this one; it came on a lot. One day, we were making our way over a series of snowmobile moguls on the trail and I found myself mumbling, "Up, down, up, down, up, down, yeah ... it will get hard." After that, I became hooked on the blatant motivational theme and catchy repetitiveness.


"How Can You Swallow So Much Sleep?" Bombay Bicycle Club

Sometimes, amid the physical exhaustion and encompassing focus on forward motion, I imagined the Iditarod Trail as a sentient entity that would converse with me, without prompting.  This song is a good example of how I interpret my imaginary and often abstract conversations with the Iditarod Trail. I would pose a rhetorical question like the one presented in the title, and the Iditarod Trail would answer with repetitive prodding and incessant demands — "Can I wake you up? Can I wake you up? Is it late enough? Is it late enough?"


"Good 4 It," Wallpaper

This song has a line about "zombie phone" that for whatever dumb reason made me giggle every time. It also contained more resonant lyrics than that: "How to stay alive though? How the f*** should I know?"


"Leave it Alone," Broken Bells

I had a tough morning the day we traveled between Finger Lake and Puntilla Lake, miles 130 to 165. Monotone clouds and light snow deteriorated to fog and moderate sleet, and then rain. The cold soaking weather, combined with dreary skies, lack of views in what I knew to be a beautiful region, and day three (or was it four) fatigue, sapped away any energy or willpower I could muster for sled-dragging and made the miles seem endless. This song was the perfect rainy day anthem. "Could it all be over now? We've seen it all the while ...  There's no dimension to the clouds ... And the moon and world around.  That's the heart of all my pain ...  cause I don't wanna go ... Oh the distant light ... in a hue we can't describe, still we know."

"Lies," Chvrches

This was a good marching song. I also imagined it as the Iditarod Trail taunting me, which the Iditarod Trail often did in my imagination. "I can sell you lies ... You can't get enough ... Make a true believer of anyone, anyone, anyone."


"I Gotta Feeling," The Black Eyed Peas


The day after it rained, we crossed over the the far side of the Alaska Range. Several days of warm temperatures absolutely scoured the already-dry region of snow, as well as a lot of its surface-coating ice. For fifty miles we hacked through knee-deep alder tangles, standing water on top of glare ice, bare dirt, roots, ankle-deep mud, wet swamps, tussocks, and shin- to knee-deep stream crossings. This wouldn't have been a terrible trail to backpack if it was a warm day in the summer, and we were carrying backpacks rather than dragging 45- and 75-pound sleds over endless obstacles. The sled-dragging part was always my weakness in this endeavor; I never became terribly strong at it in the best of conditions, and in the worst I was absolutely at my physical limit just to maintain forward motion on the steep rollers along the South Fork of the Kuskokwim River. We covered two miles in a good hour. In a bad hour, sometimes closer to one.

After a series of stream crossings, some of my gear had gotten wet, my shoes and socks were soaked, my sled was filled with greasy mud, my head was spinning, and I knew that the temperature could possibly drop to 30 below overnight — as it is known to do in the Farewell Burn in February. I had a complete, mucousy, blubbering breakdown spurred by paralyzing fear and frustration, that Beat was unfortunate enough to witness. Shortly afterward, iPod brought up this Black Eyed Peas song. Knowing that we were going to be spending that night sleeping on muddy ground in the Burn, with soaked feet and gear, in an area where there probably wasn't enough snow to make more water, made this song even more wistfully relatable — "I gotta feeling. That tonight's gonna be a good night." I must have repeated it eight or ten times, using the catchy beat to motivate my body to pull harder over the roots and tussocks. I sang out loud to the part where they repeated all the days of the week — "Get with us, you know what we say, say ... Party every day ... p-p-p-party every day." ... Because that's what we do on the Iditarod Trail. :)

"Last Words," Hospitality

Another haunting song that got me through some long miles. It was beautiful amid the frozen swamps, far-sweeping horizons and spindly spruce forests of the Farewell Burn.

"Army of the Damned," Lonewolf

Beat and I agree that this death metal song is the perfect anthem for walking to Nome.  But it's appropriate for all frozen-purgatory marching occasions.

"Roar," Katy Perry. 

Yeah. I pretty much had to go there.


"Team," Lorde

One the final stretch into McGrath, I operated in a dreamlike state of mind. I was slightly low on food and rationing calories, and discovered there was a peaceful place between alert and bonked, where time lost meaning, landscape features blurred, and everything seemed magical. As Beat and I traveled the wide expanse of the Kuskokwim River, we began to approach another walker who was about a mile ahead. We knew it had to be our friend Steve, who left Nikolai the previous night just as we were arriving. While in Nikolai, Steve made a phone call and learned that his father had died, and was justifiably emotional. Rather than rest in the remote village, he opted to leave not long after sunset, facing a long night on the river in order to reach McGrath and fly home. The fact that we had caught up to him many hours later, and after what had been a cold night (20 below), raised some concern. It needn't have, as Steve just needed to be alone when he left Nikolai, and had bivied for several hours on the trail. But I was worried he was distraught or in distress on top of everything else, and Beat seemed determined to catch him. We power-hiked on the verge of running for 45 minutes, and again I was at my physical limits on rationed calories and a child-like emotional state. During that hard march, Lorde's "Team" seemed to score the strange combination of stress and bliss. "And you know, we're on each other's team."

"Happy," Wrens

The temper tantrum that erupted while listening to this song is one of my most prominent memories from my first trip to McGrath in 2008. I put it on the playlist of all four of my iPods for that reason, but in the strange way Shuffles work, "Happy" did not come up once until the final day — in almost the same spot as my 2008 emotional eruption on the Kuskokwim River. Hearing this song in a similar location but very different context underscored just how different my journey had been this time around. It was a fitting finale to my 2014 playlist as well. 
Monday, April 07, 2014

Suddenly spring

 Spring is my favorite time of year in California. In this region, spring actually spans February and March; by April it's the cusp of summer, with its heat and parched hills, face-stalking flies, dusty trails, stinging nettle and robust poison oak. But for now it is still spring, and returning from white winter to hills splashed in green has been refreshing.

 Less refreshing is re-acclimating to 80-degree temperatures, discovering that SPF 15 is no longer going to cut it, and sweaty chamois. But, Alaska adventures are over and it's time to look forward to the summer projects, put in more productive screen time, and get back out there in anticipation of the rest of 2014. I'll write soon about my summer plans, but let's just say there is a lot of mountain biking *and* mountain running in my near future. This is to be the year of "forever pace," a grand experiment and one that I'm pretty excited about.

 Trying to pull myself out of White Mountains 100 and travel fatigue resulted in slow-paced plods on Thursday and Friday, but by Saturday both Beat and I were feeling more snappy and rallied for a four-hour mountain bike ride with Liehann. This was Beat's longest effort since he returned from Nome two weeks ago (was it really that recently? It feels like months at this point.) He rode the same bike I used in the White Mountains, re-fitted with 29" wheels. Beat purchased the soft-tail Moots as a mountain bike that just happened to be convertible to a fat bike, and I think this was his longest ride so far on the (decidedly slimmer) beast. He seemed pleased with the handling and agility. It is a great bike.

 Enjoying the spoils of snow biking in sunny California.

 Thirty-five miles and 5,200 feet of climbing in the "heat" admittedly felt tougher than I expected, but saddle time is my current goal, so I joined Liehann for his long ride on Sunday. We planned an 80-mile loop through Big Basin and Pescadero state parks. The winter here was exceptionally dry, but when Beat left Alaska, he took all the bad weather that had been shadowing him for two weeks and brought it home — a whole week of rain. I just missed it, bringing Alaska's unseasonably blue skies and warmth home with me, to enjoy the newly lush trails and hillsides after green-up.

It seemed cooler on the move than it was. Our lunch break in the sun quickly migrated to a lunch break in the shade, huddled in a thin sliver of a fir tree shadow — which was humorous given we were riding through Big Basin Redwoods State Park, offering a lot of places to escape the sun just below the dry and exposed ridge. For lunch I had a sad bread-and-cheese "sandwich" that I cobbled together from a relatively empty fridge in the morning. That's when Liehann pulled out an entire pound of sliced turkey and offered to share. That's an important sign of a good bike partner — the ability to complete a sandwich.

 Blasting down Gazos Creek fireroad. Photos can't really illustrate it, but this is pretty much the best descent ever, at least for a fireroad. Fast and flowing with swooping turns, steep drops, the filtered sunlight of huge redwood trees, cool shade, moss and ferns, gurgling creeks and chirpy birds to complete the tropical rainforest feel of the place. The climb back up Pescadero is equally steep, equally redwoody, and decidedly less sublime. I felt more tired and taxed than I did at any point during the White Mountains 100. But if I stopped my internal whining long enough to consider it, I realized that my legs still felt plenty strong, the head-boiling sensation would fade once acclimation kicked in, and eighty miles is really not so far. It was a big weekend — 115 miles and some 15,000 feet of climbing all told, but not a big deal. In both 2012 and 2013, I returned from Alaska feeling physically downtrodden, a mental state that carried into rough-edged summers. I'm experimenting with making this season different simply by switching up my attitude. We'll see how it plays out, but it's my new mantra: "not a big deal." No need to worry about limits if there are none.

Beat keeps asking about my Iditarod race report. I haven't started it. I'm spending my days with newspaper projects and finishing up the book about Tim Hewitt, as well as working on my book proposal for Ann Trason. With the Iditarod story, I had this idea to spend a bit more time on the writing, polish more than usual, and integrate text and photos in a more dynamic way than the blog allows. Basically, I want to make a small digital book out of it. Beat thinks there might not be enough material there, but I want to have fun with the project — after all, what's the point of writing about your own adventures if you can't have fun with the writing as well?

Since I struggle so much with finishing a full book, I'm considering the prospect of "micro-publishing" to keep the salmon wheel turning. Other authors have tried this with variable success, some slim to none, but it seems worth a shot. I recently did my taxes, and although my books are dwarfed by other sources of income, it continues to surprise me how many royalties they still bring in. This blog, which I spend hours and hours and hours on (for fun; it's my relaxation outlet) pulls in about $1,000 a year through Google Ads. The books, which I spent a few weeks writing years ago and haven't done much with since, still make considerably more than that. It's all chump change in the Silicon Valley, but it's a start. Something I really need to figure out this year, in addition to finding my forever pace, is what I really want to do as a writer/editor/publisher. Taxes make it starkly clear which efforts "pay off" and which ones really are just a hobby. I've never been one to place all or even the majority of my self worth in the things other people are willing to pay me to do, but splashes of honesty are occasionally needed when the things I've been so dedicated to just aren't working. With that said, I maintain loyalty to the downtrodden newspaper industry, and I believe even more firmly in books. 
Sunday, April 06, 2014

Goodbye, Alaska, and thanks

The list of things to do on Monday and Tuesday was long, as it often is when dismantling a six-week trip that involves piles of winter gear. I hardly slept on Sunday night after the White Mountains 100, too amped up and dehydrated, gasping to push more oxygen into my thickened blood. Monday's agenda included driving seven hours from Fairbanks to Anchorage — a road trip, I discovered, that becomes decidedly less fun when sleep-deprived and operating under the reality that the adventure is behind me rather than ahead. The droopy eyes set in around Healy, and I decided a break was in order.

The tiny winter visitor's center at Denali National Park was crammed with a busload of tourists. An Asian woman demanded a larger plastic bag to cover the calendar she just purchased, and the ranger seemed frazzled as she rifled around for something to appease her. The scene did have a weird kind of frenzy to it, enough to spark discomfort. I considered turning around and leaving the national park, but the ranger kindly waved me over to ask if I needed anything. "I'm curious if the trail along the park road is packed enough for a bicycle?" I asked. "Oh, and I need to pay the entry fee."

"The road is plowed," she said, "all the way out to Savage River." She pushed a map toward me. "And there's no entry fee in the winter; we're just hoping to get more people out there."

Fifteen miles out the road, the north wind was the only source of sound, moaning softly as it rushed across the wide valley. The plowed part of the park road had been precariously icy for a car, and I could see the surface beyond the gate was pretty much a broken sheet of glare ice on muddy gravel. This didn't seem promising for a ride, but I still pulled the bike out of the back seat, only to discover the front tire was completely flat. I used my little hand pump to push test air back into it; after three minutes, it had enough volume to at least notice, but after three more, it was losing air again. "Argh, bikes," I grumbled, too lazy to fix the flat. I crammed the mechanical nuisance back into the car and pulled on microspikes instead.

Running was humorous; I haven't done much of that in the past few weeks as it is, and less than 24 hours after finishing a hundred-mile fat bike race, any "running" I attempted was more like a pained shuffle on stiff legs. I walked frequently. I wasn't even looking for a workout, far from it, I knew rest was in order. But I also knew I was in Denali National Park, out the road in late March with no one else around, and this was a rare visiting opportunity. Even if the distance I could cover on my tired legs with no bike was minuscule, what I'd see would be exponentially richer than anything seen while driving sleepy in a rental car.

So I ran, limply, letting the north wind push my body into a side-to-side stagger, hardly taking my gaze off the mountains. An ice sheen over the snow glistened in the low light of afternoon, and I scanned the nearest mountains for friendly routes up to the ridge. When I spotted one, I grumbled to myself about sending my snowshoes home in the mail. But then again, a climb like that would take hours. I did not have hours. I barely even had minutes, but I felt greedy and wanted it all — for Beat to come back and for the adventure to continue ... for spring and break-up to somehow hold off a little longer ... for Alaska to not leave me, even if it had to be the other way around.

Denali National Park granted me that wish, a final beautiful memory to hold onto as I jetted back to real life and the projects that I looked forward to working on, the dry trails and mountain biking that I admit I missed, the summer adventures that I'm excited to prepare for, and of course Beat, who I missed terribly in a way that was different than when he was simply out walking the Iditarod Trail. It was time to go home. Return was a good thing, but Denali gave me the gift of holding on for a few moments longer.

I'm incredibly grateful for the privilege I had to journey through Alaska for nearly six weeks. It wouldn't have been possible without the generosity and awesomeness of friends who I owe many thanks and maybe guided bike vacations in California next time you want to escape Alaska in the winter:

Dan and Amy in Anchorage. Dan and Amy are amazing. They graciously put up with Beat and me floating in and out of their home for the better part of six weeks, using their gear room as our personal base camp, while they stored piles of stuff, baked cookies and delicious dinners, and made more airport trips than I can count. Thanks Dan and Amy; hopefully Beat and I can at least partially return the favor someday soon.

Jill in Anchorage. Jill encouraged me to join her for bike adventures and put up with my slowness shortly after I returned from McGrath. Thanks for getting me back out there!

Dave and Andrea in Willow. Spending a few days with Dave Johnston, eating "recovery" steak and sandwich dinners with him, and listening to his ITI stories was a highlight of the trip; biking to intriguing places in the region was a nice bonus.

Libby and Geoff in Juneau. I appreciate that Libby and Geoff are willing to open their "flophouse" for wayward friends like myself. It's fun chatting about the latest Juneau political gossip and watching bad reality TV. Seeing their kids significantly older is always kind of weird, but fun. They grow up so fast.

Cecile in Juneau. It was Cecile's birthday and she hosted a big breakfast for friends that I just happened to be invited to because I showed up at a group run that day. I really enjoyed meeting a number of Juneau's quirky runners; I was always on the periphery of the running community when I lived in Juneau but never involved, so it was fun to finally get to know everyone better.

Brian in Juneau. Brian has long been a good friend and always reliable for a fun night on the town. We went to see a play and enjoyed a couple of tasty dinners.

Shana in Nome. Beat and I were complete strangers to her when Shana offered to host us at her home. She and I enjoyed late nights, staying up until the small hours and chatting like old friends. The three of us hiked up Anvil Mountain together the day after Beat finished the ITI. I really enjoyed getting to know Shana and hope to visit again soon. Nome is a fantastic place; you'd never really know it unless you went there yourself.

Phil and Sarah in Nome. Phil no doubt had major Iditarod fatigue after riding the route himself in twelve days, and then hosting or greeting a number of ITI bikers and walkers that followed. Phil let me borrow his bike for a day, and Sarah prepared a delicious dinner for everyone after Tim and Loreen finished.

Craig and Amity in Butte. Craig and Amity are two friends from college that have been there for me since the very beginning. They hosted my very first Susitna 100 effort in 2006, and they're still there for a friendly stopover in a beautiful setting near the Matanuska River.

Corrine and Eric in Fairbanks. I met Corrine and Eric through the White Mountains network, and like everyone I have met through that network, are fun and generous. Corrine and Eric skied the White Mountains 100 together this year. It was their first 100-mile ski, and they finished in 31 hours. I didn't have a chance to see them after they finished, and I regret that we couldn't swap stories. But I enjoyed getting to know them better.

Joel and Erica in Fairbanks. Joel and Erica treated me to a shakedown ride before the race and a big lunch after the race.

Beat and me on top of Anvil Mountain. Special big thanks to him. :)
And of course all the others who contributed to the journey — those involved with the Iditarod Trail Invitational: Bill and Kathi, Rich at Yentna Station, Cindi on the Yentna River, Cindy in Skwentna, Rob in Rohn, the Petruskas in Nikolai, Peter and Tracy in McGrath, Wilco the Dutch filmmaker. Thanks to Ed in Fairbanks along with all the volunteers of the White Mountains 100. And many others — lots of awesome people in Alaska. I'm fairly introverted and sometimes have difficulty connecting with people, but there's something about those northern latitudes that have helped me meet many kindred spirits. Thank you, everyone.