2016 Iditarod playlist

Earlier this week, an acquaintance mentioned he was putting together a Spotify playlist with music that I cited in my book, "Into the North Wind," and wondered if I had a few more to add. It seemed like a good idea for a blog post, a kind of follow-up to my "Iditarod playlist" of 2014. As I mentioned then, I enjoy listening to music during long solo efforts, and generally the reasons are the opposite of overcoming boredom or shutting out the world. I see music as a means of connecting my often drifting mind with the present. Music also disrupts negative thought loops, and keeps me cognizant of beauty when tedium and fatigue sink in. I keep the volume low and believe I hear most of what I need to hear (such as an approaching snowmobile or dog team. Dogs are pretty quiet, but I can hear them.) However, I usually only listen to music when I'm feeling good — it tends to spark anger or annoyance when I'm not.

As usual, I downloaded a bunch of music before the race, and much of what I listened to was new to me at the time. My use was actually somewhat limited over those 17 days. The majority of the time, I either didn't bother or preferred silence. But there still seemed to be at least one song that resonated every day, and this is that list. 

 Sunday, February 28: Knik Lake to Skwentna. "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron. Trails were a morass of slush and ice, rain was falling, and I was a bundle of stress, wound so tight that the only emotion that resonated was absolute dread. I took small comfort in imagining the first time I pedaled into the Susitna Valley, when everything about it was still unknown.

"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."

 Monday, February 29: Skwentna to Puntilla Lake: "Artangels" by Grimes. There were hills along the rolling climb to Puntilla that literally dropped me to my knees (when I fell as I tried to nudge my bike up a near-vertical slope.) For unknown reasons, I was giddy for most of the punishing nine-hour slog between Finger Lake and Puntilla. As usual when I'm in a good mood, singing pop music outloud is extremely satisfying.

"I don't need no medicine.
Gonna dance all night.
I'm high on adrenaline.
That's right, that's right, that's right."

 Tuesday, March 1: Puntilla Lake to Egypt Mountain: "Long Night" by Guster. Although I didn't even stay up late (in the sleeping bag by 10:30), this is the night that darkness seemed to close in completely. An ongoing thought pattern during the trip was amazement that, after all of my failures and struggles, I could still move freely through these forbidding places.

"How many times I've wished for change 
Gave up, gave in, and called it fate 
Repeating all of the same mistakes 
Wasn't ready for what I'd find.
Whatever it is has turned the knife,
It was a long, long night."

Wednesday, March 2: Egypt Mountain to Nikolai. "Red Shifting" by Helio Sequence.  Music with a surreal quality and the lyrics "Let it bleed, let it bleed, let it all come out" seemed perfect for the "hump day" of a long effort — the day that most of the aches and pains come to a crescendo before slipping into more muted equilibrium.

Thursday, March 3: Nikolai to McGrath. "Shine a Light" by Banners. This "day" actually happened between 1 a.m. and 10 a.m. I left Nikolai without really conceptualizing that I still had eight hours of darkness ahead. However, in many ways, Alaska is at its most beautiful at night. Frost swirled through the air at -10F, northern lights flared overhead, and my dim headlamp traced miles of wolf tracks through the Kuskokwim River Valley.

Friday, March 4: McGrath to Carlson Crossing. "Perfect Holiday," by Big Data. I was both thrilled and terrified at the thought that I was leaving the last strands of familiarity to venture into a 200-mile stretch of unknown, unpopulated wilderness. I was also becoming increasingly worried about my right hand, which had lost so much strength that it was becoming difficult to zip up my coat. This song signaled the joy I felt and the comfort I craved.

"On my perfect holiday,
I won't need my hands to say,
I'm breaking out. I don't care.
That's my holiday."

Saturday, March 5: Carlson Crossing to Innoko. "Into Chicago" by Ace Reporter. In this song there's a line that probably says, "I thought we would die, somewhere in an echo," but I heard it as "I thought we would die, somewhere in Innoko." I never stopped believing that Innoko would kill me. A year earlier, when Beat passed through this region, there was three feet of untracked snow, and temperatures neared 50 below. My passage was much friendlier, a cause of much bemusement. Eventually I made minor changes to the lyrics of this song and sang it out loud frequently:

"I'm oblivious, trust me. 
I am surrounded by squalor. 
There's no bridge across overflow, 
and it freaks me out.
I have a list of confessions.
I confess I don't read them.
I have the qualities of a lazy mind,
Someone who plays at life. 
And I'm alive, but I'm quite surprised!
I thought we would die, 
Somewhere in Innoko."

Sunday, March 6: Innoko to Poorman, "Perfect Vision" by Icky Blossom. Occasionally I would imagine myself in an alternate universe — sitting on a couch, staring blankly at a television, and daydreaming about this strange reality that I was actually in. A dreamy song about "nothing to do but get high in the afternoon" allowed me to travel between these universes freely.

"A winter reprieve 
Pushing on me
Keeping right there
Keep me aware 
Snow on the ground
All over town,
All over town,
My bicycle is spinning around."

Monday, March 7: Poorman to Ruby. "Ansel" by Modest Mouse. This was my shortest day, time-wise, of the entire trip. It was also the one in which I was the most exhausted. This fatigue brought back strong associations with the Tour Divide, and thus an album I listened to on repeat during that ride — "Strangers to Ourselves" by Modest Mouse. This song, which is a true story about Isaac Brock's brother dying in an avalanche, always resonated because it evokes the uncertainty in all things.

"On gears around an uncaring sun
It doesn't know what it gave
As the bone moon winds 'round again
Again this allows one sphere's heart to pump
Pumping waves of hearts that come and go
And then come and then ..."

Tuesday, March 8: Ruby to Koyukuk. "Good for You" by Darlingside. This is a beautiful song that describes a sense of place. I was more or less alone across the Yukon River, and evenings brought an exquisite loneliness. I would think about "home." Colorado, California, Utah, and even this very spot in Alaska that I was seeing for the first time — a white plain stretching toward a pastel horizon.

"I stood above the Rocky Mountains,
Where Colorado touches New Mexico.
And I could see a hundred miles,
But I was many thousand miles from home."

Wednesday, March 9: Koyukuk to Kaltag. "Slow Down," Icon For Hire. I moved a lot slower on this day than my first on the Yukon, and it's always difficult to tell whether a hard day is due to snow conditions, or whether it's "me." I spent far too much time fretting that I didn't have the physical ability to propel myself to Nome, and pretending otherwise was a dangerous path. Concentrating on my breathing always helped, as did a reminder that "tomorrow holds no promises, except the ones we've made."

"Slow down. Just breathe.
All we have is all we need."

Thursday, March 10: Kaltag to Unalakleet, "Fantasy" by MSMR. The ride over the Kaltag Portage was my favorite day of the trip, and quite possibly my favorite day on a bike, ever. It's still difficult to describe why that is, but it was an incredible collision of beauty, awe, and joy.

"If I could force my heart, my eyes, my mind,
and eyes to get in line.
Maybe I'd find something real.
Not a fantasy so divine."

Friday, March 11: Unalakleet to Shaktoolik. "Stay Alive" by Jose Gonzalez  This is a song from the "Walter Mitty" soundtrack — it's probably not surprising that I identify with a meek character who lives a vivid fantasy life. This was a day that reminded me how powerless I was in this place. As I walked my bike along the blue ice of the Shaktoolik peninsula, incredible wind pummeled me from the side with such force that I could scarcely stay on my feet. I skittered along while wrestling with the bike to keep it from lunging toward the sea, and could relate to the need to "do whatever just to stay alive."

"There's a rhythm in rush these days.
Where the lights don't move and the colors don't fade.
There is a truth, and it's on our side.
Dawn is coming, open your eyes."

Saturday and Sunday, March 12 and 13, Shaktoolik to Koyuk. I didn't actually listen to my iPod on these days. I was distracted by dread, wearing too many layers of clothing to mess with earbuds, and anyway it was impossible to hear anything over the roars of 40mph wind gusts. But I do remember looping through songs in my head. One of them was "High" by Young Rising Sons.

"If this is low, I'm looking for high-igh-igh-igh 
Just let it go enjoy the ri-i-i-ide 
Without the low there ain't a high-igh-igh-igh."

Monday, March 14: Koyuk to Elim. "Tomorrow" by A Silent Film.  After the sea ice section, I spent the rest of the trip mildly sick (or congested at least) and very tired. I sought the boost of positive affirmation.

"Before you fall asleep tonight
Before you close your hundred eyes
Pray for a chance to prove yourself tomorrow."

Tuesday, March 15: Elim to White Mountain. "Hopeless Opus" by Imagine Dragons. For about an hour before sunrise, the wind was almost calm, and I pedaled away from Elim over a bumpy jumble of sea ice, singing this song at the top of my lungs. It was a good theme song for the day — upbeat pop with more subdued lyrics about a broken person trying to overcome themselves.

"I've got this place that I've filled with empty space,
And I'm trying not to face what I've done. ...
I'm in this race and I'm hoping just to place
So I'm trying not to face what's become of me."

Wednesday, March 16: White Mountain to Nome. "Dressed in Black" by Sia I've made a tradition of pressing "next" on the iPod when I have just a few minutes left to go in a race — from many of the 50Ks I've run all the way to this 1,000 miles to Nome. The random choices don't always make sense, but this one was perfect. Perhaps because I've spent so much time alone on this trail, I often think of the Iditarod as a sentient being — a kind of angel or demon that rewards and punishes me in kind. In the past I've regarded it with music about the idealism of starting anew ("Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens, 2007) and an angry breakup ("Happy" by the Wrens, 2008.) I don't claim the despair described in this song, but I do relate to a benevolent force that quelled my fears and made me laugh.


"I was hopeless and broken, 
you opened the door for me 
Yeah I was hiding and you let the light in 
and now I see 
That you do for the wounded, 
what they couldn't seem to, 
you set them free."

Week 8

 I admit that discouragement about my fitness continues. But I don't really want to write about that anymore. So this week's training log includes my favorite moments from each day.

 Monday: Mountain bike, 3:39, 28.5 miles, 3,748 feet climbing. I was pedaling through Salina, a small community that was devastated during the 2013 floods. Fat flakes of snow pummeled my face as I churned through a thin veneer of powder atop patchy ice. I hadn't expected snowfall, and was riding my mountain bike with studless tires. Although I was slipping and skidding up the steep road, I paid more attention to the buildings — some relics from mining days, some boarded up, some rebuilt after being knocked off their foundations during an unfathomable deluge of water. Sandbags still lined the base. I always admire the lives in these hardscrabble towns, even when I understand the proximity to urban Boulder.

Just as I was recovering from a particularly awkward slip, I looked up at an older man walking down the road. "You sure are intrepid," he said.

"What to you mean?" I asked, assuming this was a veiled insult about the stupidity of riding a bike on this icy mess of a road.

"Just biking in the snow, that's tough," he said.

"Oh, it's not so bad," I replied.


Tuesday: Rest

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:33, 13.7 miles, 2,372 feet climbing. Temperatures were in the single digits, and I surfed an untrammeled blanket of snow down to the shoreline of South Boulder Creek. It felt frigid in the canyon, at least ten degrees colder, and I stopped to pull a buff over my face. This spot was exquisitely quiet. I could hear distant squeaking — deer, perhaps — and the creek burbled in a hushed echo of springtime torrents. Sunlight cast a patchwork of glittering snow and blue shadows. I felt content, understanding that winter's beauty will always outshine my meek efforts.

 Thursday: Run, 1:38, 5.7 miles, 1,394 feet climbing.  Weightlifting, 0:45. I intended this to be a gym-only day, but the morning was so beautiful that I just had to go outside before my trip to town. I gauged the weather by stepping outside, and warm sunlight increased my excitement. So I hurried to put on a hat, mittens, tights, a long-sleeve shirt, and my "brand new" Icebug shoes that I bought in 2015 but haven't yet tried. Also in my excitement, I failed to check the temperature, which was a mistake. It wasn't nearly as warm as I guessed — 16 degrees, not exactly "no jacket" weather. But I ran so hard that I didn't really notice the chill until I was crawling up the west ridge of Bear Peak, which was still pristine more than 36 hours after the storm. I lost the trail and wandered into the steeper rocks. It was here, clinging to burned tree trunks while kicking "steps" into the powdery snow, that I realized I was quite cold, and started to shiver. I still had to pick my way carefully down the mountain, losing feeling in my fingers and toes. Once I'd returned to the flatter trail, I ran as hard as I could to generate heat. It actually worked, and I was comfortable (but very thirsty) by the time I made it it home.

 Friday: Fat bike, 3:41, 26.7 miles, 3,160 feet climbing. I recently made acquaintance with another fat-biking endurance cyclist here in Boulder, and she and I met up for a ride on Friday morning. We kept a good conversational pace up Fourmile Canyon, but once we reached the snowy Switzerland Trail, Cheryl put on the high-burners. I kept stopping to let air out of my tires — to make it easier on myself — as she powered through the crusty snow. On the wind-swept ridge, we stopped to have a snack. Gazing out at rolling, forested slopes, I thought this place reminded me of a spot I used to ride to in California, a lookout over Big Basin State Park. I've been haunted by my own nostalgia lately, for reasons I don't understand, but it incites sadness at the most unlikely times.

"I always love to come here," Cheryl said, and her voice brought me back to the present.

"It is a beautiful place," I agreed, and refocused on horizon. Suddenly I felt completely at home.

Saturday: Fat bike, 3:59, 22.5 miles, 3,045 feet climbing. Beat and I joined friends for a night at a cabin near Rollinsville. They were dragging sleds in the vicinity, and Beat and I set out for a ride on forest roads. Temps were on the warm side — 35 degrees — and it was snowing. I was struggling and doing everything I could to pretend I wasn't struggling, but it felt like I was slowly melting into the ground. The best moment came toward the end, when I was quite nauseated, and we stopped at a store on the highway. I sat outside in the swirling snow to quell this feeling of dizziness. Five minutes later, Beat emerged with a Pepsi for me. He's very sweet like that.

Sunday: Rest. I had another four-hour ride planned for this day, but we woke up to 8 inches of new snow, and I backed out. I don't have an excuse. I'm not tired, sick, or injured. Discouragement is really all I can claim. I recognize I need to either get over this, or embrace it. Ultimately I think it was a good idea to hit the reset button on this physically taxing week.

Total: 17:17, 5.7 miles run, 91.5 miles ride, 13,718 feet climbing. 

5 degrees in paradise

One of the reasons we moved from California to Colorado was to live among winter again — to sit by a wood stove and sip hot chocolate, watch snow fall outside the window, and justify having a sauna in our back yard. In eight months, Colorado has given us little tastes — May snowfall and October cold. But today was probably the first day of "real" winter — several inches of new snow fell as overnight temperatures dipped below zero. In the spirit of the "nearly wordless Wednesday" blogging tradition, this is a photo post. 

 Early morning light filters through fog over the backyard.

 Weather station shows 0.9 degrees.

 Beat begins his morning commute to work. It proved tougher than he anticipated.

 A few hours later, I set out for an afternoon ride. Temperatures had warmed to a balmy 5.4 degrees.

 Walker Ranch.

 Relentless climbing, rewarding views.

 First tracks.

 South Boulder Creek. It felt very cold here.

 Climbing away from South Boulder Creek was hard.

 Fading to cloud.

 Hints of sunlight.

 After an embarrassingly short distance, I realized three hours had passed, so I stopped for a snack.

Steam rises from Gross Reservoir. 

It doesn't have to hurt

"Are we really going to do this?" Beat asked as the truck rocked rather combatively. 

"Well, we already drove all the way here," I replied. "Here" was a pullout on Rollins Pass Road, a 45-minute drive from home. In the truck's bed were our fat bikes, recently refurbished after months of hibernation. My bike still had a Nome mileage sheet pinned to a pogie, and a once-cherished but soon-forgotten emergency collection of duct tape, zip ties, and parachute cord in the frame bag. We were here to enjoy the first day of fat bike season, but 45-mph wind gusts and an icy gravel road scraped clean of snow made it suddenly unpalatable. 

 There's one thing to be said about driving to an activity: You're more likely to make yourself go through with it. The west wind blew directly into our faces, and I was buffeted all over the road as I tried to mount my bike. If I could keep the front wheel pointed in a straight line, I was fine, but even a slight shimmy would send me veering toward an intimidating patchwork of ice on South Boulder Creek. Beat said the partially frozen stream reminded him of the many creeks one must cross in Alaska, and I agreed. I watched black water churn under fragile ice bridges and felt decidedly dizzy.

After 15 minutes, we had pedaled all of a mile up the road.

"This isn't very fun," Beat said.

I nodded in agreement. "But what a great workout. My quads are already sore. I'm going to start doing leg lifts at the gym, that's for sure."

 As we gained elevation, the road surface varied from wind-scoured, rocky dirt to deep, drifted snow. A few intrepid jeeps had ventured up the road, laying a narrow and erratic trail for us. Where trees offered wind protection, the surface resistance was just as taxing as riding into a 30-mph wind. I had to slow to something below a crawl just in order to process the necessary oxygen. The worst effects of my cold had dissipated significantly, but it left behind a heap of congestion, adding to the chronic congestion that I always battle. So I was breathing through a goopy straw at 10,000 feet, fretting that the things I want to do this winter are impossible — probably more impossible than ever.

 Really, though, I can only spend so much time fretting about breathing and not feeling strong. Snow flurries sparkled in the sunlight, and the wind bellowed through the trees. I gazed over the wind-swept valley and remembered that this is the sensation I love — churning through a heap of powder, fighting with every last whisper of strength to propel myself into a menacing wind. The wind and snow don't care about my dreams and goals, and I appreciate this. Endurance snow sports are entirely about strength and perseverance in the face of the absurd, the menacing, the unpredictable. It's this microcosm of life that I can't get enough of, even as I grow older and less capable for reasons I don't understand.

 This, like life, is as beautiful as it is hard, which is why it remains worthwhile. I'll just keep doing the best I can, relishing every breath of the monstrous wind.

Monday: Treadmill intervals, 0:30, 3 miles. Weightlifting, 0:40. Run, 1:00, 4 miles, 754 feet climbing. I drove home from Utah on this day and stopped by the gym on my way home. A half hour later, I jogged out to meet Beat during his evening run home from work on the West Ridge trail.

Tuesday: Rest. The man cold clamped down hard overnight. I woke up with a throat so sore it hurt to turn my neck, and I felt weak and feverish throughout the day. I was convinced I was coming down with bronchitis.

Wednesday: Elliptical machine "strength workout," 0:45. Weightlifting, 0:40. I had been quick to overestimate that cold, as it seemed quite bad for 24 hours. On Tuesday it was difficult to get up off the floor, but I felt significantly better on Wednesday morning. I went to the gym for low-impact exercise, using lots of hand sanitizer and cleaning wipes, although I would think the contagiousness of my cold dissipated with my symptoms. I did still have a sore throat and the start of persistent congestion.

Thursday: Elliptical machine, 1:30. Weightlifting, 0:20. Still didn't feel strong enough to venture outside. I hear it got a bit cold during the week.

Friday: Mountain bike, 2:16, 13.2 miles, 2,233 feet climbing. A light storm dropped about an inch of snow. I still felt somewhat weak and was having some difficulties with breathing, and the added resistance of snow didn't help. But I really enjoyed this ride — a mixture of sun and flurries, and the trails were deserted.

Saturday: Run, 2:17, 9.1 miles, 1,631 feet climbing. I wore my Salomon Spikecross shoes for the first time since the 2015 White Mountains 100, and wasn't thrilled with the sudden impact of non-Hokas. Perhaps I've ruined myself forever with cushy shoes, but my shins and hips hurt almost immediately. I felt okay but hiked more than I usually would.

Sunday: Fat bike, 4:19, 23.4 miles, 1,705 feet climbing. I wish I could say I felt strong and that the Fat Pursuit is going to be great. No, it's probably going to be a disaster. What's new?

Man colds and insecurity

Last year's Fat Pursuit, around mile 95. Crazy eyes because I thought I was dying,
while the rational side was doing everything to debunk this fear.

Earlier this week I came down with one of those "man colds" —  you know, colds that are so much worse than regular colds that they dramatically increase the urge to complain to everyone around you. I'm very cautious about respiratory infections these days. Productive coughing has limited my desire to venture out into cold, dry air for lung-searing efforts. So it will probably be a lost week of training. Oh well. Shrug.

The timing was great for Beat to sign both of us up for the Fat Pursuit 200-mile bike race in Idaho, which is just over a month away. Although I failed in this race last year and fear I'm in even worse shape this year, I had to concede that unforgiving training rides are in order. Rides where quitting feels like the third worst option, next to dying and permanent injury. The fact that I'm sitting out the better part of a week of training with a man cold proves I've gone soft on myself this year. That's all well and good, but won't cut it on the Iditarod Trail. Alaska does not care. 

Last night I had coffee with a woman who signed up for the Fat Pursuit 200K. It will be her first endurance race. Of course she's done many interesting and challenging adventures all over the world, and is taking this race so seriously that she's been sleeping on her back porch, "to get used to the cold." I'm looking forward to joining her for a long ride or two, but I'm worried she's going to bury me, and told her as much. 

"What about the thousand miles in Alaska?"

Earlier in the day, I had a phone interview with a magazine writer about my book "Into the North Wind." I've had some reservations about this project, because it hasn't sold as well as my other books, even the one that was just a reprint of old blog posts. What did I do wrong? What's so bad about it? Was it a mistake to release it one week before the election? Maybe I've finally tapped out the audience for "Jill doing snowy adventures" — which is fine. I'm lucky I've carried it this far. Still, what should I do now? The projects in which I've made the most progress with are really more of the same. Should I pursue more magazine and newspaper writing? Is it even appropriate to do adventure journalism in this post-truth world? Where everyone is so overloaded with content that it loses all meaning? But what else is there? Maybe when we get back from Alaska I can see if the Daily Camera needs a copy editor. I'll work cheap. 

Yeah, I'm having a bit of a crisis of confidence right now. It was an interesting interview, though — one that cut at the heart of "why," a question that always forces me to reconsider my reasoning for these types of experiences. She enjoyed the book, and was even more curious why I chose to publish it the way I did, basically letting it linger in relative obscurity. I was a bit taken aback by this question. I mean, you don't get much more obscure than bicycles on the Iditarod Trail. I'm lucky to have an audience at all. But it brought up another reality I've been considering — that the nicely profitable self-publishing bubble has burst, and publishing in general is shoring up for continuing, probably permanent downturns, and in 20 more years no one will read anything but social media and the Breitbart News Network. 

Also, Fat Cyclist ended his blog. Fat Cyclist was relatively new MSN Spaces site back when I discovered it, within a week of launching "Up in Alaska" eleven years ago. I think this means my blog is next on the chopping block. Sad face. 

I swear it's the man cold that's making me sound so defeatist. 

I am looking forward to going back to Idaho and taking on a course that so thoroughly whipped me last year. Whatever the cause of my breathing attacks, I've learned that I can't fight through them. It's a downward spiral of wheezing and gasping that eventually leads to extreme fatigue and dizziness. This will be my first endurance race of any kind since March, which is probably the longest I've gone without racing since I started racing. It will be useful to test my breathing and fitness in a high-pressure environment. And if this race is a huge fail, well, that hasn't stopped me before. 

Now to go hit the gym. I promise I am using tons of hand sanitizer and washing machines thoroughly. I wouldn't wish man colds on anyone. 

Thanksgiving, again

I was particularly eager to travel home for Thanksgiving this year. Something about uncertain times spurs a strong desire to reconnect with family, visit familar places, and engage in comforting traditions. Beat wasn't able to join this time around, so I drove solo to Salt Lake City on Wednesday. Northern Utah was slammed with a snowstorm that reduced visibility to black-and-white mayhem. Near Park City, dozens of trucks and cars had careened into precarious positions on the interstate, and traffic snaked around them in a meandering single file. With the blizzard swirling chaotically, people walking zombie-like amid the wreckage, and hazard lights flashing into the darkness, the whole scene had a post-apocalyptic feel. Of course, I thought of the memes going around the Internet — "This is fine." 

Thanksgiving morning, my mother woke up at 6 a.m. to bake pies, and I ventured outdoors for a sputtering shuffle. I had my round of allergy shots on Wednesday morning, and while I'm not sure I can fully blame the shots, I always feel pretty downtrodden the day after. Still, it was a beautiful, clear morning, the trails were dusted with fresh snow, and I was thrilled to be out.

 I saw a half dozen hunters and a similar number of cyclists on fat bikes during my jaunt, but surprisingly no other runners.

My legs finally started to perk up after an hour, just as the sun warmed the frosty trails. Sadly, my time was just about up. For Thanksgiving dinner, my aunt and uncle host a large family gathering that includes my 86-year-old grandmother, aunts, uncles and several cousins with an increasing number of small children. We load up paper plates with all the traditional stuff, and I usually eat at least three pieces of my mothers' pie. This year I sat next to the cousin closest to my age, and his family. When I asked him how he was enjoying life in Wyoming, he informed me that he hadn't lived in Wyoming for more than a decade. Embarassing. Time really does slip away, doesn't it?

 Black Friday brings another favorite tradition: hiking Gobbler's Knob with my dad. Nothing like celebrating capitalism by slogging up a 10,000-foot-high mountain in the unpredictable conditions of late November. This year the trail was soft with new snow, but temperatures were in the 40s and the wind on the ridge was only moderately fierce.

We were joined by my dad's hiking buddy, Raj. The views from the peak never disappoint.

 On Saturday the three of us set out to bag another peak, Mount Olympus. This is a tough route at any time of year, gaining 4,200 feet in just over three miles. Temperatures were downright hot by late morning, but the trail was still icy. The summit ridge was a challenging scramble with a thin layer of snow draped across huge boulders and hidden gaps. Glare ice clung to many of the rocks. It was nervewracking, if I'm honest. But I always feel safer doing this kind of thing with my dad. It's always been that way. He even helped pull me up some of the larger boulders when I struggled to reach a foothold. Despite this help, my quads were still terribly sore the next day, thanks to frantic lunges when I suspected my spikes weren't going to hold.

 Raj on the peak, the Oquirrh Mountains in the distance, and the Salt Lake Valley 4,500 feet below.

 Me and my dad on Mount Olympus. We ate our traditional post-Thanksgiving feast, which is pita bread slathered in peanut butter and Nutella.

 They say you can't go home again. I'm thankful we still have each other, and mountains to climb.

Week 6:

Monday: Mountain bike, 5:05, 48 miles, 4,670 feet climbing.
Tuesday morning: Treadmill intervals, 0:30, 3 miles, 0:40 weightlifting
Tuesday evening: Run, 1:17, 5 miles, 1,211 feet climbing
Wednesday: Rest
Thursday: Run, 1:37, 6.6 miles, 1,030 feet climbing
Friday: Snow hike, 4:30, 7.8 miles, 3,198 feet climbing
Saturday: Snow hike, 4:30, 6.3 miles, 4,158 feet climbing
Sunday: Snow hike, 1:44, 4.8 miles, 2,182 feet climbing

Total: 19:53, 48 miles ride, 46.5 miles run, 16,449 feet climbing

Also, Monday is the annual Cyber Monday sale. For November 28 only, all of my eBooks will be 99 cents on Amazon Kindle.

 

Week 5

Monday: Treadmill intervals, 3 miles, 0:30, weightlifting, 0:40. I was able to squeeze in a workout before allergy shots, which always leave me with that "I think I'm coming down with something" feeling. Allergy shots are like a weekly dose of the pre-flu. And now that I'm down to high-concentration single doses, it's every five days. Ugh.

Tuesday: Run, 1:12, 6.3 miles, 1,161 feet climbing. Languished in my "pre-flu" all morning, but feel surprisingly upbeat for this quick afternoon run.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 6:58, 49.2 miles, 5,922 feet climbing. This ride thoroughly beat me up, in the form of several new bruises, cuts and deep gouge wounds from my pedals. (Technical rocky singletrack comprises about 5% of my riding on average, and yes, it's the only time I wish I had clipless pedals.) I also struggled with the "heat," and it was very windy — gusts that almost knock you off your bike windy. The ride took longer than I expected, and I had to ride 15 miles of Highway 93 in the dark amid rush hour traffic. All in all, it was a moderately brutal ride. In those seething moments after I crashed or got caught up in unconscionably steep rollers, I would comfort myself with the thought: "This is the kind of training that means something."

Thursday: Run, 1:45, 6 miles, 1,654 feet climbing. We finally received our second snowfall, more than five weeks after the first snowfall. Beat worked from home and we carved out a couple of hours for a jaunt to Bear Peak, "running" through about five inches of fresh snow. The west ridge was very slippery, and we had to creep down it amid frigid gusts of wind. This also falls under the "actually useful training" category.

Friday: Weightlifting, 0:40. More allergy shots. I had to get them in the morning, so no cardio on this day. Weightlifting continues to progress in encouraging increments.

Saturday: Run, 1:55, 8 miles, 1,803 feet climbing. Warm temps melted most of the snow, but there was still plenty of slush on the Walker Ranch loop. I started with Beat but didn't actually run with him. We used to be a little more compatible while running together in California, but he's much faster than me here in Colorado. Although my breathing has improved, my running speed is limited by general skittishness on rocky terrain. It's a consequence of proprioception, and I harbor doubts that I'll ever improve. I'm okay with that. The fact that I can cover ground while feeling strong, even if not fast, is amazing progress.

Sunday: Rest I became a bit ill on Saturday night and it persisted far enough into Sunday that I didn't get out.

Total: 13:40, 49.2 miles ride, 23.3 miles run, 10,540 feet climbing. This week was bookended by physical malaise and flagging motivation. The decrease in motivation comes from a question no doubt many folks are asking themselves right now — "What even matters?" This uncertainty extends to my writing, which is just, well, ugh. Of course the time and freedom to go outside and write freely are wonderful privileges. I hope I can do more of both next week.

Just like autumn leaves, we're in for change

 Is there anything better than spending most of a day on a bike, traveling from your doorstep to places you haven't yet seen? Rolling across the countryside, feeling the contours under the wheels as your legs strain to meet the wildly undulating landscape? Of course there are better things, but they rarely occur to me as I wheel my bike up the driveway with an entire late autumn day in front of me, and only a vague idea of where this ride will take me, and a hot November sun warming my skin beneath short sleeves and shorts.

 As I've slipped back into the rhythm of longer bike rides, I've realized how much I value this simple motion. To be fully engaged in moments, focused on roots and rocks and flickers of memories, and somehow, even if temporarily, able to leave everything else behind. But sometimes, maybe most times, I set out with this ideal in mind, and instead everything is hard from the beginning. I crash on the rocks and add new bruises to the patchwork on my legs. The November sun is unbelievably hot, and I sip on a meager supply of water while I berate myself for carrying a puffy jacket and not more liquid. The steep dirt road is rippled with washboard and I spin out repeatedly. My legs feel weak, my throat dry, my head foggy. Sometimes, maybe most times, are like that.

 After two hours I had covered a mere twelve miles, and I was out of water. Luckily, the spot where I crossed Highway 72 had a small convenience store. I made the strange decision to buy two liters of purple Gatorade. Sometimes, maybe most times, when I visit a convenience store during a bike ride, I'm addled and thirsty and make choices that I later regret. I stumbled out the door and spun pedals up a narrow road that was long and steep and appeared to be going nowhere. It was 80 degrees, and the west wind blasted my sweat-soaked arms like a blow dryer. This is what the Boulder folks call a "downslope wind" — fierce, warm, and a harbinger of rapid change.

Somewhere above 9,000 feet, I crossed into Golden Gate State Park. This place reminds me of Henry Coe State Park in California, in that it's out of the way, mysterious, and features a large network of trails that offer nothing but discouragement and pain. Okay, so I only rode the Mountain Lion Trail. But it was very hard, and after I crashed for the second time that day, I lost all my confidence. I was moving at the pace of an injured turtle and quietly wishing that a mountain lion would put me out of my misery. This is the funny, and also freeing thing about cycling — you can get so caught up in individual moments that every difficulty feels like the end of the world. Never mind that all the ways that the world might actually be ending beyond this single-track perspective.

 The trail spit me out in an unknown place that was still the middle of nowhere. I rolled along an empty road and tried to visualize the first time I went snowboarding — a fateful day now almost exactly twenty years ago. It was disheartening to realize that I could only piece the memories together in fragments — the nervous jitters of riding the lift, the dread when I realized it was going a lot farther up the mountain than I expected, the bewilderment when my friend ditched me at the top of a long, "moderately difficult" run that she promised was "easy." Falling and falling and falling, and then meeting two college-age men who were actually very nice to me. They held my hands, showed me how to ride my back edge, and ensured I made it down safely. They were so pivotal, those moments. Why couldn't I recall more of the details? This is one of my difficulties with middle age — the realization that I am outliving some of my favorite memories.

 Climbing and climbing on climbing on the nowhere road. Eventually I descended down a "no outlet" road and arrived at another park, White Ranch. I descended another rocky trail toward clear views of Denver, the city where I was born. I sometimes cite this fact to snooty locals who tease me about being another cliche Californian who moved to Colorado. But sometimes, maybe most times, I wish I could remember what it was like — living in Denver when I was an infant. Memories that distant were never anything but lost — but it's an idyllic daydream all the same.

 The following day, change arrived. Temperatures plummeted 50 degrees, and the November sun was obscured by fog and snow. Beat and I went for a run to Bear Peak. A fierce wind intensified the chill. Swirling snow covered our tracks within minutes.

 Another issue I have with middle age is this: Even as I continue to lose valued pieces of my past, my confidence about the future also erodes. Life is long in its own way, and changes so rapidly that sometimes, maybe most times, all we can do is hold on. Eighty degrees one day and snowing the next. Sometimes I think it would be best if we could always live in the moment, with no thoughts of before or after. But if we have no memories of our past, we're doomed to walk blindly into a bewildering future.

Still, as long as you can stand on a mountain in blowing snow and smile, life is pretty good. Beat and I slipped and slid downhill, racing the rapidly approaching dusk as I listened to music in which I never fail to find comfort. Today it was TV on the Radio, "Province:"

Hold your heart courageously 
As we walk into this dark place
Stand steadfast erect and see
That love is the province of the brave.

Week 4

It's been some week, hasn't it? This is a boring workout post.

Monday: Treadmill intervals, 3 miles, 0:30; weightlifting, 0:40. 

Tuesday: Run, 0:55, 4.2 miles, 796 feet climbing. I had a half-round of allergy shots on Monday afternoon, cut short again because I'm having mild reactions to these higher concentrations. This one hit me especially hard the next day, when I felt like I was coming down with the flu. Election day was stressful enough, so it was nice to get out for a slow afternoon shuffle, even though I felt like crap.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 5:23, 43.4 miles, 6,384 feet climbing. This is the strongest I've felt on a bike since my CTS surgery. Interesting juxtaposition to Tuesday's run, especially since I was feeling more emotionally distraught on this day. I crashed hard about 12 miles into the ride and bruised both legs, with pain that didn't subside for the duration of the ride. Despite all this, I was on fire. It was cathartic.

Thursday: Mountain bike, 1:35, 13 miles, 2,201 feet climbing. Another strong ride. I had no breathing issues this week. My moving times are only slightly faster, but my breathing has become much deeper and quieter, as opposed to the shallow gasping that I usually employ to boost myself up a hill. It's difficult to describe, but noticeable.

Friday: Weightlifting, 0:40.

Saturday: Run, 2:22, 8.4 miles, 2,813 feet climbing. Bear Canyon to Bear Peak loop with Beat. I aimed to hike faster up the steep climb and didn't succeed. My breathing was fine, I just didn't have the oomph from my leg muscles.

Sunday: Mountain bike, 5:31, 42.8 miles, 6,409 feet climbing. Beat and I haven't ridden bikes together once since we moved to Colorado, so I offered to show him the scenic loop that I rode on Wednesday. The weather continues to be remarkably warm — many days even warmer than it's been in my former home in California, which has also had a lot more rain. Sigh. But I suppose I shouldn't complain about all this short-sleeves November weather. I think Beat really enjoyed my go-to route, even though it involved being slightly lost and descending too slowly in the Blue Dot maze, excessive washboard, and a lot more Peak to Peak Highway pavement than he expected.

Total: 16:56, 99.2 miles ride, 15.6 miles run, 18,604 feet climbing. Well, it's been a week. Like many I've been distracted, determined, sometimes despondent. My workouts are not important, but they do provided moments of clarity and perspective, every time. The thought of returning to Alaska and riding or pushing a bike deep into a wilderness where only the most basic tenets of survival matter – this keeps me going. I'm considering putting my fractured book projects and ideas aside, and spending more time making contributions to something I believe is incredibly important — the free press. But one thing this world does not need more of, is blathering content. (Ha!) I'll have to mull it over. Outdoor activities are good for that.