Susitna 3, Chapter 1

Anxiety condensed into fear as frost accumulated on the windows inside the truck cab. "Now it's 12 below," Steve announced and snapped a picture of the temperature gauge on the rear-view mirror. The nearly full moon hugged the horizon, casting an ominous violet glow over a forest of birch and black spruce trees, all freshly coated in snow. We pulled into the Point MacKenzie General Store parking lot and emerged in the biting air. The frozen morning suddenly came alive, with the purple reflection of the moon retreating from the deep crimson light of the sun. I grinned in spite of myself. "Hello Alaska," I whispered.

We struggled to keep fingers and toes pliable as we packed our sleds, checked in, and ducked into the store for breakfast. Beat and Danni quietly picked at their pancakes and Steve looked sick with nervousness. I felt more in my element with the prospect of the snowy trails and cold, but I envied their running experience. Each one of them knew they could travel 100 miles on foot in one shot. I really had no idea. Over the past few days, I visited with many of my friends in the Anchorage area, and always got the same question — "Why are you running it this time?" My simple answer was to see if I could. In my mind, the Susitna 100 itself wasn't the journey I sought. I was looking for a more internal experience, amid a daunting and unfamiliar physical challenge, with the knowledge that unlike many of my more epic adventures, I would be sharing this experience with somebody else, somebody I was in love with. What would the dynamics of that be like? For me, all of those aspects were more intriguing than the simple act of traveling to Alexander Lake and back. And for that reason, even when I was at my lowest moments of the race, I never found myself wishing that I was on a bicycle instead.

Thanks to last-minute gear adjustments and my desire to photograph the bike-ski-run procession, Beat and I missed the start of the race. Despite starting a few minutes late, we quickly caught up to the Conga line of cyclists pushing along the soft trail beside Ayrshire Road. Several of the cyclists seemed panicked, but I knew that this roadside trail didn't represent the condition of the snowmachine highways that dominate this course. It was a clear day, and traffic would smooth out the trail soon if it hadn't already.

The condition of the snow itself was disconcerting, however. Fresh snowfall followed by extreme cold covered the trail in very dry, unconsolidated grains of fine snow that is often called "sand," because that's what it resembles. Sand can be packed well enough for bikes and snowmachines, but feet still tend to punch through the crusty surface to the soft fluff below. It's like running on the beach — very taxing physically, and the uneven surfaces wreak havoc on feet muscles and tendons before working their way up the legs. On top of that, sandy snow is too rough and cold to offer any sort of glide for skis or sleds. Our 30-pound sleds tugged behind us like stubborn dogs.

Despite the already difficult conditions, we were all smiles in the first miles of the Susitna 100. The day dawned bluebird bright and gorgeous, and we ran strong and warm in the sunlight even though frost buildup on our faces indicated the temperature was still below zero. The trail dipped into and climbed out of drainages and crossed frozen swamps surrounded by spindly black spruce. The condition of the snow and drag of the sled made jogging along at 4 or 4.5 mph as physically taxing as climbing steep hills or trying to knock out 8-minute miles had been back home. I certainly couldn't afford the effort for 100 miles, but knew we had to hustle in the first 22 miles of the race to make the Flathorn Lake cutoff.

Beat and I often ran side-by-side and made animated gestures as we chatted and I gushed about how much fun we were having. He looked relieved that the subzero cold wasn't as big of an issue as he feared, and seemed genuinely impressed by the stark subarctic scenery of the Sustina Valley despite its lack of dramatic mountains. We watched sled dog teams speed past, waved happily at snowmobilers and leap-frogged frequently with Danni, who also had a permagrin on her face. "This is just ... amazing," Danni said as we dropped onto the open ice of Fish Creek Slough and jogged toward the dramatic view of Mount Susitna. "Isn't it, though?" I beamed with pride. My friends like Alaska, too.

We were in an out of Flathorn Lake Lodge fairly quickly — just enough time to refill our water bladders and eat a bowl of Peggy's famous jambalaya. Danni, Beat and I headed out together across the lake, still talking and laughing. I pointed out the slough where I broke through the lake ice and got frostbite on my foot in 2009. "I was in a much worse place the last time I was here," I said. "It's so weird to be back here."

The sun drifted low on the horizon as we traversed Dismal Swamp, finally fading into a golden blur behind Mount Susitna. We encountered the leaders of the bike race at Susitna River on the "Wall of Death," so called because it's generally hazardously icy. Three cyclists rode side by side down the river trail and pushed up the Wall, smiling and congratulating Beat and I as they passed even though we were merely at mile 28 and they were an astonishing 22 miles from the finish. A good year for bikes indeed. "There's going to be a headwind on the Yentna River," Jeff Oatley said to me in his characteristically nonchalant way. Last year in the White Mountains 100, it was Jeff who warned me that Beaver Creek would be significantly colder than the rest of the course. I didn't do anything to heed his warning last year and became seriously chilled on Beaver Creek. Why, oh why don't I listen to the things Jeff Oatley tells me?

But we had left Flathorn Lake in the "heat" of the day, and I was still feeling quite strong. On the open Susitna River, the wind picked up and the chill started to drive into my insulation layers. I knew I wasn't wearing enough clothing, but at this point we were far from any kind of wind protection, and stopping out in the open, in the wind, is quite daunting. I thought if I picked up my pace, I would stay warm. But, as I learned last year in the White Mountains, a chilled body is not all that effective at warming itself. I became colder and colder. We traveled up a slough and turned onto the Yentna River. The full brunt of a very strong wind hit us directly in the face. I no longer had a choice.

"Beat, I need to stop and put on my down coat," I said. He nodded and opened his own sled to dig out extra layers as I rifled around for my coat, a heavy balaclava, my face mask and mitten shells. I removed my liner mittens, pulled on my head gear and unzipped my Gore-tex shell so I could put the smaller down coat underneath. I require dexterity to manage zippers and have many times before worked with bare fingers in extreme cold. But I'm used to having a bicycle with heat-pack-warmed pogies that I could quickly retreat into when my fingers lost strength. And this time, I was already starting with cold hands and a chilled core. My fingers froze almost instantly. The speed and potency at which my hands became completely useless took my breath away.

Panic gurgled up from my gut. The fierce wind tore all around me. There was no way to get to tree cover without wading through deep, unbroken snow. I brushed my rigid hands futilely against my zipper and knew that battle was lost. I gathered up my down coat and stuffed my hands inside the pockets, holding the mass close to my chest. "Don't panic," I whispered to myself, which is always the first thing I think of when my breaths start to become short and fear washes over me like a black tsunami. I thought of my bivy bundle. I could pop that open and crawl inside on the open river, then hold my hands between my legs until they warmed up. Amid this rampant swirl of thoughts, I remembered Beat was still there.

I turned back to him. "I froze my fingers. I can't zip up my coat. I really can't." The squeak in my voice startled me.

"Ok," he said. "Just give me a second. He zipped up his own coat and pulled on his liner gloves. It occurred to me that despite his lack of cold weather experience, he was doing the smart thing by taking care of himself first so we didn't both end up in crisis. A warm sensation of love and gratitude washed over me, and the panic tears I had been fighting filled my eyes. Beat walked over to me, helped me pull off my Gortex shell and then pulled my down coat over my arms, zipped it up, and helped me put the shell back on. As he finished packing his sled, I used my hand stumps to wrestle my mittens back on. Already I could feel warmth building in my core. I jumped up and down and swung my arms until my hands began to burn and my painfully tingling fingers began to move upon prompting again. I breathed out. Crisis over.

We still had about eight miles to travel up the river, long and slow-going into the brutal wind. I was constantly on the margin of being too cold but unwilling to stop again in the wind to put on more layers. Every time I saw a light against the river, I was certain it was Luce's. At one point, I decided it must be just around the corner and asked Beat how far he thought we were. He consulted his phone application and announced it was five more miles. "That's impossible," I said, until I consulted my own GPS. We trudged quietly into the inky night, beneath a sky washed in stars, but all I seemed to notice was the wind. Beat had to make another stop to grab his own down coat. I felt I couldn't afford any more stops, and selfishly asked him if he minded if I run ahead. "No, I'll catch you," he said, but he sounded unsure. I should have just waited a few minutes, but I was being selfish, and didn't want to lose the feeling in my hands again. "See you soon," I said.

The lights of Luce's were a half mile away when Beat finally caught up to me. He was breathing heavily and had a white look of distress in his face, like he was about to pass out. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Are you OK?"

"No," he said. "I am really sick. I almost threw up back there. I think I am deep in bonkville."

Amid the dangerous cold and wind crisis, I hadn't eaten or drank a single thing since the Dismal Swamp, which was likely more than five hours before. Beat was probably also not eating or drinking in that time. I wrapped an arm around him and pointed to Luce's. "That's the checkpoint right there. We're really close."

He nodded and trudged beside me. "I'm sorry I left," I said, trying to mitigate my guilt. "I was just so cold I didn't want to stop. I had no idea you were struggling."

"You left me," Beat said in a somewhat playful tone, but he looked despondent, and I believed he was disappointed that I ran ahead. I'm learning this is an important aspect of partnership, both in outdoor adventure and in regular life — never assume, and never leave the other person behind.

Luce's Lodge was crowded with runners and cyclists who were on the return ride down the river. The mood inside was jovial, with racers taking turns sitting in the lodge's sauna and downing giant plates of spaghetti and meatballs. Steve was still inside the checkpoint, repacking his gear and also looking borderline hyper — excited and anxious — about the epic conditions of the race. I ordered a plate for myself and a Diet Pepsi for Beat, and tried to coax him to eat something. I removed wet layers and sat down near the fire. As my body warmed up, I started shivering rather violently and spilled coffee on my pants twice before Beat took the cup away from me. A group of snowmobilers walked in and said they saw temperatures around 16 below on the river with 25 mph winds. One racer said it was closer to 19 below in spots. It was still early; there was a long, cold night in front of us.

Beat's eyes were bloodshot and his face was ghostly white. He said he was experiencing a major bonk. And he would know, because he's been through more than his fair share of ultras. "I'll be able to get back out there. It's just going to be a while," he said. I knew I would need to dress significantly warmer to go back outside, but I was certain I had enough gear with me to fight the wind. Under the reported conditions, the windchill would have been somewhere in the range of 40 below. Definitely too cold for a single layer of windtights I was wearing when I left Flathorn Lake. No wonder I was chilled.

At this point, we were only 41 miles into the race. Not even halfway; not even all that close to halfway. As I sat mulling this prospect, Danni bounded in looking cheerful. "How was the river?" I asked her. "Did you get cold?"

"Not too cold," she said. "But that wind was going to be a deal-breaker for me. I decided I was going to quit if it kept up, but I think the wind is dying down now."

"Hopefully," I said. "Beat and I are going to spend a little more time here. He needs to eat something and I wouldn't mind drying out some stuff." Other racers sat down next to us to chat. The bikers told us the Alexander Lake trail was bad — soft and slow — and the crosswind was brutal. Several were bedding down to take naps. One 60-something-year-old runner came in wearing jeans and talking up a storm about the HURT 100, as though Hawaii somehow had relevance to the task at hand. I was ready to return with Beat to the solitude of the trail, but knew we were both going to have to get healthy first if we stood a chance outside. I munched on my spaghetti and contemplated 60 more miles of this.

Susitna 3, the video

2011 Susitna 100 from Jill Homer on Vimeo.

I'm still too knackered to write up my race report, but I did throw together a quick film of some of the video and images I shot during the race. The music is "July" by Amy Petty. The song was included on the "Ride the Divide" movie soundtrack, which I recently downloaded as part of my playlist for the Susitna 100 to help motivate me by inserting Tour Divide images in my head during some of the more monotonous parts of the race. This song just happened to pop up on my iPod shuffle during my real low point on the afternoon of day two, on the Yentna River. As my friend Danni says, "waterworks ensued," and afterward I started to feel quite a bit better. I think it's a fitting soundtrack for this video. Enjoy!

Slog-arific

Beat and I finished the Susitna 100 on foot in 41 hours and 16 minutes. All I can say about it right now is — wow, that was really hard. The race was actually much harder than I anticipated, not only in physical effort, but also pain and cold management. As it turns out, traveling 100 miles really is a lot more difficult without a bike — who knew?

It was an interesting year for the Susitna 100. The weather was clear and cold, with colorful skies and incredible views during the day, and overnight temperatures dipping as low as 19 below with a 20 mph headwind. The trail was well packed, awesome for cycling, but the new snow made for tough footing. The fine powder was still very sandy where our little feet punched through. It was very taxing to maintain a 2.5 walk pace, much like trying to run 100 miles in crusty sand. The snow was also very cold, which makes it very sharp — meaning no glide for our sleds. There was a lot of resistance all around.

What else can I say about it? My feet hurt a lot. So do my legs. No injuries, but the usage pain alone led to a minor mental breakdown around mile 70, when I realized I was going to have to endure the pain I was in for at least 13 more hours. Beat and I decided to stick together from the beginning and it was really great to have him around for my low points, even when I got really grumpy and at one point snapped at him that I hoped I didn't finish the Susitna 100 so I wouldn't qualify for any other dumb 100-mile foot events. He also helped me zip up my coat when my fingers froze and refused to work amid a desperate layer-adding effort in the intense windchill on the Yentna River. Did I mention it was really cold? That also made the run that much harder. Yeah, it's hard to eat and drink when your whole face is crusted in ice.

I'll write up the race report at a later date. It really was one of the more intense experiences of my life — did I also mention we were out in the cold without sleep for two nights, not just one. We certainly did a checkpoint comfort tour with the five indoor stops on course, so we did have chances to warm up and reconnect with the real world. But by the second sunset, with all that leg and foot pain coursing through my nerves, my thoughts ventured into new head spaces I'd never before found. Which is the reason why I seek out this sort of stuff — long, difficult slogs that are way over my pay grade. I need to occasionally be reminded that I am weak and small and the world is huge and incredible and mean, and even the world is just weak and small in the grand scheme of the universe. I fall in love the world from this perspective. It's consistently awe-inspiring, even when it's reduced to the tiny beam of my headlamp.

And it was so much fun to share it with Beat, with my new friends Steve and Danni, and with many of the Alaska cyclists I've met over the years. It was incredible to return to Alaska. It helps me realize how much I really miss it, but also that it's still here. I took lots of pictures, and even a bit of video. Check back again!

Su, Su scared

Well, this week has been surprisingly busy and I never got around to writing the pre-race post I was hoping to write. We made it to Anchorage with smidgens of optimism about the Susitna 100, only to have our hubris dashed by nearly a foot of new snow on Friday (such are the reports from my friends in the Mat-Su Valley.) New snow is just a set-back, not a deterrent, but it does mean softer, more strenuous and possibly impassable conditions even for people on foot. No use worrying about it. Since this is my first 100-mile ultramarathon, I feel happy to just try my best and if that's not good enough, well — either way, it will be a memorable experience. I actually get a little excited, even giddy, when I think about the ways the trail conditions might be insanely hard, even for a 100-mile foot race, which already seemed insanely hard. I tell Beat this, and he just shakes his head and says, "You're in for a rude awakening."

Steve, Beat and I all arrived in Seattle from different airports and shared a row on the way to Anchorage, where most of the time was spent nervously updating weather reports on in-flight wireless and gazing longingly out the window at the incredible landscape disappearing below us.

It's rare to see a clear day in Southeast Alaska. This is the volcano near Sitka, Mount Edgecombe.

Chugach! As we flew over the mountains Beat said, "Why don't we just go there instead?"

The Cook Inlet. Just across this icy strait lies the key to our demise.

The first thing we did when we arrived in Anchorage was turn the home where we are staying into a veritable gear tornado. (Sorry Kate.)

Brooks, the Susitna 100 race director, was all about spreading the pessimism. I guess there's something to be said about keeping people mentally prepared, but I for one would rather hear subtle words of encouragement than blatant gloom and doom.

Weighing the gear to ensures it weighs the mandatory 15 pounds. My gear weighed in at 19.9 pounds. My complete kit, including the sled, all of my food (around 8,000 calories including 3,000 emergency calories), and two liters of water weighed 30.8 pounds. Not terrible.

Enjoying pre-race carbo-loading at Romanos with fellow racers. Yeah, it was technically two nights before the race, but you really can't get enough carbs for something like this.

Testing out the completely packed sleds.

Posing with the sleds with Steve, Danni and Beat. Steve has a humorous post about our different sleds on his blog. We're as ready as we can be, which is to say, not much. I'll be dragging my SPOT along on this slog. You can check out the tracking page at this link. Also visit www.susitna100.com for race updates. By grace go I ...

My SPOT tracking page
Danni's SPOT tracking page
Steve's SPOT tracking page

Date with Pugsley

My friends Dave and Brenda from Banff stopped through Missoula during their ski blitz of the state of Montana. In a regrettable stroke of luck, their home mountain was being slammed with fresh powder while western Montana was basking in temperatures more appropriate for April than February. Dave and Brenda spent the day navigating the slush at Lookout Mountain, then opted to skip Missoula's Snowbowl and flee north to Whitefish. Before they left town, we agreed to meet up for $1 Monday sushi rolls. We arrived at Sushi Hana promptly at 5:15 p.m. and were informed the place was booked up all night. Booked up? I mean, $1 is a good deal for sushi, but really? "Valentines Day," the server informed us.

"Oh, right, that's today," we nodded, deflated. So instead of having dinner in Missoula, Dave and Brenda decided to continue driving in an effort to join our mutual friend Danni for an obligatory Canuck visit to Famous Dave's (a BBQ chain that in Kalispell is famous for attracting Canadians down from Alberta.) I walked back to my office, where I discovered a pink paper heart threaded through the spokes of my Pugsley (aw, a little love for the commuter bikes on Valentine's Day.) "Well, Pugsley, I guess it's just you and me tonight," I said.

The evening light was particularly stunning, warm and rich and full of character, like a Valentine's dessert. I hadn't planned on riding tonight, but the spring-like warmth and earthy aromas were too enticing to resist. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but the temperatures were so warm that I didn't need anything else. I had a fleece pullover, hat and gloves in my frame bag — everything I needed. I punched the pedals and streamed beside the rush-hour traffic backed up on Higgins Avenue.

It's funny how effective tapering really is. I spent most of the weekend sleeping, relaxing and eating ice cream, and woke up on Monday feeling like I could do no wrong. It was all I could do to hold the throttle back and quell the urge to red-line it up the Maurice Avenue trail — slush, soft mud and all. I felt amazingly strong. The light of sunset only fueled my mania, and my bare arms glistened with sweat as I gulped down vast quantities of sweet, spring-tasting air.

In the back of my mind, the quiet voice of reason reminded me not to go hard because Saturday is going to be a physical effort unlike any I've ever experienced and I need to be as rested as possible. But Pugsley behaved more like a runaway elephant, charging full-speed up the hill, trampling slush and mud so enthusiastically that it drowned out the soft urgings of reason. I was having so much fun, fueled by so much energy, that I momentarily forgot about the low-level freak-out I should be having. For tonight, just this one night, this Valentine's night, it was just me and Pugsley. There was no one else in the world. (Except, of course, for my actual Valentine, Beat, who was back in California, dutifully working on his sled and preparing for the Susitna 100, nursing his own low-level freak-out while I played on my bicycle.)

But, oh, what a whirlwind night it was! Together Pugsley and I rounded the mountain to the Hidden Treasure Trail, where there was dirt, real dirt, and not just muddy dirt — DRY dirt, with the happy crunching of gravel beneath Pugsley's wide tires. When the ice became too thick we dropped down to Pattee Canyon and raced up the pavement — so fast and effortless that I felt like I was on a featherweight roadie and not an obese fat bike. We turned on the Larch Camp Road. I reasoned that I would only ride until the slush and ice became unrideable. But there was only wet gravel on the road, so we climbed. The moonlight glowed on the sun-crusted snow, adding startling definition to the surrounding forest. We climbed and climbed, and still the gravel road persisted. We rose out of the forest onto the open mountainside, with the city lights of Missoula glowing far below, and still the road remained rideable. It occurred to me that if I simply waited for the road conditions to shut me down, I might just make it to the top ... 6,200 feet ... not a good thing.

But the night was so magical, I did not want it to end. Reluctantly, I turned around and raced down the long, winding road, still wearing only jeans and a fleece — no gloves or hat — as the city lights, trees, shadows and snow blended like a daiquiri in the rapidly chilling air. A fountain of gritty slush sprayed in my face, but nothing could wipe my smile away. The night belong to me. Me and Pugsley. Happy Valentines.

Shoring up optimism

"But with Saturday fast approaching, I'm going to have to decide beforehand how far I'm willing to 'swim' without quitting. I've decided that as long as I feel healthy and am not suffering beyond reason, I should have no reason to quit the race before the official cut-off time (48 hours. That's right.) I have the option of sleeping along the way. I'll have enough food to stuff a luau pig. And if there's one athletic talent that I have, it's plugging along — even when the going is insufferably slow. How long will it take me to swim 100 miles? I don't know. But I'm fairly certain I could walk 100 miles given 48 hours to do so. Not that I'm about to enter this race in the foot division."

I wrote the above paragraph on Feb. 14, 2006, a few days prior to lining up at the start of the Susitna 100 with my bicycle for my first-ever race. I was referring to a weather report calling for temperatures in the high 30s, sleet and rain, which sadly came to fruition. I finished after 25 hours and a lot of bike-walking through the slush (probably in the range of 35 miles with my skinny-tire mountain bike). I was shattered, but yet somehow hooked on endurance sports. And here I am, five years later, expecting to walk "run" the whole damn way!

Spring came to Missoula this weekend. It may not stick around for good, but when it's 55 degrees and partly sunny, and you're climbing a mountain in a cotton T-shirt as the sweet aroma of thawing dirt swirls in the air, you can feel confident that you're at least getting a taste of spring. The warm weather did somewhat squash Beat's and my plans for one last White Mountains snow-bike training weekend together before I have to ship the bikes off to Fairbanks. On Thursday night we got a slow, strenuous six miles of soft snow running with the sleds. On Friday we climbed the slush and dirt up to South Sentinel, and on Saturday braved the deep slush with snowshoes to the top of University Mountain, which at 6,000 feet was fairly cold and windy, but otherwise nearly scraped clean of snow. I think it's going to be an early year for Missoula mountain biking.

We had a lot of fun not working out this weekend, just sauntering along, taking lots of photographs of the wind-sculpted snow formations, and even building a snowman on the trail. Beat really emphasized the need for "taper," and it was good to have his voice of reason, because the weather was so fantastic that it felt strange not to at least try to go big, not that the conditions really warranted anything reasonable. Even the five-mile snowshoe to University Mountain at casual pace was fairly strenuous thanks to the soft snowpack. We did have lots of extra time to pack and repack our gear, make last-minute lists and switch things out, discuss options for airplane baggage and shipping, and stock up body fat stores via generous servings of Big Dipper ice cream and pasta.

When we weren't occupying ourselves with little chores or hikes, we did have occasional "freak-outs" where we would just grip each others arms, clench our teeth, and make distraught faces. Even these open displays of distress weren't quite enough to satisfy Beat. He thinks I should be more freaked out than I am. After all, this is my first 100-mile run attempt, and six months ago I wasn't even remotely a runner. But for some reason the physical effort doesn't seem as daunting to me as it probably should. Just as I did five years ago, I still feel confident in my ability to slog. I think that the Susitna 100 is fairly dissimilar to a regular ultramarathon in many ways. Even though it's "flat," two overwhelming forces — the friction of snow and the drag of a ~25-pound sled — conspire to really make it "uphill" the entire way (this is the way it feels on the bike, and based on my sled runs so far, even though many of them have literally been uphill, I believe the force is something that should be heavily factored into the effort needed for the run.) Add the below-freezing temperatures and scarcity of checkpoints, and it's really nothing like running the Western States 100 or Wasatch 100. It may seem like convoluted logic, but in my mind the uniquely difficult conditions of the Susitna 100 alone make not being a runner not all that much of a disadvantage to finishing the race on foot. If anything, it may be an advantage to be a rookie runner with previous Su100 course experience. Unless you're an extremely strong runner (and yes I am thinking of Geoff and his 21:43 course record finish in 2007), if you show up at the Susitna 100 expecting to run the whole thing as you would a typical ultramarathon, you're probably in for a rude awakening. We're all out there fighting the same forces, whether we're dragging a bike or a sled. The key, in my mind, is to show up fit, show up prepared, and, most important of all, keep the right mindset: "Just keep swimming."

As for the weather in the Susitna Valley, Alaska, it's currently -4 degrees and clear. It's supposed to remain fairly clear and dry all this week before warming up into the high 20s toward the end of the week. There's a 40 percent chance of snow showers on Friday and 30 percent on Friday, but no big storms on the radar as of yet. High in the 20s and lows in the single digits with some sunshine during the day and stars at night would be ideal, and so far it's looking like a real possibility rather than — as it was in 2006 — a distant dream.

But whatever the conditions, I really am looking forward to the swim run.

Gear junkie

"If you always use a compass to draw a circle and a ruler to draw a square, you will always remain a slave."- Song Zijing

"Next life, trail runner. One pair of shoes. Maybe one of those water-bottle holder fanny packs," Eszter Horanyi, talented endurance mountain biker, adventurer and skier extraordinaire, musing on the paradox of gear geekery.

I like to say it was the inspiration of the Swan Crest 100 that did it — but really, it was the frustration of TransRockies. With a mountain bike dangling precariously on my shoulder and my legs buried to my knees in mud, I resolved then and there to take up trail running.

The mountain bike stage race in the Canadian Rockies last August was a ton of fun, but after four and a half hours of dragging the bike through foul-smelling, cow-stomped sludge to gain a mere 25 kilometers of ground, I had an epiphany: I carried this bike over mountain passes. I carried this bike down headwalls. I carried this bike across rivers and up impossibly steep trails. I carried this bike through a seemingly endless bog of mud. This race would be a whole lot easier without this bike.

I love riding bikes. I like the flow of smooth trails, the quickness of pavement, the crunch of gravel, the challenge of climbs and the exhilaration of descents. But there are times that bikes feel like anchors — riddled with mechanicals, demanding endless maintenance, clogged with mud, limited by skill and strength and the restrictions of wheels. During the Bear 100, Beat asked me about the farthest distance I had traveled on foot in one day. I started to cite my Grand Canyon hikes, at 26 miles, but stopped myself when I remembered the Iditarod. “I pushed my bike over Rainy Pass,” I said. “About 50 miles in the deep snow. It took me 27 hours.” And the whole time I was dragging that heavy, suddenly useless anchor.

I had this fantasy about being free from all of it — free from gear, free from responsibility, free from expensive and highly breakable bike parts, free from trail restrictions and rules, free to just lace up a simple pair of shoes, fill a simple bottle with clear stream water, and just run. There would be nothing to break down, nothing to maintain, nothing to hoist over awkward obstacles, no restricting myself to staying within the lines if I didn’t feel like it. There would just be me, running up the mountains, down the mountains, wherever I felt like running. Free.

And then I entered the Susitna 100.

I couldn’t have picked a more gear-intensive trail run. Sleeping bag. Bivy. Closed-cell foam mattress. Down coat. Wind shell. Fleece socks. Gortex shoes. Hydration vest. Sled. And on and on. The list is quite long. When I throw it all together, it’s downright shocking. I scour my list for things to cross off, but I can’t. I need it, I tell myself. All of it.

(Click on image if you want to actually read it.)

The other day, Beat accused me of being a gear junkie, because I always manage to choose the most gear-intensive versions of the outdoor sports I enjoy. I had to concede. Once, way back in a far-away but simpler life, I was just a hiker. I owned one pair of hiking boots. Then I started multiday hiking with grotesquely heavy loads of camping gear on my back. Then I got a road bike, panniers and a bunch of extra gear so I could go road touring, followed by yet more bikes and yet more gear for mountain biking, working my way up to the most heavily laden of them all, snow bike touring, along with snowshoeing and mountaineering … then GPS units, small and large backpacks, bike bags, poles, crampons, ice ax, clothing layers, coats, mittens, shells, socks, more socks, boots, trail-running shoes, more shoes, and finally all of this Susitna 100 crap.

“But I need it,” I reasoned. “I’m a frail human who wants to run across Alaska’s Susitna Valley amid the ghostly beautiful scenery of winter. I need it to survive.”

And deep down, I am grateful for everything my gear has enabled me to do. It’s opened my freedom of exploration to realms I could have never dreamed to venture otherwise. Traveling 350 miles across Southcentral Alaska, over the Alaska Range and into the Interior in February? I wouldn’t have survived a night without my gear. 2,780 miles from Banff to Mexico in 24 days? I certainly needed my bike to help with that. Running the Susitna 100? I can’t wait for that challenge. If I need the stuff in my sled, so be it.

But in my next life, I’m going to be a barefoot runner in the Montana mountains. One water bottle. Huckleberries for food. Maybe some bug spray.

Either way, life is good.

Winter road rides

On Monday, I awoke to fresh snow.

I giddily packed my commuter bag with all the things I would need for a ride after work and launched my snow bike into the cold morning. The wide wheels glided through six inches of untracked powder like a swan in a tranquil lake. I grinned and pedaled faster, racing to match the bike's effortless glide. A wake of snow spray coated my jeans and I giggled out loud at the feeling of quiet weightlessness, floating in a fountain of powder, like an urban snowboarder.

Suddenly, the rear wheel swung sideways, launching my formerly weightless body into the cold air. It was one of those suspended moments, slow-motion terror. I remember the soft outline of the sun through the morning haze, and then the metallic taste of pain as my elbow slammed into the ground. I laid for a couple seconds, dazed, feeling the trickle of melting snow on my face, and then I stood up. The bike had spun a complete 180 and lay toppled beside a cleared half-circle of glare ice at least five feet wide. The contents of my commuter bag were strewn in wreckage — a full yard sale. I gathered the dented apple, the smashed bagel, the snow-drenched clothing, and the broken yogurt container sprawled beside an eruption of blueberry blobs. An orange had bounced a full 30 feet away. So much for lunch. Still shocked by the impact, I tenderly remounted my bike and soft-pedaled the rest of the way to work, terrified of hidden ice.

At 5:20 p.m., I left work to a full-blown blizzard. There would be no extra miles tonight. The wind howled as shards of snow stung my exposed neck and forced their way into my still-sore throat. I couldn't tell the street from the sky. The white out turns the cars and intersections and buildings into flickering shadows. Even with goggles I felt blind. I put my head down and ground the pedals toward the wind. On the other side of the bridge, I ran into my friend, Bill, who was also returning from work. "Man, commuting sucks," I grumbled in an open moment of weakness. I doubted Bill heard me over the wind. He had a huge grin on his face. "This is awesome," he said. "This is so much fun." I forget Bill likes blizzards. I can't say I understand, but he did manage to deflate my bubble of self pity. We churned in the general direction of home, hopeful we were still in Missoula on not on the top of some forlorn mountain, and plotted a bike ride for Tuesday.

A foot of new snow meant trail-riding was out. We decided to ride the Deer Creek loop from Pattee Canyon down to East Missoula, about 25 miles on packed snow and a bit of exposed pavement. The sky cleared up and the temperature dropped to the low teens. I have a bad habit of commuting to work with only the clothes I wear at work, a soft shell, liner gloves, and a hat. For the bonus ride I brought tights, gaiters, a thin balaclava and a fleece pullover. It still wasn't enough. I shivered on the climb, and I knew I was probably in for an uncomfortable ride down.

"It's 10 degrees," Bill announced at the top of the canyon. I mounted my headlight and put on the last of my extra layers, then followed Bill into the brutal descent. I was decently prepared for a run in those temperatures, but I had nearly forgotten just how cold winter bicycle riding can be, with the added windchill and periods of lower intensity. All of this is amplified tenfold when you have to coast for 15 minutes on a painfully long, gradual downhill, but can't crank up the speed lest a patch of ice meet you unaware. There's nothing you can do but clench your teeth and take your beating, bidding goodbye to the feeling in your toes and fingers as you dream about an anti-cyclist's-fantasy where there are no descents, only toasty warm sweaty climbs.

I knew I deserved it so I could laugh about it. At the bottom of the canyon we still had five miles to pedal into town on ever-more-icy, flat pavement. It was impossible to work up any heat. I held my hands in clenched fists in my pogies, hoping brakes wouldn't be necessary anytime soon. Bill seemed perplexed, and admitted he too was painfully cold. "This is good acclimatization," I reasoned. "Like taking cold baths. Getting ready for Susitna." Bill did not laugh.

Remembering Bill's blizzard grin, I said, "This is one of the things I like about winter activity. You can't quantify anything. Sometimes it's really hard, and sometimes the same things are not all that hard. But it's never easy."

Bill nodded, and I think he understood, but his face was probably frozen. We parted ways and I followed my commuter route home, thinking only of warm showers, and nothing of glare ice.

Super Sunday

The first Sunday of February rolled around and it seemed prudent to continue my lifelong tradition of completely ignoring the Superbowl. After Beat and I went running at Blue Mountain yesterday, we determined the trail to be in excellent condition for travel of the wheeled variety. We've been so running-focused these past months that he hasn't had too many chances to really try out his Fatback. The Big Boring Game promised a whole afternoon of almost zero traffic on both roads and trails, so we set out for what we decided would be a "short" snow bike ride.

The lower mountain is still coated in ice, necessitating a spiked walk both up and down the first mile of road. Beat also took the opportunity to test out his Big Boots.

We felt relieved that Sunday's chosen mode of travel negated the city's promises of certain death on Blue Mountain. After all, bicycles are much safer than sleds.

Once we got past the glare ice, the trail continued to be intermittently icy and hard-packed. The tread and ski tracks left behind by snowmobiles had frozen into concrete-like ruts, making the riding surprisingly technical at times.

On the plus side, every open field was covered in rideable crust, making for fun diversions from the uphill grind.

The steady climb made us work hard for our miles, and Beat noted that we were consistently making slower time than we had during our run, when we not only lacked the advantage of wheels, but also were dragging ~20-pound sleds. Snow fell steadily throughout the day, and soon the ruts and divots were masked by an inch of fresh powder. I knew the descent was going to be equally slow and tough.

We made it seven miles up the road during our run yesterday, and wanted to see how much farther we could ride today. We passed mile marker 9 before the trail started to become too soft and punchy to ride more than a few yards at a time, about 3.5 hours, 2,500 feet of climbing and 15 miles total into the ride. So much for a short day. The ride down really was difficult — so many ruts and exposed ice that it really was impossible to just let go and coast. Sort of like riding a rocky road where the rocks are covered in really slick mud. But we took it slow and relished in the technical challenge, keeping the spikes on our boots just in case we had to bail.

But it is fun to be way up in the mountains on a snowy February afternoon when most people are stuck inside, gorging themselves with beer and nachos to stave off the pounding boredom that is professional football. I feel bad they had to miss out, but grateful for the silence that allowed me to really enjoy the crunch of fat tires on snow.

And, for comparison's sake, here are the numbers from the Garmin GPS. Running versus snow biking up Blue Mountain:
Saturday Sled Run
Sunday Snow Ride

Winding down

The Susitna 100 is now less than two weeks away. It's hard for me to believe it's suddenly so close. I'm struck by a strong sense of homecoming — of my first return to Alaska since I left the Great Land, of returning to the first part of the Iditarod Trail, and returning to the Susitna 100, the place where all of this really began. In many ways, these feelings seem to trump the fact that, in the midst of all this nostalgia, there is the ridiculous and daunting notion of running 100 miles. I feel strangely at ease with it. In past years, I remember the entire month of February shrouded in all of my dread and anticipation for the unknowns I was knowingly jumping into, head-first. This year is different for some reason. There is comfort in the things I know, and excitement in the unknowns. Unlike my surprisingly unsettling emotions prior to my failed Iditarod attempt in 2009, running the Susitna 100 is not something I feel I "have" to do. It's something I really want to do. I have no idea whether I'm capable of running 100 miles and therefore feel secure in the worthiness of simply trying.

Two weeks also means it's time to begin the official "taper." After Sunday, I'm hoping to spend the next two weeks finalizing my gear and food, resting a bit and riding my snow bike, because I do have to make the transition from 100-mile run to 100-mile snow bike ride in just a little more than a month. As for the White Mountains 100, I also have plenty of reasons to fear that race, but I am hoping my wide cycling base will get me through it — after all, that worked out OK last winter when I spent most of my free time hiking and working on my Tour Divide book, and still managed to survive that brutal cold 21-hour effort without long-term damage (for the most part.) But that's March; there's no time to think about it now. The Susitna 100 is the real deal; for whatever reason, it's the race I focused on.

Today, Beat and I got out for a sled run. This was one was more of a dread run, obligatory because after reworking the gear list we had to get some testing in with our fully-packed sleds, and also because we're still two weeks out and should be doing a bit more training. But I was dreading it because after the deep freeze, Missoula was hit with another thaw. It rained most the day Friday and was supposed to rain again on Saturday. There was nowhere nearby with good snow cover, so we had to settle on the ice-coated Blue Mountain Road. As we started up the slick, hard surface, my sled meandered back and forth behind me a like distracted dog. On top of it all, a very strongly worded sign warned us of the risks of "sledding."

But as we worked our way up the gradual climb, the ice turned to snow, which turned to softer snow. The sun broke through the clouds and heated up the already warm air. It felt like spring, and smelled like a clear mountain stream, with sweet pine and a faint hint of fresh mulch to jolt my senses away from the winter drudgery. The run was slow, hamstring-pulling work, but the warmth and sun made it feel surprisingly light and easy. I felt reluctant to turn around. At mile 6, I persuaded Beat into one more mile. Then at mile 7, only about 2.5 miles from the top, we stood for a while debating whether we should just go for it. But the trail was already quite punchy, becoming steeper, and the afternoon was waning. Plus, we had no intentions to put in a big effort today. Even though I had been dreading this training run, I wished I could find an excuse to keep it going.

But, common sense prevailed. Making it to the fire lookout would have been cool, but I'm satisfied with the effort and happy the run turned out as fun as it did. Sometimes you set yourself up for a slog, and when you discover something entirely different, you almost feel like you cheated somehow.

As the early evening approached, we found ourselves stopping frequently to absorb the changing light, from brilliant whites to soft oranges to deep pinks and reds. In the midst of a burn area, we took a side trip to climb up the mountain for a better view of the Rattlesnake and Mission mountains.

The light really was fantastic. Difficult to capture with any true detail with a point-and-shoot camera, but fun to photograph nonetheless.

Then it was down, down, back down to the ice and freezing temperatures. We ended up running 14.6 miles and about 2,500 feet of elevation gain while tugging our full race kit. It felt strangely easy. I hope this means I'm as ready as I can be for Susitna.