Bellingham to Baker and Back

During the last week of June, while I was still in South Africa, Beat flew up to Washington to join his friend, Dan Probst, and seven other runners in an attempt to run from Bellingham Bay to the summit of Mount Baker and back, a 108-mile round-trip excursion that included a roped glacier climb. Daniel has ambitions to recreate a 21st-century version of the Mount Baker Marathon. Arguably one of the world's first adventure races, the Mount Baker Marathon was held from 1911 to 1913 with the objective to travel by automobile or steam engine to the base of the mountain, run up to the summit, and return the way they came. The race drew tens of thousands of spectators, as well as some major mishaps — a train derailment and two crevasse falls (this risk, along with the onset of World War I, is what shut down the race after only three years.) 

As far as Dan knows, no one has traveled the entire distance on foot. He's made several attempts at this; the latest one was shut down by wet weather and avalanche risk. Eight people started the run six weeks ago and stopped when the summit was deemed unobtainable. Dan, Beat, and a young Bellingham runner named Aaron still ran all the way back to Bellingham, completing a 100-mile distance despite the failed summit attempt. Dan still wanted to make the whole thing happen, so he watched the weather all of the following weekends until a window opened on Aug. 1. Aaron, who wanted to see the summit, would return for another hundred-mile run — his second overall. Beat still wanted to be a part of the fun, so he made last-minute travel reservations for Bellingham. This time, I was able to join for crewing and tagalong fun. 

 Daniel is pretty good at promotional stuff and enticed quite a few sponsors for the adventure run. Humorously, some of his main sponsors were a brewing company, a donut shop, and a small-town diner. He loaded up our crewing rental car with six packs of beer, donuts, and ice cream packed on dry ice. "Don't you want some water or electrolyte stuff?" I asked. He just shrugged and assured me another friend would bring them Gatorade later.

 Dan also recruited a friend with a boat to take them out on the bay so they could catch a glimpse of the peak before starting their 45-mile approach. There was no landing on the starting line beach, so they jumped off the vessel for a below-sea-level start at about 12:30 p.m.

 One of Dan's friends, Cam, joined me for crewing in the first 25 miles. Cam is an Army veteran who is now on disability following a Humvee explosion in Iraq, and she had lots of interesting stories to share. Her disabled status is actually thwarting her career dream of becoming a federal agent, so she moved back to her hometown of Bellingham and works as a full-time volunteer for several running groups and other organizations.

 I handed over the keys to the crew car and joined the boys for the traverse from Lake Whatcom to the town of Acme over Mount Stewart. It was 12 miles through some beautiful forest and over a powerline cut, and the temperature was sweltering. The weather window opened in a big way, and this usually cool and rainy region was experiencing temperatures in the high 80s and low 90s, with high humidity to add to the suffering. By mile three I was so drenched in sweat and mildly feverish that even light breezes felt chilly.

 Descending into Acme, we could see the objective still in the far distance. The boys took a long break at the diner and Beat enjoyed a milkshake and breakfast sandwich at 7 p.m. It would be another long 23 miles to the base of the mountain on the historic approach from the Middle Fork of the Nooksack River.

I arrived at the trailhead around 9 and found two friends of Daniel's who planned to assist us with the climb. During their June attempt, Dan had recruited a few experienced friends to guide, but no one was available to guide this attempt. Of the four of us, three have never traveled in a rope team and Dan had only been up Mount Baker once before, with a guide. Dan's friends, Max and Chris, planned to ski the glacier but would remain close by in case there was a mishap. At the trailhead, I found them scouting out the river, which we'd have to cross. After several hot days the water level was high and the hydraulics were sobering. "There's no way we can cross that," I whispered, and Max and Chris assured me we'd figure "something" out. I remained awake for the next four hours, fretting about this river crossing. I know stressing does no good, but I have a difficult time controlling anxiety when it comes to my fears, and whitewater is the deepest of my fears. There I was, preparing to attempt my first-ever technical glacier climb, and I could not get the image of rushing water out of my mind.

 I had just dozed off when Beat, Aaron, and Dan arrived around 2:30 a.m. and started loading up for the climb. We were all carrying an enormous amount of gear — axes, crevasse rescue stakes, carabiners, helmets, harnesses, crampons, emergency sleeping bags and pads, trekking poles, water and food, personal supplies, and cold-weather clothing. Dan had a rope and Chris and Max carried ski gear, but I'd guess my pack weighed at least 35 pounds. I also broke out my old pair of Montrail leather hiking boots that I don't think I've worn in at least six years.

I focused on Zen breathing as Dan led us through a bushwhack along the shoreline of the river to a log that he and others had thrown over a narrow section of the river several weeks earlier. The river was high and he wasn't sure it was still in place. It was, but it was only about a foot wide and tapered at the end, crossing about thirty feet over an especially turbulent channel, because it was so narrow. Beat and Aaron scooted over on their butts, but when it was my turn to do this, the whole world started spinning and I felt precariously close to blacking out. Panic was bubbling up and Zen breathing was not working. "I can't do it, it's too scary, I'm sorry," I called out. I believed this was the end of my Mount Baker attempt, but Daniel offered to shuttle my pack across to see if I'd feel more comfortable going over unloaded. I wasn't, actually, but logically I knew I'd be more stable, so I threw my legs over the thin trunk, pressed my feet against the wet, bald surface, and started scooting. The irrational and extremely unhelpful panic started to boil over and I needed to focus on anything else so I started mouthing the words to "Peaches" by the Presidents of the United States of America. Where that inclination came from, I have no clue, and I can't say it worked exactly ... but I did make it to the other side without falling over in a dizzy fog and slamming against rocks on my way to a painful death downstream. Daniel shuttled my pack across by walking foot-over-foot across the log. I was impressed.

 From the river crossing we followed the mostly unused and highly overgrown Ridley Creek Trail, a strenuous haul through thick brush, deep trenches, and over, under, or around endless deadfall tree trunks, sometimes five feet thick. Sometimes packs had to come off to get around the monster timber, and headlamp beams reflected an ongoing curtain of spider webs complete with monster spiders. Flies and moths swirled through the air and lodged themselves in our noses and throats. After two and a half miles of fading trail we veered up a ridge for a proper bushwhack. As we hacked our way up the brushy slope, we'd pick up remnants of a track that Daniel said was part of the original pack route used by the racers in 1911. The reasoning behind this approach was that it's the closest access point from Bellingham Bay — but it's also one of the most difficult and least used glacier approaches on the mountain.

 By sunrise, about 6:30, we had covered a mere four miles with less than 3,000 feet of climbing. On paper, especially as part of a 108-mile run, the distance was minuscule — but the effort was huge. There's really nothing that quite compares to bushwhacking with heavy packs (or bikes) in tow. I was exhausted and having flashbacks of the Stettynskloof, and we still had an entire mountain to climb.

 Happily, some friends of Daniel's had hacked their way up Ridley Creek the night before, and woke up in the middle of the night to cook bacon for the boys. From their gorgeous camp by Mazama Lake, they served the bacon, fresh bread, and apricots for breakfast. It was a nice boost despite being devoured by mosquitoes while we lingered.

 Even after being awake for the past twenty-four hours with long travel and very little sleep the night before that, Beat was stoked. You can see why.

 The morning was perfect although already very warm at 8 a.m., and reflective heat was radiating from the snow fields as we climbed toward the glacier. Lesser known fact — under direct sun on a warm day, snow will actually increase the "feels like" temperature, because of all the sunlight reflecting off the white surface. So temperatures in the high 70s will feel like 100 on a glacier.

 At portal camp, we roped up to scale a steep headwall and climbed onto the glacier around 6,000 feet elevation. This was our first view of the massive seracs of Mount Baker. It's impossible to depict the scale, but this wall was well over a hundred feet high.

 The roped travel was important because there are crevasses everywhere, and a few steeper pitches at 40 degrees or more where falls are difficult to arrest. Daniel was the only one of the four of us who had traveled in a rope team before, so he led.

 I was a little nervous about climbing without a guide and my own very limited experience with glaciers (mostly seeing them from above while ridge-walking in Juneau, and watching movies.) But it was a good day for a glacier climb, with high visibility and soft, forgiving snow. As the day heated up, the snow conditions progressively deteriorated from "forgivingly soft" to "molten lava." We were postholing up to our shins and slipping a few centimeters backward with every step, which made the already steep climb even slower and more strenuous.

 The skiers stayed close at first and Chris even took a few shots with a helicopter drone that Max carried up in his pack. However, as the elevation increased, Max struggled with the altitude and they slowed substantially. We pressed on ahead, following the main boot track until we came to a split. The freshest track veered left between two scary huge seracs, and the older track went up a nice, low-angle slope with no crevasses in sight. I advocated for the track on the right even though it soon became clear that no one had been up that way on that day, and we had climbed another 400 feet by the time we realized why — a snow bridge collapsed and opened up a crevasse across the track. It was only about two feet wide, but we couldn't see the bottom. Jumpable, but scary. We belayed as best we could and went across one by one.

 Beat remained giddy the whole time. I have a feeling he's soon going to acquire a new hobby with all of this cool new mountaineering gear.

 When we reached the caldera, we stopped on the rim to gaze at the steam pouring from the volcano. At 9,760 feet elevation away from the sun-reflective snow, it was actually a bit chilly, especially with a stiff breeze cranking along the rim. Daniel chose this place to wait for Chris and Max, and promptly fell asleep curled on his mat. I sat on my pack until my frostbite-damaged toes began to hurt badly. I was anxious to get moving again but couldn't do much about it because I was still roped to three snoozing ultrarunners.

 Finally, after about forty minutes and on the brink of shivering, we radioed Chris who informed us that they were still coming up, and still probably another half hour or more back. We opted to push on to the summit over the crux of the climb, the "Roman Wall." I found here that being on the back of a rope team is not so fun, because by the time the other three reach the flatter traverses, I was still making my way up a 40-degree pitch. Their pace increased and I had to match it on the toughest terrain, and then match their slower speeds while I made my way across flat traverses and they climbed the walls. Still, I didn't have 45 extra miles on my legs, so I couldn't exactly complain about the pace.

 Crossing the summit ridge with high clouds above and haze below. It was breezy and coolish, but any wind-protected spot still felt like an oven.

 Views from 10,800 feet. We could look down and see the Nooksack River branch where we started 9,000 feet lower.

 Summit obtained at 2:25 p.m. It had taken eleven hours to cover nine miles of a 108-mile run. The trail register was signed "Second ever summit from Bellingham Bay on foot. Now for the return." Dan had been the first during an attempt one year ago, but altitude sickness forced him to abandon the return effort. This is what they were going for this time — the full summit plus return trip.

 Aw, don't we look cute in climbing gear? Beat and I both lack some of the important temperaments of a climber — patience, no debilitating fears of heights, and (in my case) even average balance and coordination. But we both love the result of climbing mountains, so we'll likely work on increasing our skill set for future (mildly technical) ascents.

It was still a long way down, with a super-heated glacier descent, a steep downhill hack, and the hardest miles on the Ridley Creek not-quite-a-trail right at the end. Once we were past the glacier and the summit buzz wore off, I spent the rest of the descent fretting about that river crossing, again. I resolved to Zen through it, I'd sing "Peaches" if I had to, it's not so bad, it's really not so bad. But no amount of logic seems to work on my inner panic button. As soon as we could hear the roar of the rapids, my heart started racing. I practiced Zen breathing until we reached the log, and then the hyperventilating began. I was very angry with myself. "Why do you have to go and be like this?" I didn't have a choice about crossing the river this time around, but now I was fatigued after no sleep and an 18-hour hard effort, and my hands were shaking. Argh!

Daniel was pretty shattered himself but offered to carry my pack again. I fear that he may have thought he didn't have a choice because I was crying. I actually was. I realize the silliness of being so afraid — although a fall into the river likely would have been disastrous, the log crossing was not hard. The river was flowing even higher at the end of the hot day, and spray splashed against my feet and pants as I scooted across. Nothing else was stifling the panic so I focused on Beat's face and simply counted in fast breaths — one, two, three, four ... until I lost count, and started over. I wish I could do something about this fear of water, which has been a major part of my psyche ever since I was temporarily caught by a rope and trapped beneath an overturned raft on the Colorado River in 2001. I suspect I may need hypnotherapy.

 We returned to the trailhead just before 10 p.m., and everyone was fried — both by the sun, and the surprisingly huge effort of climbing Mount Baker. The boys still had 45 miles to run back to Bellingham and I wondered if it would really happen. They took a thirty minute nap and rallied to go, knowing they'd regret passing up the opportunity to complete a journey that has been in the making for over a hundred years. I was responsible for crewing them the rest of the way to the finish. They were kind enough to grant me a reprieve for the first half so I could drive back to Acme and catch a few hours of sleep (and hopefully be conscious enough to drive for two hours to the SeaTac airport the following afternoon.) Along the way I left little care packages of Gatorade, water, and cans of beer for the boys.

It was just before 1 p.m. by the time they returned to a few inches below sea level in Bellingham Bay, for an elapsed time of 48 hours and 17 minutes. They actually put in a negative split on the final 45 miles — despite the half-hour nap, they ran that section nearly an hour faster than the way out, when Daniel admits they spent a lot of time goofing off. What really surprised me about this run is just how much effort a proper mountain climb really adds to a typical ultramarathon. Daniel is interested in turning the Mount Baker Marathon into an official race, and it won't be easy to bridge the divide between running and climbing, not to mention organizing all of the necessary logistics. But I admire his ambition. He did a lot of work, and rallied a lot of helpful volunteers and supporters to make this run happen. I'm grateful that Beat could be a part of it, and that they let me tag along. 

Forever pace

After failing at last year's Petite Trotte a Leon, I did some soul searching about whether I was taking this endurance racing hobby too far. Months later, I told friends that I still couldn't decide whether PTL was a valuable learning experience, or the worst thing I had ever done to myself. I joked that exploring limits is a lot less fun when you find them. I've gained so much personal enrichment from confronting difficult and frightening situations amid the parameters set by racing — which extend far beyond parameters I would have ever set for myself. But how far is too far? During PTL, an onslaught of technical terrain near the edge of my capabilities, constant focus on navigation and maneuvers, perceived dangers, internal and external pressure, and sleep deprivation drove me halfway out of my mind. It pushed me into some dark places I never wish to visit again, whether in a voluntary situation or real trauma. I race to gain control over my Monster, and PTL only revealed all the ways Monster still controls me.

I considered stepping back from racing for a while. I came close to withdrawing from the 2014 Iditarod Trail Invitational. And then a switch flipped. Monster doesn't control me. I don't need to slink away from adventures that feed my passion, energy, and muse just because of one bad experience. I threw my name in the White Mountains 100 lottery, and then the Hardrock 100. I agreed to join Liehann at the Freedom Challenge. And I signed up for the Tor des Geants.

I didn't write this intro to delve too deep into my personal philosophies or deeper motivations regarding racing. Only to expand on the complicated relationship I have with racing right now, and the wild swing from convincing myself I should take at least a year off to jumping headfirst into my biggest year of racing yet, culminating in the one that should scare me most of all — a 330-kilometer march around the Italian Alps, with a distance and elevation profile that very closely resembles PTL. Back into the belly of the Monster.

The allure of Tor des Geants is another complicated matter than I could ramble on about for thousands of words, but the short explanation is a desire to explore the edges of the galaxy amid the incredible setting of the Aosta Valley. Beat has completed every running of the Tor des Geants, and I've joined him to crew for three of those four years. In that time, I've developed a deep affection for this race. Hiking a handful of the route's numerous cols gave me a taste of just how physically demanding the whole loop would be — and also its potential for an intensely beautiful experience. The dream of TDG is what ultimately drew me into PTL last year, and I contended that I should have tried the "friendly" race before I jumped into the "mean" one. Not that TDG is sunshine and foot massages. It's still 200 miles of rugged terrain, with 80,000 feet of elevation gain (and, more importantly, another 80,000 feet of elevation loss) in 150 hours.

What I tend to overlook amid all of my spiritual- and emotional-enlightenment-seeking race greediness is the reality that my body is the one who needs to cash these checks. It took me longer than I care to admit to come to my senses about removing my name from the Hardrock roster. Even still, giving myself a mere two months to both recover from a 21-day strenuous bike- and hike-a-bike tour, and physically prepare for a race like TDG is ridiculous. I know that. I get that. And yet I have this dream ... the dream of forever pace ... the sweet spot where motion can persist and exploration doesn't have to cease.

I bounced back quickly from the Iditarod, resting little amid the manic opportunities of March in Alaska, and still enjoyed my best White Mountains 100 race yet a few weeks later. But post-Freedom-Challenge recovery has been more stubborn. As soon as the soreness in my arms abated there wasn't any remnant tissue damage. If fact, leg muscles and tendons seemed to be in great shape — I could hike for 11 hours without feeling remotely sore. But my cardiovascular system was worn down. I had no pep. I couldn't run. I wondered if it was a bug or perhaps residual effects from the infections in my fingers, which are still in the process of healing. I took lots of rest days — good for catching up on lots of missed work — and started using a heart rate monitor to gauge short efforts. The heart rate monitor did not inspire confidence. I was hitting Zone 5 far too soon. While riding up Montebello Road, my heart rate spiked 188 at a laughably slow pace. Beat assured me it would just take more time.

I lamented feeling terribly out of shape. And then I wondered if that was precisely the problem — I've been in forever pace for so long that I am terribly out of shape ... for short efforts.

On Sunday we planned a run in Portola State Park. Beat wanted to show me the Peter's Creek Loop — home to the largest grove of old-growth Coast Redwoods in the Santa Cruz Mountains. This grove was just remote enough and difficult to access that the nearby Page Mill logging operation left it alone, and it's still remote and difficult to access.

Temperatures hit the triple digits this weekend. We actually had planned to do this run on Saturday, but were turned around by a traffic jam on Highway 9. There was a plan B, but when we stepped out of the car into a furnace blast of 98-degree air, we both looked at each other, shook our heads, and got back in the car. Sunday was going to be just as hot, but we built up a little more mojo, froze water bladders solid, and left a whole lot earlier. I left the heart rate monitor at home — it wasn't intentional, as I hoped to gauge the effect of a longer effort versus the hour-long runs. But it was just as well. Judging performance based on numbers from a watch wasn't doing me many favors. I was probably better off just moving at whatever pace made me happiest, and not worrying about where that fell in on the fitness spectrum.

So we did this run. It was 23 miles with somewhere between 5,000 and 6,000 feet of climbing. It was very hot — 96 at the car upon return to Skyline, where it felt cooler than the more sun-exposed ridges. I drank 2.5 liters of ice water and then 2.5 liters more of lukewarm water refilled at the ranger station. I didn't have the heart rate monitor to tell me whether I was overtaxed or not, so I just ran forever pace. It felt good. The forest spread out above us, and happiness drove me forward. Happy legs, happy feet, happy heart.

This is the root of my "forever pace" experiment. I'm happiest on the move. Even when summer is in full force with its oppressive heat and fierce UV rays, when sweat is so thick that the annoying bugs buzzing around my face land on my skin and drown, and both social convention and personal inclinations tell me to embrace hibernation and sit indoors eating popsicles ... I still find my joy outside. Maybe I will fail spectacularly at TDG, and maybe I'll make good on past promises and take a year off of racing next year ... but I can't say I have't enjoyed the process immensely. 

One more for the road: Gear and training post

I realize that I promised no more South Africa posts, but that's before I remembered that I wanted to do a Freedom Challenge gear and training post-mortem. Shortly after the race, Liehann asked me what I would change about my gear if I were to ever try this again. The short answer is: Not much. As for what I would change about my training, the short answer is: Lots.

My bike is a Moots Mooto-X YBB 29" titanium soft tail. Here are the specs:
Shock: Rock Shox Reba RLT dual air, QR
Group: Shimano XT 2x10 (XTR shifters)
Brakes: Shimano XT
Wheels: Mike Curiak built Stans Arch + DT swiss 240s hubs, tubeless
Tires: Front: Bontrager XR3 team issue 2.30 Rear: Maxxis Ikon 2.35
Tubeless setup. Shimano XT skewers.
Seatpost,stem: Thomson elite
Handlebars: Ritchey wcs aluminum riser
Headset, BB: Chris King
Saddle: Terry something (probably Butterfly.)

This bike was my dream bike when it became mine in April 2012. It is still my dream bike. I'd be happy to never get a new mountain bike, but instead just continue fixing whatever components break on this one, until frame death do us part (which hopefully will not happen for a long time.) This bike was built to be touring bike — especially of the mixed pavement, trail, and dirt road variety — but it's also solid on technical trails (within the limits of my abilities.)

Yes, I use platform pedals. No, I'll probably never change. In addition to the comforts of wearing large trail-running shoes (Montrail Mountain Masochist, size 10), I really do move my feet around on the pedals all of the time. I press down with my toes, I press down with my heels, I hold them up and shake them out for a while. I'd rather not lock my contact points into any position when spending twelve-plus hours per day in the saddle, be it my butt, hands, or feet. It's a personal comfort thing. I realize I could improve my technical control if I used clipless pedals, and my shins took an awful beating in the Freedom Challenge. Still, for me, the benefits of platforms outweigh the drawbacks. My nerve-damaged toes are happy.

Freedom Challenge racers also participate in the ongoing debate of 29" versus 26" wheels. But unlike U.S. bikepacking races, 26" full suspension bikes seem to be the most popular choice in this race. Big forks also win out in many cases. It makes sense to me; there is quite a lot of rugged terrain on this route, and all-mountain bikes, while a beast to haul on one's back, will ensure less downhill hike-a-bike. I'm likely to hike the harder stuff either way, so I'd just stick with the 29'er soft tail for optimal performance on long climbs and dirt roads.

There are also jokes about using a super-light carbon cross bike, since there's so much hiking in this race. I wouldn't recommend it. There's a lot more riding in the Freedom Challenge than my blog report lets on, and very little of it would be fun on a cross bike (think lots of barely-there cattle trail, rocky jeep tracks, and sand.)

Backpacks are also a point of debate. I used a Salomon XA 25-liter waterproof backpack, and believe it or not, I actually had one of the smaller packs among the riders we met. Many Freedom Challenge riders race with most or all of their gear on their backs, because there is so much bike carrying in this race (I know I said there was a lot of riding. There's a lot of both.) Bike bags are starting to take hold in the South Africa bikepacking community, though. Quite a few riders had seat post bags made by Revelate Designs in Alaska; they called them their "Revelates." I didn't see anyone else with a frame bag.

My system actually worked pretty well, because the backpack itself was half empty most of the time. I usually packed three liters of water and miscellaneous warm clothing (the puffy jacket always made it look fuller than it was.) I should have utilized this extra space sooner, but on the last day, before hiking up the Stettynskloof, I transferred most of the items from my seatpost bag and frame bag into my backpack, lightening up the bike as much as possible. It worked, because with a better distribution of weight, I was able to pick up and carry my bike on my back without pain for decent blocks of time — at least until that final, impossible climb.

As for clothing, I mentioned I recycled much of my Iditarod 2014 kit. Here's the rundown:

Kit: Castelli Elle skort and Patagonia capilene long-sleeve mock turtleneck with zip
Wind and rain layer: Skinfit shell pants, Outdoor Research Mentor Jacket
Insulation layers: North Face ThermoBall jacket, Freedom Challenge thin fleece pullover (only ended up wearing indoors), GORE windstopper tights
Head: Regular buff, windstopper buff, windproof hat, thin skull cap.
Hands: Outdoor Research fleece mittens, short-finger bike gloves, RBH designs mitten shells
Feet: Montrail Mountain Masochist, size 10; Acorn fleece socks; Integral Designs vapor barrier socks, Drymax socks (x3)
Sunglasses
T-shirt and running shorts for indoor use

I'm not sure I'd change anything about clothing. There were a few items I didn't use often (the shell pants, vapor barrier socks and mitten shells), but I certainly would have used them in the event of heavier rain or snow. The GORE tights have been one of my favorite items, both in Alaska and in South Africa. They're just so versatile — warm and windproof, and yet easy to unzip and vent when the day heats up. They're running tights, so there's no chamois — which means they're great for hiking. The Freedom Trail tore them to shreds, and I'm sad to see them go. The Patagonia capilene also acquired a bunch of holes. It's been a fantastic shirt; I think I've worn it in every major race I've participated in since early last year, including a bunch of 50Ks.

As for training, well, where to begin? During the race I had major issues in the upper body department, which were largely concentrated in my upper arms and forearms — muscle pain, numbness, constant aches, and outright muscle failures during lifting. I don't even know where to start to strengthen a weak upper body — which is why mine is so weak — so I won't weigh in on what I'd do differently in training just yet. But in the unlikely event this bug ever bites me again, I would spend a lot more time building core strength, as well as strengthening shoulders and arms. I would also swallow my pride and actually go for training hikes while carrying a bike on my back, even though Californians would look at me like I was on drugs. Time in the saddle ... eh. I can't even say my mileage prior to the Freedom Challenge was all that high. Through March I was focused on Iditarod training, and then I continued running two to three times a week throughout April and May (lots of good this did me for the hike-a-bikes. Ha!) Still, I had no problems in the saddle. Riding bikes for a long time ... in the Freedom Challenge, that's the easy part.

Finally, navigation. So important. One of the guys we crossed the VuVu Valley with estimated that navigation was 80 percent of this race. For the Race to Rhodes, I would absolutely agree with that percentage. Beyond the 500-kilometer mark it gets a little easier overall, but not much. At 21 days, we finished about as fast as we could without submitting to night navigation. Most who want to ride faster than 20 days will have to be a lot more comfortable navigating in the dark. If I were to ever do this again, I would take the time to learn some more advanced orienteering techniques, such as dead reckoning. I'd also try to get a better grasp on the southern night sky so I didn't have to constantly watch a compass.

Liehann mentioned printing the 1:50,000 maps larger. This would help to some extent — it was extremely difficult to read the maps while the bike was moving. Still, these race-provided maps are partially hand-drawn and somewhat limited in detail, especially when it comes to trying to judge a position based on topographical features alone. The lines just weren't precise enough to discern real shapes. I suppose this is where orienteering techniques come in handy. Terrain association techniques, pacing techniques (because bike odometers do not work when a bike is being carried), and more focused use of compass bearings. You know what's funny? I hate all this stuff. Honestly, I do. Freedom Challenge did not turn me into a Rogaining enthusiast.

Another thing I would do different in a future Freedom Challenge is carry a more robust sleeping system — probably a 32-degree down sleeping bag and lightweight pad, along with an emergency bivy. For an extra two or three pounds, I'd gain a lot more willingness to take on some of those more difficult segments at night. Getting stuck out with little to no gear is so less than ideal that I was never willing to risk it. I feel like a sleeping bag would give me a lot more peace of mind. And it actually would be fun to sleep out occasionally, although at -10C with a granola bar dinner, it still wouldn't be terribly comfortable.

I know other blanket-wearers (as the Freedom Challenge riders call themselves) check in on this blog. I'd love to hear your thoughts and tips on how to succeed in the Race Across South Africa.

And then it was summer

Back to California. Happy to see Beat. Jet lag. A thousand e-mails. Work catching up. Heat. Try a five-mile run. Side stitch. Downhill walks. Rest days. Book edits! Photo downloads. Blog, blog, blog. Pet the cat. Evenings with Beat, who's shored up all this excitement about next year adventure scheming, and there's five and a half more months left in this year, and still he teases me because I say I'm not ready to think about it, not just yet. Tired. 

We decided to go for a hike. 

It seems everyone's training for late-summer mountain races, and the group was headed to Yosemite for a thirty-mile loop around Buena Vista Peak on Sunday, July 13. In the week since I returned from South Africa, I attempted two short (five-mile) runs. Both did not go exactly well ... my cardiovascular system was working much too hard, I got a horrible side stitch at mile three that limited my breathing capacity and forced me to walk the final two miles downhill. This was the gauge for my fitness level going into Sunday's hike. There's no high end, and sort of not even a moderate level of power — but I knew my legs were strong and endurance solid. Our friends were planning to run the loop, but I told Beat I likely wouldn't be able to run any of it. A fifty-kilometer hike — but it is summer here in California, and daylight is generous.

 We started near Wawona, where daytime temperatures topped 95 degrees. Coming from South Africa, where 12C (54 degrees) felt like a warm day, the heat was a shock to the system. That, plus lingering jet lag, plus altitude, made for a tiring day. But worth it.

 Beat climbing the bowl below Buena Vista, elevation 9,700. Mmm, granite chunk.

Esa es una hermosa vista.

Because some in our group were running and some were mainly or only hiking, we predictably spread out. Heather ended up behind us after scrambling up the summit ridge after following an errant arrow on the runners' route. We thought she bypassed the peak and hiked on in front of us until we saw John walking back up the trail to look for her, many miles later. The off-trail scramble is just long enough that reconnecting with the trail isn't entirely straightforward, and Heather spent a tense hour or two feeling lost and alone in the Sierra backcountry. I empathized with her, with my own "lost and alone" emotions still so raw, and after spending the whole hike down worried that she might be hurt (we decided it would be best to return to Wawona and inform the rangers in the event that she and John didn't return by dark.)

It's a good reminder that if you go with a group into the backcountry, you should just stick together ... or at least make a more structured plan. But the Buena Vista loop is a wonderful route (strava file.) We don't get out to the Sierras nearly often enough. Sadly, one of the main reasons for that is a strong aversion to traffic. In some ways, it's easier to travel to South Africa than it is to drive out of the Bay Area on a Friday evening.

I made up for it this week, though. My dad has been trying for a permit in the Mount Whitney lottery for three years. After two years of rejections for all ten alternative dates he chose, he finally snagged a two-person day permit for July 17 in this spring's lottery. It's almost as tough as getting into Hardrock, which, consequently, I know was also this past weekend. Several people have asked me whether I have any regrets about withdrawing from the Hardrock 100 even though it was very likely my only chance to ever run that course in the official event. I wondered the same myself, but in truth these hikes confirmed what I already knew, which is that Hardrock would have been a huge disaster. Huge disaster.

"I'm not quite on yours or Beat's level of masochism," I wrote to yet another friend (Dima, Beat's partner in the 2013 PTL) who sent me a message about it on Saturday. "I can't feel all that bad about missing out on so much pain."

"What's wrong with disaster?" he replied.

 I tell you, I'm connected with some nutty people.

But Whitney was fantastic. My dad and I first climbed this mountain together in 2001. I was 21 years old, and at the time it was the longest, most demanding physical feat I'd ever attempted. A monster. I still have the same respect for this mountain, even if my perspective on "monsters" has expanded. Dad drove out all the way from Salt Lake City in his 1994 Toyota pickup with no air conditioning. We met in Lone Pine for Chinese food and headed up to Whitney Portal to camp. We woke up at the civilized hour of 5:30 (lots of hikers get up at 2 a.m.) I had a pounding headache already ... but the weather looked good, and it's always enjoyable to spend a whole day on a mountain with my dad.

Dad retired in April and has logged a lot of hiking hours in the Wasatch this summer. He's in fantastic shape, and charged up the famous 99 switchbacks toward the summit ridge. I tried very hard and couldn't keep up with him. 13,000 feet came and went. My headache took on more of a woozy, ethereal sensation — which seemed better, but then again the summit ridge has steep drop-offs, I'm already clumsy by nature, and feeling somewhat intoxicated on an exposed, rocky trail is not ideal.

We passed by these bottles of Jack Daniels, presumably stashed away for a post-summit celebration. "You couldn't pay me to drink whiskey at 14,000 feet," I declared. I might as well have taken a shot or two; my headache came back, along with nausea, and I was plodding. I've been at 14,000 feet a few times before, and I don't think I've ever been quite so sick. But the oxygen deprivation combined with the beautiful setting sparked feelings of euphoria, so you could say I was in a conflicted state of not knowing whether I felt really good, or really bad. I made an effort not to complain. Skies were still mostly clear, and I figured we had enough time for me to take it as slow as I needed. Dad just charged on ahead, strong as a mountain goat at age 61.

Looking out from 14,508 feet to Lone Pine at 3,727 feet. There aren't many places in North America where you can sight that much vertical relief.

Aw, standing on top of the high point of the Lower 48 with my dad. Few moments could be better. I finally took in some food after feeling so nauseated most of the way up, and we made decent time hiking down. Dad was curious about our progress, and I tried to make some comparisons to my solo hike on Whitney in 2012, when I was training for UTMB. Dad will be interested in the stats: In 2012, I had a moving time of 9:11 and total time of 10:15, for an average pace of 27:18 minutes per mile. On Thursday, our moving time was 7:56(!), total time 10:36, for an average pace of 21:46 minutes per mile. Strava doesn't lie. Okay, it could have scrambled some data in there somewhere. But still — nice work Dad.

On Friday I drove back over Sonora Pass, and as a way of avoiding horrific Friday evening traffic, stalled for a few hours by hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail toward the Emigrant Wilderness. What a beautiful region. I don't get out to the Sierras nearly often enough.

But I hope to return, soon.

Last South Africa post, I promise

Liehann and I finished the Race Across South Africa on July 1, and returned to California on July 5. We'd given ourselves a buffer in case it took a few more days to reach Diemersfontein, and also so Liehann's girlfriend Trang could come out and spend time with him and his family in Somerset West. Those extra days near Cape Town were a whirlwind. With Trang and Liehann's friend Evelyn visiting from California, there was lots of touristing to be done. And of course Liehann wanted to visit his friends in town. I struggled with the rapid shift back toward civilized life and mostly just wanted to escape into the mountains, but I was happy to spend a few more days in this beautiful country. 

Trang, Evelyn and I all weighed in on our preference of tourism opportunities. My list was long and included Table Mountain, but with the time crunch, we could realistically only choose one. So I lobbied for my top choice — go to the coast and watch penguins. It's intriguing to see exotic animals in their natural habitat. Plus, penguins are so adorable and awkward on land, just waddling around and falling over all the time. I can really relate to that.

 We looped around the Cape Peninsula on Chapman's Peak Drive to watch the sunset.

 I couldn't help but think of Big Sur in California and feel wistful about going home. It had been a long trip, more than a month, and the intense nature of the Freedom Challenge stretched out the emotional timeline to something much longer than that. Sometimes I let myself believe that I'd be happy as a permanent vagabond, anchored nowhere, but then I get out there and realize I'm too nostalgic and prone to homesickness to ever truly be free.

 The first weeks after the Freedom Challenge have been difficult. There's always that period of decompression, when I shift from feeling like I could live this way forever, to wondering if I'll ever feel strong or adventurous again. The physical setbacks are noticeable, although I still harbor suspicion that the struggle is mainly in my head.

 Most of what we call life is held in our perceptions. What terrifies me could have no impact on other people. What makes me most happy would make others miserable. What gives me energy, others find draining. And vice versa. All-encompassing experiences such as the Freedom Challenge are compelling because of the way they expand perspective. They demand the best of us and also bring out the worst. They peel away artificial shells and let raw emotion run naked for a while. They draw bold lines over what has value, and what does not. They open our minds to inexpressible beauty, a clear-eyed view that I have only experienced when I'm most vulnerable and exposed.

 And so I wonder, when the intensity of it all has diminished, what's actually worn down — my body, or my mind? At least during those final days in Cape Town, it seemed to be the latter. We had lots of fun activities and social engagements, and also lots of real life to catch up with. I relished in brief opportunities to get out for two solo runs. These runs were good for the soul, an opportunity to ease the shock of the transition by returning temporarily to this simple, raw mindset.

It had been stormy and cold during our entire first week we were in South Africa, and then we enjoyed sunny, mostly dry weather for the three weeks of the Freedom Challenge. Then, true to the pattern, our final days in Cape Town were stormy and cold. Two days after the Freedom Challenge, I stole away from the house for my first recovery run in the Helderberg Nature Reserve. I couldn't bear the thought of climbing anything, so I just ran along the friendly trails in the valley below the mountain. The day before we left, there was a major storm. Downpour, flash flooding, snow on the peaks. Liehann and Trang planned to visit a farmer's market, giving me an opportunity to run in Jonkershoek.

This run was incredible. I'll just go on the record now and admit I haven't felt remotely fit since I returned to California. But for this one last run, before jet lag set in and deep physical and/or mental recovery took hold, I felt like a falcon. I'd been dragging around that bike for weeks, and suddenly I was light and free on my feet, relishing the sensation of driving rain against my face and charging toward a snowline that I longed to reach. As I climbed higher, the sky began to clear and streaks of sunlight escaped through the clouds. Jaw-dropping views of the valley opened up, and I could see walls of craggy peaks, waterfalls, and lush vegetation that I didn't have to hack through ... it was all so enjoyable. Although I agreed to return after two hours, I got a little carried away and had to sprint as best as I could to get back in time. I was eleven minutes late, but wrapped up 10.5 miles in 2:11 which, considering all of the climbing, is close to real running. It had been a while. I couldn't believe how fast I could move without my bike.

This valley is directly behind where Liehann went to school and is close to a house he still owns. One of my first thoughts was why would Liehann ever leave this place to move to California? (Liehann has a great job and girlfriend, so I make this statement in jest, mostly.) Of course, I missed California, too. I missed Beat, my cat, Diet Pepsi, just sitting down and writing, riding my bike up Montebello Road, and going for runs on the dusty, poison-oak-lined trails that have worked their way into my heart. It had been a long journey, and I was tired, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything. 

Race Across South Africa, part eleven

"When this is all done, I'm going to set my alarm for 4:30 just so I can turn it off and not get up," Liehann announced as we downed a cold breakfast of granola and milk in the chilled cabin at Trouthaven. 

"Strange that this is the last morning," I agreed ... although, silently, I wondered to myself if it really was our last morning on the Freedom Trail. Sure, there were only 54 kilometers between here and the finish at the wine farm of Diemersfontein. And sure, only 12 kilometers of that was even supposed to be full portaging, although I had heard rumors that this was a direct-line estimate and the reality was probably closer to 15 or even 20. Coen said the portage alone would take seven hours. "That means it will take me twelve," I lamented. 

 We planned to leave at 5:30 a.m. sharp. Sunrise was just before 7 a.m., and 5:30 was about the earliest we could leave to cover the first "easy" kilometers of riding in the dark before first light would help us locate a footpath at the edge of the reservoir. "You must find this footpath," Coen warned us. "Otherwise what would take seven hours will take fourteen." Which meant at my pace ... I didn't want to think about it.

Icy darkness sank into the river gorge like silt at the bottom of the sea. As we rolled along a steeply undulating road, I stuck in my earphones to calm my nerves and listened to the Stars, singing the song "North" quietly as Liehann surged ahead ...

"It's so cold in this country. Every road home is long.

He had a map that he bought for the price of a song.

He had a reason to go there, and a warm place to stay.

But when it came time to leave, it was never the right day.

Good luck, bad luck, survival. 

Sleep is my friend, and my rival.

Good luck, bad luck, survival." 

Photo by Liehann Loots

We rounded the dam manager's house and looked for the road that led to the dam wall. After several passes of failing to locate a road, we asked a man who just happened to be out walking along this dead-end street at 6:30 a.m. "The road washed away in a flood; it's not there anymore," he told us. "If you want to go to the dam, you will have to leave your bikes here and climb up that way." 

"Leave my bike here," I thought wistfully. Although I was too timid to proudly accept an official disqualification in exchange for symbolic glory, I daydreamed about just leaving my bike in Trouthaven and running the last 54 kilometers, then picking it up later. Part of me relished the cross-country adventures of the Freedom Challenge, but I was frustrated with the ways an odd-shaped anchor turned my undertrained body into something so weak and awkward that it was as useless as the bike. I dreamed of being light and free on my feet, of hacking through the brush unhindered, of running that last rideable 30 kilometers after the valley and proving I could do the whole stage as fast as anyone else, sans bike. "I know they won't give me an official finish, but how awesome would it be to finish the Freedom Challenge without my stupid bike?" I pondered out loud to Liehann the previous evening.

"You're an idiot," he replied. 

 Instead, I found myself shouldering my bike beneath the flickering light of a dam manager's house and picking my way along the disappeared road. It wasn't just washed out, it was obliterated — a rushing creek with table-sized boulders filled the space where the road used to be. By sheer luck, Liehann shined his headlamp through the brush where the old road bed veered away from the valley bottom and climbed up to the dam, giving us an almost-free half-kilometer of pedaling before we had to find the "footpath" that led around the reservoir and into the Valley-That-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The term footpath is generous — it was a trace of something through the brush, easy to wander off of, and difficult to relocate. Some of our wanderings proved this footpath was still faster than the full-bushwhack, so we moved slowly and made an effort to squint out its faint line along the hillsides.

It was along here that I reached into my frame bag for a snack and realized that I failed to restock my food supply in the morning. For each of the past 20 evenings in the Freedom Challenge, my habit was to go through my drop box and extract the items I wanted for the following day, then place them in a ziplock bag to transfer to my frame bag as we packed up in the morning. I knew this last day would be long, so I carefully placed the feed bag where I wouldn't forget it, next to my shoes. Somehow, I forgot it. On the most important day of the whole journey to be fully self-reliant, I had only whatever food was left over after the ride into Trouthaven. That had been a short day, so at least there were leftovers. But how much ... I was afraid to count. I had a general idea based on my daily packing habits and what I remembered consuming. There would be three or four bars, some trail mix, some biltong, half a bag of gummy bears, a sandwich from Trouthaven that I grabbed from the fridge that morning, and my emergency supply of 750 calories of peanut butter ... probably adequate, but I was going to need to ration carefully to avoid bonking in this valley.

 Beyond the reservoir the footpath effectively disappeared. I hooked two spare straps between the bike frame and my backpack, and leaned forward into the carry system I'd devised. I had to put the bike down when we reached the river, where the prospect of teetering on boulders and stumbling through swift current made the anchor attachment unwise. Our cues were quite specific about these river crossings, and despite a complete lack of evidence that any footpath still existed through this remote, burned, flooded, and overgrown valley — we continued to hold out hope that we'd locate something. The river itself was also cause for suspicion, because vertical rock walls seemed to indicate if we did not follow the correct route, we would eventually find ourselves cliffed out with no choice but to turn around. In hindsight, the cues could probably be as simple as "Find your preferred schwacking method and follow the river up the valley until you reach the end, and then climb out." But, in the midst of it, we were convinced there must be one almighty right way.

Coen and Con caught up to us as we bumbled back and forth at the first river crossing, and directed us on a ledgy skitter along the left bank that did get us around the high cliffs on the right. From there, we started hacking our way up and over a seemingly endless progression of spurs. These were steep climbs and sketchy descents laced with thick, almost impenetrable walls of reeds and brush in the drainages. Although my strap system was a good idea in theory, attaching the bike to my backpack made wrestling through the brush even more impossible. Finally, I just accepted that I was going to have to carry my bike with my own weak shoulders and puny arms. "I have to learn this sometime," I thought, and lifted my bike over my head as my shredded triceps quivered before lowering it onto the top of my backpack. Once balanced, it didn't take that much extra strength to keep the bike up there, although my tired quads and calves balked at every step.

Photo by Liehann Loots

Coen and Con quickly outpaced us, but since Coen had successfully climbed out of The-Valley-That-Must-Not-Be-Named before, I wanted to keep them in sight. I traced their line over the ridge of a spur before Liehann and I dropped into the drainage below, were we encountered the twisted wreckage of a plane that crashed in 1963, the Shackelton. Like the other drainages, this one was cut with a small but steep gorge at the bottom, necessitating a six-foot, sheer drop that was difficult to gauge beneath all of the reeds and brush choking the edge of the stream. Since the easiest way to cross this drainage was to climb over the crushed fuselage of the plane wreck, that's exactly what we did. "I hope there aren't still bodies inside," Liehann said.

"They probably removed them a long time ago," I shrugged.

 At the top of spur we located the plaque commemorating those who died in the crash — which, to us, meant we had climbed an unnecessary spur. We were not supposed to see the plaque; we were supposed to go around it at river level.

 Coen and Con were still up there, and the four of us descended the steep face of the spur, toward a horizon line near the bottom that had me convinced we were going to become stranded at the top of a cliff before we reached the river. Coen located a doable scramble down a tiered ledge, and we helped each other lower bikes down to river level. We forged through the current and then we climbed a ramp of rocky scree, still searching for a footpath. Coen seemed to believe one existed. But all we found were walls of reeds. We left the river to climb back up the next spur, hacking through thick brush and meeting walls of reeds that Liehann and Coen both hacked at for several minutes before declaring them impassable. We split up and fanned out in four separate directions, calling out to each other from the maze of nothing that we were inadvertently constructing. Thorny branches grabbed my tights and ripped new holes in the fabric; there were now several dozen long tears, and I was genuinely concerned that the tights would shred apart and fall off my body before we ever made it out of this valley.

"There's no way through here," I lamented. "There's really no way through."

 I almost believed it. But with everything we'd hacked through so far, there was also no way I was going to go back ... so I suppose forward was the only option. With the four of us bumbling around in increasing stages of hopelessness, it was Liehann who finally took charge and did what needed to be done, which is just bulldoze straight up the hill until he found a sneak around some slightly less impenetrable walls of vegetation up high. In hindsight, bulldozing is what needed to be done all along — tights, shirts, dangly bike parts, and tender arm and face skin be damned. We needed to just pick up the bikes and throw them over the brush if necessary. There was no footpath, no free passage through The-Valley-That-Must-Not-Be-Named. Destruction was the only way out.

We wasted well over an hour going absolutely nowhere with this first hack, and the subsequent spurs did not get much better. Each plunge into a gully was like battling through a tangle of wires — thrashing in a claustrophobic green net while dragging the bike sideways and sometimes upside down. Then we'd emerge from the stream bed and start another steep climb on loose dirt.

Coen, like me, wanted to take his time to locate the right (and nonexistent) route. We'd trace lines that almost looked like a trail and find occasional rock cairns, probably left behind by other riders reconning the route. Although he'd been through twice before, Coen's recollections of details were far from clear. He stopped at the crest of every spur and looked toward the end of the valley. "Now we must pick the right line out," he cautioned us. "Otherwise we'll spend the night in here."

Liehann seemed to believe the exit was a wall off to the left, well before the end of the valley. We were moving so slowly through the hacks that I let myself believe this as well. But as soon as we passed the point between two nipple-shaped peaks that we'd be approaching for hours, all I saw were more walls. And when I say walls, I mean a canyon slope so steep and rippled with rocky cliff bands that I would never hike out that way on my own, even without a bike. The surface was clearly loose dirt and rocks, and any fall could potentially launch a death tumble. More disconcerting was, from this angle supposedly less than two kilometers away, the walls at the end of the valley looked no less steep.

Photo by Liehann Loots

 Clouds started to close in on us. Droplets of rain fell, followed by steady drizzle. Night was coming. I didn't have the courage to look at my watch, but the darkening skies indicated something more ominous than a passing storm. We bumbled around at a final spur before Liehann finally took charge and bulldozed down through the confusion of prickly brush. While we waded through the river around and over more table-sized boulders, I watched the sky close in and thought, "We really are going to spend a night down in here." Attempting to climb any of these steep walls after dark without a clear view of the cliff bands seemed suicidal, and we didn't have many more minutes of daylight to try.

I thought about finding wind shelter near the rocks and laying out my bivy sack under brush to hold off the rain. I thought about gathering twigs to build a little fire that I'd probably just spend the whole night stoking instead of sleeping. I thought about my meager food supply and how it wouldn't be nearly enough to remain comfortable into the next day, and how I might feel colder overnight with limited calories. I wondered how Liehann would feel about survival camping, and whether he'd insist on forging out of this valley after dark despite not knowing a safe route, and what arguments I'd make to try to talk him out of this. I wondered if he'd listen to me. I did quite a bit of backpacking in my twenties, and while I knew our limited gear would make camping uncomfortable, we wouldn't die. I've also done a fair amount of mountain scrambling near and beyond my comfort limits, and I wasn't so sure about our chances if we attempted to climb out at night. I thought about all of Liehann's family — his parents, sister, girlfriend, and friend who were waiting for us at Diemersfontein. They anticipated we'd be in by 4 or 5 p.m. No one was going to be thrilled if we didn't show up at all.

Coen, Con and I gathered on the other side of the river. Liehann was already on his way up the face of the mountain — he likely had the same thoughts going through his head as I did, and knew there was no time to waste. I looked up-river at a saddle dipping into the edge of the valley — that line must be the friendly way out. It was still another kilometer or so of hacking away from us. Liehann was marching up what was clearly the tiger line — the only line we had enough time to try before darkness took over. I lifted the bike onto my back and looked up in bewilderment at the wall in front of me. "I'm not strong enough," I panicked, and the tried to quiet my fretting with the mantra that lately hasn't worked nearly as well as it used to ... "be brave, be strong."

Coen and Con were stronger, and surged ahead. I hooked my left hand around the seatpost of the bike dangling on my shoulders and used my right hand to aid the scramble. Balancing on my toes with searing pain coursing through my calves, I first tried a direct line just to keep up, but was soon forced to make zig-zags. Loose pebbles dislodged and tumbled under my feet, and I had to rush forward to avoid sliding down with them. I climbed to the bottom of a cliff band, about eight feet tall and vertical. To the left, I could see Con disappearing over the horizon, but my efforts to contour this slope had taken me much too far to the right. There was no time, there just wasn't enough time. I veered to the left where the cliff band dropped into more of a ramp, and leaned into a full scramble. I took one step, and then barely managed to lift my foot for a second. It was trying to walk with two cannonballs chained to my ankles. "This bike's not that heavy," I scolded myself. I grabbed a handhold and tried to pull myself up. Suddenly it felt like the cannonballs had hooked into my shoulder blade and were ripping muscle away from the bone. A strange sort of collapsing sensation rippled down my back, followed by moment of pure terror when I felt the unmistakable pull of gravity behind my head. I was tipping over backward.

I instinctively left go of the bike and threw a leg back to arrest the fall. My right foot touched down, collapsing the knee and tossing my body to the side. I landed hard on my right hip while the bike tumbled several feet back before coming to rest against a tree. Pain coursed through my leg. Was it broken? No, it just felt battered. Was my bike broken? Who cares? I should just leave it here. But instead I slid back down the slope and attempted to pick the bike up again. My shoulder muscles seared in pain with every attempt. Maybe I did tear something? I tried to hook the saddle over my shoulder, but this slope was far too steep to dangle either wheel out front. Pushing was a joke, impossible, but I tried this anyway, shoving the bike ahead while I dug my toes into the loose pebbles. The bike only nudged me backward and I slipped to my knees. It was true, it really was true. I wasn't strong enough for the tiger line. I was never going to make it up this mountain.

"Liehann? Liehann?" I called out. I stopped my struggle and listened for voices, but heard only the dull roar of the wind and the hiss of drizzling rain. "Liehann?!" I called out louder. "I'm stuck. Can you help me? Please?" Again, just silence.

I stood up, threw the bike on its side, and started dragging it up the mountain behind me. "Liehann! Liehann!" I screamed as loud as I could. "Please, help me." The last part came out as more of a whimper. Only the wind answered. Liehann and I been a team since the beginning. Rationally I knew he wouldn't leave me behind, but when I was feeling weak and completely vulnerable and Night Was Coming, survival instinct forced me to consider the possibility that I might be on my own. I looked back at the river. There was water there, and wood for a fire. Should I retreat now while I could still see the way down? Shivering set in. Whether rational or not, I was very frightened.

Photo by Liehann Loots

Meanwhile, Liehann was doing what needed to be done, which is charge up the tiger line with the last remnants of daylight so he could arrive at the saddle and sight the way out along the Elandspad plateau. We needed to make our way down a broad ridge into the next valley and locate a stream bed with a faint jeep track running along the slope to the right. None of this would have been easy to do in the dark, especially finding that track, and failing to locate it would mean compass-aided schwacking for eight more kilometers. Liehann crested the ridge with enough daylight to clearly see the contours of the stream bed. It was a triumphant moment for him, and well deserved, as his speed up the tiger line is a physical feat worth nothing. Afterward, he returned to help me.

He found me still only about halfway up the climb, floundering with attempts to push and drag my bike, and limping from the pain in my bruised leg. Seeing Liehann after about twenty minutes of mentally preparing for a night out alone flipped my survival mode switch off, and I went into meltdown mode. Shoring up that much fear requires releasing an emotional floodgate, and Liehann was gracious about my blubbering as he shouldered my bike and picked his way up the tiger line a second time. Even without the anchor I could barely keep up, still slipping backward on the scree and clutching boulders. I was amazed. Liehann really did well with the Stettynskloof. He deserves accolades for his performance in there.

We walked together down the plateau. Just as the last red strips of sunset were disappearing behind a purple horizon, Liehann spotted the faint white strip that proved to be a short exposed section of the overgrown track out. It was like spotting the beam of a lighthouse after being lost at sea. It was 7 p.m. We had been in the Stettynskloof for more than twelve hours, covering a distance that amounted to, at most, ten miles.

When I finally mounted my bike to ride it again for the first time in a half day, the chain skipped off the cassette and lodged firmly between the cassette and the spokes. Something was bent. It didn't look like the derailleur hanger — it was likely the rear derailleur itself. Probably from me falling backward on top of my bike, or dragging it along the rocks, or any number of the endless schwacks and brush tangles during the day. Either way, it looked like I might have a long night of running ahead of me, with only a handful of gummy bears, half a sandwich, and some biltong as fuel. I didn't care. I had survived the Stettynskloof. I would gleefully run thirty kilometers with a broken bike and no food out of gratitude that I wasn't in that valley any longer, and that, barring any unforeseen lapses in judgement, I would never have to go there again.

Liehann found a cable adjustment that kept the chain on one of the middle cassette rings, although it still clunked loudly, and I had to remember not to shift the rear derailleur. The gear I was in was a stiff one, and there was still a lot of climbing to complete before we reached Diemersfontein. I mashed the pedals but there wasn't much strength left to mash with. I was shattered. Liehann, listening to my labored gasping, was the one who suggested we walk up the track, which was laid with parallel concrete slabs to aid vehicles up the steep slope. We saw our first electric lights of the day, and cheered the return to civilization. We passed through a remote and gated community where the route out wasn't clear. Liehann saw a truck and flagged down the driver to ask for directions. As it turned out, the driver was about to close a gate in front of us. This gate would have been the ultimate barrier of Freedom Challenge gates — sturdy steel, 10 feet high, with loops of barbed wire across the top, and no way around. If we had approached that intersection just five minutes later, we would have been locked in.

After the gatekeeper let us out and locked the gate behind us, we sat down on the road for our first break since early afternoon. I nibbled on biltong and the remains of half of a smashed chicken salad sandwich. Liehann gave me a gel from his emergency food supply. I stuck it in my pocket for insurance against a bonk.

We reached a paved road where we had to climb for seven more kilometers — and 1,200 feet of gain — toward Du Toits Kloof Pass. The main freeway now bypasses this road through a long tunnel, but we still had to cross through a shorter tunnel on a narrow road traveled by drivers who were too cheap to pay the toll. The climb through the tunnel was absolutely terrifying, in the dark with only our headlights and red blinkies, listening to the roar of semis echo with deafening cadence. As trucks approached, we'd jump onto a narrow concrete berm and press our bodies and bikes against the wall of the tunnel. I agreed with Liehann that this road was far more dangerous than anything we encountered in the Stettynskloof.

Finally we reached a pass with only twelve more kilometers of descending between us and the finish — but as the final devilish icing on this cake of a last stage, it was all through a forest road maze that required constant vigilance, and lots of right turns, all the way to the edge of Diemersfontein. Even after Marnitz let us through the farm gate and directed us toward a wide circle around the farm, we still weren't entirely sure where to go. And even as we crossed a dam, and could hear the cheers of Liehann's family at a nearby manor, I was unconvinced. There was still a potential wrong turn to take somewhere, and I really didn't want to make the wrong choice now. Embarrassing.

How did it feel to finish the Freedom Challenge? I can't speak for Liehann, but I was pretty much just shellshocked and numb that night. The sensory overload of lights, sounds, and people was overwhelming, and I failed to call Beat until several hours later, which I felt bad about. Beat and been so supportive of this adventure, and I'd missed him so much during the weeks I'd been away, that it was telling of my mental state that I didn't call him right away. In all honesty, I went into the Freedom Challenge believing that our semi-civilized touring pace would make it feel like more of a vacation than other endurance races I'd completed. But this race laughed at my delusions, then chewed me up and spit me out into a bruised, battered, and grease-smeared pile after 21 days, 16 hours, and 5 minutes on this beautiful and brutal dotted line across South Africa.

As you likely gathered from my reports, I couldn't have done it without Liehann. Although it was difficult and humbling, I am grateful that he talked me into this adventure and stuck with me through it to the bitter end. Also invaluable was the guidance of those we met and rode with along the way — Steve, Di, Richard, Marnitz, Coen and Con. The Freedom Challenge participants form a wonderful and tight-knit family, and I'm grateful to have been a part of it this year. The Race Across South Africa was an incredible adventure, although one I'm not rushing to repeat. There were experiences and memories enough to last a lifetime.