Pedaling through the flaws

 On Saturday Beat ran the Coyote Ridge 50K, one of our go-to autumn trail races. I'm still at least a couple of weeks away from tip-toeing back into running, but I do feel comfortable riding a road bike for six hours, so I headed up to the Headlands to tour along the coast for the duration of the race. I was both looking forward to my first long ride in two months, and dreading it. I keep hopping on my bike expecting to feel like I felt back in May, when miles and elevation gain came easy and I didn't return from rides with a foggy brain and stiff legs. I suppose a month-long break from most activity is ultimately a positive thing, but there's just no lying to myself about this rapid decline in endurance.

 I brought the road bike specifically to avoid dirt routes, which in the Headlands are usually steep, impossible to climb without standing out of the saddle, and swept with loose gravel that can prompt jerky joint movements if not crashes. But soon after I left Muir Beach, I succumbed to temptation and veered onto Old Railroad Grade, a relatively mellow fire road up Mount Tam. The skinny tires and shiny carbon frame (because I just washed it) prompted a couple of comments from mountain bikers, both positive. Bolstered by this perceived road biking badassery, I turned onto Old Stage Road, which is rugged doubletrack with much more descending than I predicted.

 Clearly a terrible idea; the bike jolted and bucked over chunky rocks and skidded on gravel. Just to minimize risk, I considered hiking it out — but I'm still at a point in recovery that I trust my road-bike-handling skills just a little bit more than my ability to take steps without buckling my knee. Walking is the issue; I am still struggling with wobbliness. To Beat, I characterized the feeling as a rubber band that held two parts of my knee together, but then it was overstretched and won't snap back into place. Beat said that didn't sound quite right, but that's about the best way I can describe the sensation. There's definitely still support there; it's just not as tight as it used to be. So I can turn pedals all day, but weight-bearing movements feel unstable. I'm beginning to question how much of this sensation is injury, how much of this is diminished conditioning, and how much is stricken confidence that continues to feed distrust in my own motor skills. Either way, I think the answer right now is to embark on fewer fun bike rides and more boring walks with my trekking poles, until I gain some of that confidence back.

 I connected up with some fantastic paved roads — Ridgecrest Boulevard, Highway 1, and Bear Valley Road alongside Point Reyes National Seashore. I ate a banana and peach iced tea at the little shop in Inverness before turning around. Throughout the slowish ride, my legs ached and my thoughts cycled between subjects that have been heavy on my mind this week: the current state of journalism, which seems to be chasing ever-diminishing profits further into a pit of pandering and fear-mongering; and, mostly unrelated, this book project I've been working on. A couple of weeks ago I resolved that I was going to cast my reservations aside and finally finish a memoir I started back in 2011, about the 11 months I lived in Homer, Alaska. The reservations mostly fluctuate around the usual — "no one is going to read this" and "people might actually read this" — feelings that strike most people who attempt to write memoirs. But for what it's worth (and admittedly it's probably not much) I very much enjoy working in this medium. Especially when dealing with events that happened nine years ago — what remains in memory is (at least I tell myself) what matters, and it's interesting to return to my own stories as a different person, with a more objective lens. Maybe someday I will attempt to write young adult fiction, which everyone knows is where the money is in publishing. But I'd rather be among those who help formulate new ways to monetize investigative and long-form journalism — after advertisers realize that print ads only draw a fraction of the eyes they did even five years ago, and despite the reality that Web advertising is so specifically targeted that ten-second kitten videos will always draw more dollars than a well-researched piece in the New York Times, and despite the fact Web content is so ADHD that even we navel-gazing bloggers don't bother too much with "writing;" we just skim our own stuff like everyone else.

Oh, there I went off on a long, unrelated tangent again. And suddenly my bike ride is done! How about that? I was rather zoned out there for a while. I pulled back into Muir Beach and waited for Beat and Steve at the finish, watching runners coast in and feeling nostalgic for the days (they seem so long ago now) when I could run. I many ways I still don't think of myself as a runner — more of a "cyclist and hiker who runs." But I miss it fiercely. Cycling is wonderful and it will always be my "thing," but there's something special about the sensation of running along the smooth corridor the Coastal Trail while waves crash on the cliffs over Pirate's Cove. It's pure freedom. It's time to start the slow process of finding my way back.

The time it takes to heal

Every injured active person probably fantasizes about a magical moment of recovery, when they can release all of their pent-up energy into the activity they love, and have their body respond with pain-free, powerful bursts of unhindered motion. Funny how there's no way a clean line can exist between "injured" and "all fine, 100 percent, no fitness lost and no remnants of injury at all." And yet we still sit around anticipating the moment we can cross this imaginary line, and feel frustrated when instead we find ourselves mired in gray areas.

After examining my knee and warning me about some ongoing inflammation, my doctor gave me the official okay to ride my bike. Surprising no one, I took this permission slip a little far over the weekend, logging close to a hundred hilly miles over three days on the road bike, which I justified because:

a. My orthopedic knee brace allows me to all but immobilize the joint, making the side-to-side movements that aggravate the ligament almost impossible (at the expense of nearly every other part of my leg.)

b. I'd have to do something majorly wrong to crash my bike while pedaling slowly on pavement, and if I did — especially if that crash involved a vehicle — I'd have worse problems than a bum knee.

c. Biking makes me happy. Happy!!!

d. Dr. Chiu said it was okay. (Okay, he actually didn't.)

e. Any sign of trouble, and I can call Beat and have him come pick me up. Eventually. When he returns from that awesome redwood forest trail run that I wasn't able to join, and probably won't for who knows how many more weeks or months because this knee that is okay at turning pedals still sucks at walking.

f. Hills are okay but flats are bad because I can't pedal a high cadence with my brace on, and put too much pressure on the joint when I try. So I better stick to hills.

g. I'm now nearly six weeks post-injury. That's the timeline for early returns to activity in most cases of ligament sprains/minor tears.

h. Happy!!!

The knee made it through the weekend without pain, but many muscles in each leg were significantly worse for the wear, with burning, throbbing, soreness, and other complaints that I haven't heard in a long time. On Sunday I joined Liehann and Trang, who were pedaling a tandem, as we coasted out of the mountains to the ocean and then turned around to climb back out. Temperatures were pushing close to 90 degrees in the sun, which feels especially brutal in mid-October, and declines in my fitness manifested quickly. Still, I was so thrilled just to be outside and riding my bike that I had to consciously hold back not to chase my friends on flat stretches of road, and fight the urge to relieve the searing acid pain in my legs by standing out of the saddle to chase them up hills (Right now I have to sit at all times, a riding style I'm not accustomed to, and one I've learned leads to an angry butt and quads.) I was slow, out of shape, in a decent amount of non-injury-related pain ... and I was so happy!!!

Today I had an appointment with an orthopedic massage therapist who both Beat and I like to visit when we need some realigning. He's very good. He said my whole leg was something of a mess, but worked out the tightness in my hips and demonstrated several physical therapy exercises I can do at home to strengthen the ligament-supporting tissues around my knee. This afternoon I pulled out my newly acquired yoga mat and did several sets of these exercises, along with some core work — the first day of a new strength-training regimen that I promised myself I'm going to stick with, this time.

Yes, this time I'm going to stick with tedious indoor exercises in the interest of building better balance and all-around strength. Actually, I'm quite excited about it. Of course, right now I still have that magical moment of recovery — the moment I can run again — as a still-unobtainable motivator on the horizon. That's really all I want — to move through the world, as often and for as long as I'm inclined, swift and graceful and free, without fall-induced injuries. Is that too much to ask?

Still Grand, even from a limited perspective

 My plan for Fall Grand Canyon 2014 was to drive around the big ditch with my mom, who serves as the support crewperson every year, and often doesn't have any company for this thankless task. I thought it was a great plan to spend some quality one-on-one time with my mom, and still catch some glimpses of this geographical marvel from the rim. Like my Lonely Highway Drive, these trips sounded like great choices until I strung them all together, and realized I was setting myself up for A LOT of car time in the span of six days. (2,773 miles. Google Maps says it's 45 hours worth!) All of this sitting in one position aggravated my knee substantially. I'd been working daily on my range of motion, and every time I stepped out of the car, it felt like I had been set back two weeks at least. I was able to get my flexibility back after short walks, mostly, but some soreness and stiffness persisted.

 My dad hiked across the canyon with his friends Raj and Chad. Raj is an Ironman triathlete and Chad has posted a bunch of fast marathons, and I'm working to coax them toward the dark side (trail running.) The fact I needed walking sticks and a brace to walk 300 feet to overlooks probably did not help my cause.

 After we drove from the North Rim to the South Rim — a 200-mile drive to bridge a 24-mile hike — I decided to meander down the Bright Angel trail to greet my dad and friends. In my memory this trail was buttery smooth with gentle inclines, but in my current physical state it morphed to something perplexingly rocky and steep. I clickity-clacked down very slowly, making a visual note of every foot placement, and went down the rockier steps sideways. My mother was adamant that this hike was a bad idea and I admit it was a risk — any fall or fast motion against the aggravated tendon has the potential to re-injure or worsen the tear. Since I'm still fighting that feeling of instability, I can't really trust the leg to hold its own weight, so even simple walking carries this risk. Beat will be shaking his head vigorously as he reads this ... "long-term thinking!" he'll scold. But, gah, this slow walking just felt so good. On the way back up I was able to keep up with my dad by stiffening the whole leg and effectively not using the joint — climbing peg-legged, at the expense of my calf muscle. There was more soreness afterward, and I admit to some regret, but ultimately I don't believe these motions aggravated the healing process. Really, there has to be a point where I start the path back to mobility. That is never an easy or straightforward divide to bridge.

Before I headed home, my dad and I walked for an hour on the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. I was happy that my knee felt strong for that entire outing (by strong, I mean, "not feeling like it might buckle underneath me at any moment.") I do believe the healing is going well — I have no more swelling, only infrequent and low-level pain, and a full range of motion. But I do worry about that stability issue. If ligaments are torn, the instability can persist long after they're technically healed, because the ligament isn't tight enough to support the knee. I suspect my left MCL was compromised last year, and that old injury was possibly aggravated in this year's knee-shredding, which also involved enough soft-tissue damage to cause bruising. Now I likely have a compromised LCL as well, and while I can pedal a bike without issue (although not much in the way of strength), any and all weight-bearing activities still feel iffy. I plan to discuss this with my doctor at an appointment this week, although he is likely to scold me as well because he recommended I do nothing for four weeks.

I realize this is a boring blog post. I keep going back to posts from last summer to try to get a better grasp on the symptoms and recovery of what I believed to be an MCL injury, but there's nothing useful. So I'm posting now just to have some record of the recovery process, boring walks and all.

But it certainly was a beautiful fall weekend in Utah and Arizona. I'm glad I went. 

Taking the lonely way home

 Injured is a strange, somewhat hollow place to be. It's not a crisis and it's not even sad, really, but it does feel like losing a form of expression — like a painter who's been temporarily stripped of her palette of colors. I've become accustomed to expressing myself with movements through the world — I leave footprints on the trail, therefore I am alive. When I'm limited in my movements, there's a quieting in my voice. I become less of a participant and more of an observer.

After I hurt my knee, my parents assumed that I wouldn't join them for the annual trip to the Grand Canyon. I assured them that Fall Grand Canyon meant more to me than just another rim-to-rim hike — it's always been about spending time with my family, in a setting that feels more intimate and natural than the typical craziness of the holidays. So I set out for Salt Lake City on Wednesday, after rejecting reasonably priced plane tickets in favor of the long drive. Even in my own mind I couldn't quite make up justification for this, except to admit a rather ridiculous response to my injury. Like a painter holding a crude chunk of charcoal, I was curious to see what I could draw with my car.

 The goal was "no freeways" and I started sketching in Stockton, since the Bay Area is effectively a maze of freeways, and it's a little too ridiculous to try to find a way around this. The sun came up over the parched Central Valley, and I thought about an article I recently read about California communities where taps had gone dry, entire towns running out of water. On this morning there was an eerie stillness to the air that enhanced the apocalyptic progression of my daydreams. I started to feel uneasy about it all so I turned on NPR, where the news was, of course, about the tricky politics of water rights.

 Highway 88 provided a winding escape into the Sierras, where traffic dissipated almost entirely and a sudden chill pierced the air. I kept the window rolled down anyway, until my skin was pocked with goosebumps and my ears and cheeks were numb, smiling at the mountains.

 Before the 2009 Tour Divide I used to travel with a view mainly fixed forward, but now when I drive I find myself looking up, most of the time. This shift in perspective was dramatic enough that I noticed —suddenly my immediate space took on astonishing depth as the familiar foreground of storefronts and road signs faded against a dramatic background of forested slopes and jagged peaks. I'd nearly forgotten there was any point in my life when I didn't let my eyes drift upward and visualize running and climbing along the ridges that outline the sky.

 A screaming descent down the eastern slope of Sierras, followed by a short diversion through civilization via Carson City, brought me to U.S. 50 — the Loneliest Road in America.

 Ever since I traveled this way last autumn, I've wanted to ride a bike across Nevada via the Lonely Highway. With an average of only one town every hundred miles, desolate basins, a steady progression of steep passes, and not even trickles of streams from which to siphon drinking water ... it would be a difficult but beautiful tour.

 I spent an hour pondering all of the places I'd like to ride my bike when I'm strong enough to ride a bike again. Then I spent another, more anxious hour pondering how I'd cope if I couldn't ride a bike ever again. Life is, after all, unpredictable, and such abilities can be lost permanently and without warning. Even minor injuries coax contemplation on the root of passion — if passion could continue without one's chosen medium, or if it would just wither away, like cracked paint on a forgotten canvas.

 I think about buying a motorcycle and using that instead. I think I would love piloting a motorcycle, and I'd cover so much ground. But as my mind continues to wander, and I imagine crashing my motorcycle and not surviving, I don't even really care that I'm dead. I don't want to live in that world. It's not a happy thought and not even a complete one — of course I believe there's more to life than bicycling. There's more to it every day that I visit a friend or work on a book project or order the 2014 reissue of my favorite Modest Mouse album, "This is a Long Drive For Someone With Nothing to Think About." There's more to it right here, right now, amid the frozen-in-time quirkiness of Austin, Nevada. It's just that these are the kinds of thoughts that escape the filter when I'm driving the Lonely Highway.

 I listened to an NPR segment featuring an interview with Ann Druyan, who helped produce the gold record that was launched into space on Voyager in 1977. The record is the ultimate mix tape, a montage of Earth sounds, languages, music, and analog images, currently hurtling through space as a lonely but enduring record of life on this world. Druyan described the love story surrounding the creation of the record, how she became engaged to the executive director in the process, and they were married two days before she laid down to meditate and record the impulses of her brain and nervous system for eternal preservation on this record. Her husband died years ago, and it's going to be another forty thousand years before Voyager passes another planetary system. The odds that this tiny craft is ever found and decoded by some distant being in the far future are astronomical, beyond contemplation. Still, Druyan marveled at the notion that these sounds of her body in love will endure on this uranium-plated record for billions of years, long after the sun swallows Earth. As she described this, tears were rolling down my cheek, and I didn't even really know why I was crying, but it was a beautiful notion.

 Shadows grew long again. I stopped at the pullout of a dirt road to walk for a bit. I had to strap on a skin-blistering hinged brace and prop myself up with walking sticks — the joint still has that weird feeling of instability that makes me reluctant to put all of my weight on it without support. So I clickity-clacked along the flat surface and let my eyes gaze up at the distant ranges, scaling dusty slopes and sheer cliffs in my imagination.

 I crossed into Utah on U.S. Highway 6, which I remember well from a road trip when I was a junior in high school, and my friend Adam planned an intrepid Friday night adventure to the "West Desert." We swung around mountain range after mountain range until it seemed like we had reached the western edge of the world, and the sagebrush-dotted plain of the Great Basin stretched out like outer space in front of us. Rich took out a cigarette and blew hazy puffs into the air as four of us sat on the hood, watching the sun set, and my blood was coursing with so much wonder that I thought my heart might explode.

Even after thirteen and a half hours, with another day's light fading and the cold cup of coffee from Ely nearly drained, I wasn't quite ready for my trip to be over. My sister called shortly after I turned onto a small road hugging the western shoreline of Utah Lake. She told me she was coming over in a half hour, so I punched on the gas, grinning as I wheeled around the tight curves of another empty road. The lights of Provo sparkled across the indigo void of the lake, and civilization still seemed a long way away, but I knew I'd be there, soon. All things — injuries, long drives, uranium-plated gold records — must reach their conclusion, eventually. 

Winter dreams

One of my favorite moments of 2014, Cache Mountain Divide during the White Mountains 100

Being laid up with an injury isn't so bad, especially after the persistent soreness finally goes away. This end of pain seems to coincide with the end of excess energy, leading to a constant loop of directionless inner dialogue: "I feel fine. Should I try to ride a hill today? But the doctor said to do nothing for six weeks. Beat wouldn't approve and will give no sympathy if I re-tear something. Maybe I could still hike across the Grand Canyon. Then again my knee is still too weak to walk a half mile the movie theater without stiffening up. I'm finally making good progress on my book now that I'm not so distracted. Maybe I should do nothing at all. Eh, feeling lazy today anyway. Doctor's orders."

One thing that does quiet this useless mental meandering is dreaming about winter adventures. The day after I hurt my knee, when I was feeling most bummed out about the prospect of long-term injury and scratching from TDG, my friend Danni sent me a sympathetic note that concluded with the phrase, "F*** the Alps, you're an Alaska girl." I have to say, this sentiment actually made me feel a whole lot better. Thanks Danni! It also started the wheels turning on what I should do with my favorite month of the year, March.

I've landed on two ideas for Winter 2015. The first is a solo bike tour, probably about a week in length, along Alaska's western coast on the Idiatrod Trail. Unalakleet to Nome is about 250 miles and includes some of the most difficult terrain and volatile weather of the route. The nature of the region and the amount of self-sufficiency I would need to attain makes this prospect incredibly daunting, much more so than returning to the 350-mile section from Knik to McGrath. But, ultimately, nothing could prepare me better if I do decide to attempt the full-length journey to Nome in the future. The appeal of starting in Unalakleet is to take on this section when I'm fresh, to learn more about winter travel on the coast when there isn't a thousand-mile journey at stake, and to have a greater range of flexibility in my schedule. My plan would be to start the trip with all of the supplies I need, but utilize shelters and village services when available. I'd make an effort to be as self-contained as possible, starting and hopefully staying ahead of most of the ITI racers, and staying out of the way of dog sled racers. I actually don't love winter camping so much, so my plan would be to stop for only eight or so hours per day, enough to sleep and melt snow, and stay on the move the remainder of the time. It's scary but any amount of time spent out there would be an incredible experience. After all these years, this is still the kind of stuff I dream about when I close my eyes at night. The siren call of the tundra is at once irresistible and inexplicable.

My other goal completely conflicts with this one, but in my dreams I find away to make it all work out. I'd like to return to the White Mountains 100 for a fifth year, but this time race on foot. And by race, I mean I'd like to actually race it. I'd like to see how well I can perform in a hundred-mile foot race that plays to my strengths. The White Mountains 100 has no required gear, so in reasonable weather I could potentially go fairly light. As far as foot races go, the WM100 is essentially self-supported: There are no drop bags, no crews, no pacers, and aid stations every 20 miles provide only a small meal, no supplementary calories. I'd need to prepare for temperatures down to 25 below, which means keeping myself warm even if I'm sick or injured, which requires some bulkier gear. So I'd have a larger kit than a typical hundred-mile trail race, but I'd have some big positives: No heat, a nice mix of climbs and runnable descents, and a soft running surface. And no heat. Provided I put in the work to strengthen ankles, stability, etc. — not easy to do in California — and work to build some decent running endurance, I could potentially achieve one of my better performances. And it would be so much fun to try! It could also end in meltdown at mile 40 and a slow walk to the finish or a ride on the Snowmachine of Shame. But to be honest I'd rather try for a strong White Mountains 100 than simply try to finish a race I've already finished four times. That's also really the only way I can justify not biking what is possibly the most-fun hundred-mile bicycle race, anywhere, ever.

Could I attempt both? Well, ideally I'd finish my tour ten or so days before the White Mountains 100, but between a week of slow biking/walking and a taper, I'd probably zap any speediness I managed to achieve in winter training. Not that I need much in the way of real speed — this is still snow racing after all. If I focused on running through the winter with my usual bicycle cross-training (ideally with lots of weight) I think I'd be fit enough for the tour. Both are still a bit of a long shot — I have to get through the White Mountains 100 lottery first. And put a lot of planning into the tour.

Oh, and get my knee working again. I nearly forgot about that part. But it sure was fun to dream for a few minutes.

Flailing and awkward, still

From two years ago, doing things I maybe shouldn't be doing in the mountains. 

My name is Jill, and I’m an endorphinaholic. It’s been fifteen days since my last run.

 I figured I wouldn’t have much to post on my outdoors blog for a while, but I do like to record a post-mortem about race attempts, especially unsuccessful ones. The dreaded “what went wrong.” What went wrong? I fell down in an embarrassingly ungraceful way and hurt my knee. Why? Likely a number of factors — first, there’s the obvious fatigue; then lack of specific training on technical terrain; another likely candidate would be poorly developed core strength; yet another possibility might be a real and potentially unworkable problem with balance.

 It’s that last possibility that makes me feel uneasy. A friend was recently diagnosed with Ménière's disease. He and I have clung to the same exposed rock outcroppings and shared the similar rushes of vertigo at inopportune times. I’m not saying I suspect I have Ménière's or any other balance disorder. It only led me to realize that such issues can crop up well into adulthood, and that maybe it’s possible to make one’s way through life without incident until you’re somewhere on a high mountain ridge in the dark, in the rain, suddenly feeling slightly dizzy with blurred vision and not fully understanding why. It’s easy to blame these bouts of disorientation on the overdoing of things, fatigue, nutrition, bad luck … but maybe, just maybe, there’s more to it.

 This evening, Beat and I were sitting in the sauna and dreaming big about the Great Himalayan Trail. I let my imagination run wild across high plateaus and 6,000-meter passes. And then I thought, “I can’t even handle the Alps. The nice hiking trails in the Alps. The Himalaya, Jill. Really?

 In the midst of this latest trauma-based injury recovery — the disappointment about scratching from the race, the longing to go rushing up into the mountains while I was limping around Courmayeur, the withdrawals from happy exercise hormones and daily shots of fresh air, the acceptance and efforts to do productive things with my extra time — there’s be one dominant emotion: Trepidation. Trepidation that maybe this whole clumsy thing isn’t “Ha ha, I’m new to running, I get lazy with my feet, I daydream” — the maybe it’s something I can’t just easily get over. That maybe being injured because I fell, ungracefully, is going to continue to be a regular thing. That maybe “running” — as in pushing my physical limits in the way I most enjoy — on mountain terrain is simply something that I just can’t do, without higher-than-average risk at least.

 So what could I do? Embrace this as an added incentive to work on un-fun things like core strength and balance exercises? Train for something with single-minded focus, and figure out for sure? Risk that dizziness and blurred vision in a truly dangerous place? Give in, slow down, give up on the really rugged stuff? Figure this is just the endorphin withdrawals talking and do nothing differently the next time I want to go for a tough, long hike? All possibilities.

I should do something differently, though. I'm not exactly proud of my accumulating scars. And I had one rather scary tumble on an exposed section of trail when I was just day-hiking — not racing — in France, the felt like another wake-up call. But what to do?

Living in color, part three

In endurance racing and in life, few moments are more satisfying than those first glimmers of light after clawing one's way out of a dark hole. I tossed and turned quite a bit in Cogne but managed some decent rest and, more importantly, a full plate of pasta that stayed down. As I marched out of town, I passed a table set up by a local cafe, giving away shots of espresso. It was after midnight and the women had no affiliation with the Tor des Geants — just good old Italian hospitality. Have I mentioned before that I love the Aosta Valley? "This is the best thing ever," I exclaimed while hammering back a couple of shots. I took off jogging down the cobbled streets and continued running on the gravel river path, passing others who were still staggering drunkenly through the haze of our too-short sleeps.

I crossed a bridge back to the main paved road, turning off my headlight to jog beneath the ochre glow of street lamps. Bright flashes frequently filled the sky — the muted reflections of distant lightening rippling across a thin ceiling of clouds. The route seemed to be heading directly toward the electric storm, but at this point I was ready to welcome a little rain. It was after midnight and still sweltering from my point of view. Yellow TDG marker flags veered away from the street up a dirt path that shot straight up the mountain. I shrugged and commenced the marching. This was going to be my life for a little while yet.

Feeling physically okay again was perhaps both a blessing and a curse, because my attitude became a little too complacent. The march up to Rifugio Sogno felt easy, but instead of continuing toward the col and banking the time, I stopped for another half hour to drink more coffee and savor a bowl of soup. Eating was always a good thing, but I didn't need to spend quite so much time lolling around. Light sprinkles fell as I crested Fenetre di Champorcher, where the relative ease of upward marching was replaced with dread about what Beat warned me was an interminable and painful 8,000-foot descent (actually, there was still a whole lot of climbing left in this section, not to mention thirty kilometers of horizontal distance.) Dawn broke and violet light reflected on thick haze boiling up from the Aosta Valley, still far below. I often struggle with first light more than any other time of day, and sleepiness nagged at every thought. Instead of scolding myself to push forward until the feeling passed, I promised a short snooze at the next rifugio.

I walked in at sunrise, straight past the tables of food, into a quiet back room where I found a couch. I wasn't entirely sure I was supposed to be there, but I saw an empty container for blister patches that looked like one of Beat's, so I figured it was all right. I had been asleep for ten minutes when I heard a roar of laughter and people speaking in English. As I sat up and put my shoes back on, the group of four introduced themselves as two British, one New Zealander, and one South African hiking the Alta Via trail to Courmayuer.

"Oh, South Africa, I was just there in June," I said. I also happened to be wearing my Freedom Challenge buff and pullover, so I explained the mountain bike race that I participated in. As it turned out, the South African man was an old family friend of Liehann's. He knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Small world!" I exclaimed.

"You must be a real glutton for punishment," he observed, and I agreed. They invited me to join them for breakfast and I nearly sat down. Then I looked at the time on my phone and remembered this whole schedule I was trying to keep. "Argh, I really should go," I said. "But thanks." They urged me to sign the poster at the door. Nearly all of the rifugios and life bases had these posters for runners to sign, but I'd avoided them so far. I had no idea whether I could finish the Tor des Geants, and it didn't seem appropriate to put my "mark" on the 2014 race paraphernalia unless I could finish the thing. It's regretful, but I can fall into that mindset that unless you finish what you set out to do, the experience doesn't count at all. I don't even actually believe this, but the shame seeps in all the same. Still, they were urging me on so I signed the poster at Rifugio Dondena. The proprietor even insisted on draping the rifugio's logo over the poster so I'd have this memory forever.

If I could go back and do it over again, I would have joined the hikers for breakfast.

Then it was a long, long way down and up and down and up and down and down into Donnas. I remained reasonably healthy, which I hate to admit prompted feelings of surliness. I'd start to run, the motion would feel fine, but my tired mind would complain anyway: "But I don't want to run. I shouldn't have to run. Blah."

And it was a hundred degrees again, and even more humid after the night's light storms. The trail skirted around a stunning river gorge on its way down to Donnas, which at 1,000 feet elevation is really low. Donnas was the 150-kilometer mark on the map. "I can't believe I haven't even gone a hundred miles yet."

In town I stopped at a local cafe for an espresso because I had watched another TDG runner do so, and reached the life base just before 2 p.m. My pre-determined schedule had me leaving there by 5, so I decided a three-hour stay was just fine. Although in truth I hoped to be ahead of that pace at this point, it was still eight hours before the cut-off, and that seemed like a healthy enough buffer.

While taking two-hour, fitful lie-downs at the life bases — supplemented by short rifugio naps  —seemed like a good idea on paper, the reality was a little harder to stomach. I felt like hell slogging out of Donnas at 5 p.m., but I knew I just needed to let the post-nap haze pass. I also needed it to stop being so damn hot and humid, and a little less foot soreness would be great, too. In truth my feet were in great shape. I had no blisters, no hot spots, no strains; they weren't even all that swollen. But they still bothered me. This is why I can't call myself an ultrarunner. I'm far too sensitive when it comes to my feet.

Instead of following the flat, road-covered valley out of Donnas and into the next canyon, the route cut steeply up one tiered slope of vineyards and down the next, up to a castle and back down into the valley, up a root-clogged but otherwise pointless slope 300 meters up and back down, again. Alta Via lives up to its name even at the bottom of the Aosta Valley. By the time I reached the aid station in the village of Perloz, I was nearing a major low — grumpy and wondering whether I could really put up with this nonsense interminably. I gave a volunteer my sticky, dirt-smeared cup to fill with Coke and plopped down on a bench, feeling forlorn. In my peripheral vision, I noticed a large empty table on the other side of the canopy surrounded by men in traditional costume, holding brass instruments. Just as I realized this anomaly, two vans pulled up and out poured a half dozen women carrying tray after tray of food. Within minutes, the entire table was filled with homemade pizza, little sandwiches, cakes, croissants, corn patties and other variations of traditional Italian party foods. As they added more plates than I thought imaginable, the band began playing and a few bystanders joined in dancing. As far as I could tell, it was still part of the TDG aid station, but there were only three runners there at the time. It seemed as though residents of Perloz decided to turn this particular aid station into an elaborate party. I walked up to the table with my sad cup of Coke and pointed to the food. "Is this for everyone?" A trumpet player laughed and nodded, and I dove in with abandon, trying so many different unique and delicious morsels  of traditional Italian fare that I had to waddle out of there. It was worth it — a wonderful example of what makes the Tor des Geants truly one-of-a-kind.

From Perloz, the trail climbs from a very low point to a very high point, very quickly. I've actually hiked this segment before but my memory did not accurately record just how relentlessly steep this climb is, up a cobbled stone "trail" that might as well be a wall. The overcast sky and thunder had been threatening rain all afternoon, but it finally started to come down hard just after the sun set. Temperatures were still warm and I was loathe to put on my rain coat, until my clothing soaked through and I was chilled. Brilliant. The route crossed an ancient stone bridge that spanned a seemingly bottomless gorge; I couldn't help but peer over the cracked rim into the yawning darkness that tugged from below. Even after the bridge ended, the trail continued to skirt the gorge. Rain-slicked rocks were like oil and I put my poles away so I could "walk" on all fours. I continued in this position for much of the climb, even as the stones transitioned into steep, cattle-stomped fields slicked with mud. It seemed treacherous. It was just the beginning.

The cattle fields ended at about 6,000 feet and gave way to the mud-smeared rock jumble that would dominate the next thirty kilometers. I crawled up a boulder-choked headwall to sharp ridge that rose two vertical kilometers over an ocean of city lights — the edge of the Alps, towering over the cities of Milan, Torino, and the surrounding communities of the plains. Wispy clouds draped over the valley like silver curtains. Wind drove daggers of rain into my eyes as I blinked rapidly at the glittering sprawl, imagining runway shows and art galas and other fashionable events that might be taking place on this stormy night. I was soaked beneath my Gore-Tex shell, dragging wobbly legs and a sleep-deprived brain over frightening terrain, and yet I wouldn't have traded my position for any amount of luxury. You don't ever see things like this in the confines of comfort. You just don't.

I hadn't planned on stopping long at Rifugio Coda, but the deepening chill of the wind and rain, combined with the fatigue of climbing 7,000 feet up grades that would register as high as 48.9 percent, coaxed me to justify taking a nap. The small, ridge-top building was clogged with dozens of other runners who were similarly trying the escape the storm. Everything was mud-smeared and it felt nearly as wet inside as outside, but the proprietors had space available in a top bunk that was still damp from the last occupant. I greedily requested 90 minutes of sleep but was shaken from a dreamless stupor after 37. Ah well. The dining area was the size of a garden shed, strewn with piles of wet clothing and writhing with people. They gave me a small bowl of broth with star-shaped pasta and it seemed I received the last available soup for a while. There was a plate stacked with fontina cheese, and I already never wanted to eat another wedge of fontina cheese in my life, but I was grateful for the supplement.

The rain had tapered off by the time I left Rifugio Coda, and the floodlight moon was blazing through breaks in the clouds. Its filtered reflection lit up the entire mountainside. The sawtooth ridges and boulder-speckled bowls were as sharply defined as daytime, but rendered in shades of indigo. I took tentative steps along the narrow trail as I turned by headlamp off and on, trying to decide which made it easier to see. Depths were better defined in the moonlight, but the colors were too monotone to discern specific objects. My vision was flickering between blurry and clear, the way it does when I'm sleep deprived, and the way it did for many weeks after last year's PTL. This made me fearful, because deteriorating vision and boulder fields don't mix well.

The route dropped off the ridge into the first of many bowls to cross, atop piles of rocks still slick with rain. I crept down the slope, using my hands and placing every step as deliberately as I was capable, but I still made a misstep near the bottom and ended up on my butt with elbows in the mud. Not a big deal; I wasn't hurt, and falls are just part of the deal — but I had been trying so hard not to fall that this failure shattered what was left of my weak confidence. I always wonder if others feel the way I sometimes feel, like they're teetering on undulating ground that could give way at any second. Balance problems have varying degrees of intensity, and mine certainly don't rise to the level of a disorder, but I have a feeling they're more pronounced than a typical mountain athlete. I run and ride bikes because I love these motions, fiercely, but I often pay for even small mistakes with gravel burns, bruises, scars that still ache in the cold years later, muscle strains, sprained ankles, and torn ligaments. Unanticipated forces throw me off, and I don't catch myself well. I've never sustained a major injury — even though I overdo distances and durations, when it comes to speed and gravity I'm extremely cautious. Still, sometimes terrain is so threatening that even my most careful movements won't ensure my safety. I rose to my feet as two enviably sure-footed runners galloped past, and quietly wondered just how long this slippery rock-hopping would last.

I managed only a couple more minor incidents as I crawled along boulders through thick mud up and over a few more minor ridges into Lago Vargno, another remote rifugio at the edge of a high-alpine lake. I had been feeling robbed by my short nap at Rifugio Coda so I requested an hour of sleep, which I was granted, but when I emerged again the sun was up. Was it really morning already? What time was it? I had been thinking I'd reach the next life base by mid-afternoon, but that was still four passes and a whole lot of boulder crawling away. Revived by sleep and a renewed sense of urgency, I made good time past stone farmhouses and cattle herds up to Colle Marmontana. Then the trail again dropped steeply off the edge a thousand feet into a V-shaped gully. The sun was high in the sky and the storm cleared out, and I felt a renewed spark of confidence now that I was no longer navigating through the dizzying shadows of night. It didn't take long — perhaps only 200 feet down from the pass — for me to make that game-changing mistake.

While working my way down a particularly steep, muddy pitch, I stepped up onto a flat, table-sized plate of a boulder angled downward at about 45 degrees. The rock looked dry but it was anything but, and as soon as I lifted all of my weight onto my left foot, traction gave way and I skidded down the rock upright and one-legged until the foot wedged in the crack between that boulder and another rock. My momentum was such that I was still falling forward, so I instinctively swung the right side of my body around to counter the fall, wringing my left leg in the process. I can't remember feeling anything in the initial wrenching, but as soon as I went down on my butt and folded my knee, a sharp pain reverberated up and down the leg.

Initially I got up and kept walking, faster and with more abandon beneath a surge of adrenaline and anger. There was a strange instability in my left knee that I didn't notice until it folded out right from underneath me, and I fell forward in the mud with another sharp shot of pain. Finally that little voice of reason started screaming, "You need to be careful!" As I was pulling myself to my feet again, a man who had caught up from behind stopped. "Are ... you ... okay?" he said slowly, as though searching for each word. In my adrenaline surge I started talking quickly about twisting my knee and how I was a little worried there might be some damage, but it was soon apparent he didn't understand. "I am okay," I said, and pointed to my knee. "It hurts, but I can walk."

"Can ... I help ... you?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I will be fine. But I do appreciate that you stopped. Thank you."

There was an emergency bivouac in the gully. I stopped briefly for a roasted potato but could feel my knee stiffening up as I sat, so I didn't stay long. The next pass was one of the more frustrating efforts of my life. It was a full boulder crawl, one uneven block after the other, and at times I could scarcely coax the knee to bend at all. I can be overprotective of my knees and prone to limping when they're just sore, but some internal function was really trying to prevent me from using the knee, and I didn't have many choices. As I spider-crawled up a rock tumble that gained a thousand feet in 0.6 miles, a helicopter swooped into the narrow valley and hovered over something, probably someone, who was just out of sight. "That's the alternative," I thought. "The chopper."

Through the narrow notch of the pass, I got my first glimpse of Gressoney, way at the end of the valley. An Asian woman crested the pass right behind me and pointed to the village far below. "Is this Gressoney?" she asked.

"This I think is Neil, or actually Gaby," I said of the town directly below. "Gressoney is out that way."

"Do we go down now?" she asked.

I could only shake my head in shared bewilderment. "No, we have one more col to climb. Then to Neil, and then over Col Lasoney. Gressoney is still very far." To myself, I thought, "This section is impossible. It's completely impossible."

I went a little way down the rocks and then stopped to wrap my knee, which was rapidly swelling, with a bandage. I could already see purple bruising forming beneath my patella even though I had no memory of bashing the knee directly, although I did hit the mud on my latest fall. Still, even then, I wrestled between the rational voice that said, "You might have torn something. This is bad," and the louder voice that berated me, "You can still walk. This knee will come back around. It's fine." This crazy, pointless denial. Where does it come from?

There was another emergency bivouac just below Col della Vecchia. Eight or nine volunteers were crowded around a campfire in a tight circle grilling meat on a stone. There wasn't anyone manning the aid station at the time so I poured myself some Coke, grabbed a few tortilla chips and limped over to the periphery to feel sorry for myself. Unlike Perloz, this felt like a party I hadn't been invited to. Just a few minutes of sitting left the knee completely rigid again, and I gimped away slowly until I could bend it enough to continue hobbling on rocks. A lot of us look like this at this stage of the Tor des Geants. Nobody said a word.

Tears started to come even before I hit the mud, largely from a place of self-loathing. Optimism flickered in and out, but mostly I berated myself for sabotaging this experience that, although very difficult, up until this point had been more parts amazing. I knew my race was over. I wouldn't admit it to myself, but lamented that even if I could pull it together, my hobbling pace had deteriorated to a point that I might not even reach Gressoney before cut-off, despite an eight-hour buffer I held fewer than forty kilometers earlier. "If you make it in time at least go up Pinter. Pinter's easy, straightforward, steep but there aren't many rocks. Not sure what the other side's like, but if you miss the Saint Jacques cut-off, then it was not to be. At least make them drag you out of this race. Don't give up on your own."

The route dipped into a steep gorge lined with cliffs. I could hear a waterfall roaring somewhere below, and the trail itself was an absolute mess — a muddy slip-and-slide would be too kind of a term. A better description would be grease chute, sprinkled with enough sharp rocks to keep conditions treacherous. Often we had to work our way down backward while grabbing bushes as leverage. Many described this descent as the hardest on the course; for me, it was just the muddy icing on a consistently difficult traverse. Staying upright required frequent jerky movements that kept knee pain on the forefront of my thoughts. I moved extremely slowly and was passed by dozens. Around 2 p.m. I passed a trail sign that said Neil was still an hour and fifteen minutes away. "How is that possible? How is that even possible?" It had already taken me eight hours to cover what I had of a distance that only spanned fourteen kilometers.

Beat called. I sprawled with my leg straight out on a grassy patch next to the trail and explained my situation. "How long did it take you to cross Col Lasoney?" I asked him.

"About five hours," he said.

I starting doing the math out loud. "I'm probably something like two hours from Neil, that's 4, and your five hours is at least seven for me, maybe eight at this point. I have to be in Gressoney by 11. I'm never going to make it."

"Don't be stupid about this," he implored. "Col Lasoney is steep and the descent is really slippery. There's still another climb before you get to Neil. The trail gets better but not much. At least go see the medic in Neil. If they tell you you're done, then you're done."

It was raining hard again by the time I reached the village of Neil. My knee was so stiff I was walking peg-legged, and it was 4:37 p.m. — which meant I was moving twice as slow as the trail sign predicted. At first I just bypassed the aid station and sat with my legs out, head down, in the rain. A woman who was waiting for her husband saw me and came up to offer encouragement. "My knee is very stiff," I explained, so she brought me some arnica gel. "I know this trail," she said. "It will take just five hours. Six if you are very slow."

"I am too slow," I shook my head.

"You must at least try."

She was very sweet and meant well, but the conversation left me feeling even more like dirt than I felt before, so I limped over to the medic. He did not seem to speak much English but understood that I had a stiff knee, similar to most of the runners making their way into Neil at this point. He noted the swelling and bruising, and offered me a bag of ice. Great. Although I hoped for miracles and didn't expect much, this somehow seemed worse than nothing. More blind encouragement rather than help. There was another runner who had wrapped bandages around ice on both knees, and the medic was stuffing his pockets with six more bags to carry up Col Lasoney. I could only shake my head in bewilderment.

"This is nuts," I thought. "It's just nuts."

I understood that quitting the Tor des Geants was going to leave a wake of disappointment and regrets. I understood that priorities shift and I might never have another chance. But I also was ready to acknowledge that I didn't have a choice.

190 kilometers, and all I got was this knee injury. But those are the breaks.

A week later I was back in California and went to see my doctor, who is also a sports physician. After thirty minutes of prodding and torturous tests he diagnosed the injury as a partial, grade-two tear to the lateral collateral ligament, near where it attaches to the fibula. Recovery time for such an injury is six to eight weeks. Since surgery seemed unlikely and rest is the only treatment, my doctor didn't think it necessary to get an MRI to confirm unless I make no improvements in the next three weeks. So the diagnosis isn't certain, but if an LCL tear is the case — and right now I'm operating under the assumption that it is — than this will be the longest I've had to stay "off" cardiovascular exercise since 2007. I have to cancel, yet again, my annual rim-to-rim hike across the Grand Canyon with my Dad. All this, while remaining deeply disappointed about the outcome of the TDG.

Those are the breaks. I recognize that it could be so much worse. I could have made a poor decision and turned a partial tear into a full tear, or something else that requires surgery and months of recovery. And at least I was able to go as far as I did, and experience what I did. Sometimes we paint in red and create something intensely beautiful. Other times, the result is harsh, even painful. But either way, the experience is memorable, and the lessons indissoluble.