Banff doesn't change

Six years ago, when I rolled into Banff three days before the start of the Tour Divide, I connected with two trail-angel types, Keith and Leslie. Although we were strangers at the time, they invited me into their home, fed me dinner, and then whisked me away on all the grand tours we could possibly squeeze into what amounted to a 48-hour period. Within about twenty minutes of my arrival, Keith drove me to an overlook where I believe Parks Canada filmed that infuriating earworm cute "Sheep and Goat" video. He stretched his arm toward the kingdom, complete with a massive castle they call the Banff Springs Hotel, and characterized Banff as "paradise in a bubble." Regulations from the National Park and other policies strive to ensure this little village nestled in the Canadian Rockies never changes. 

We've since become good friends, and we have a number of adventures behind us. For this reason, and also because Beat and Liehann just happened to be flying out on Friday night, I purchased a ticket to Calgary one week ahead of the Tour Divide start. I thought this would give me plenty of time for relaxing, visiting and meeting folks, tying up loose-end work, prepping my bike, and a couple of pre-race adventures, in that order. My flight out of SFO turned out to be something of a debacle. I've had relatively good luck with air travel and didn't see it coming, but Beat is cynical enough that he noticed a discrepancy on my ticket and prepped me for battle (it's one of those long boring air travel stories, but in a nutshell, I purchased an Air Canada ticket online that was actually handled by United, which has terrible bike policies and refused to put my bike on the plane even for their ridiculous $200 fee.) Well, it was a hiccup, but I made it here with a good amount of time to spare.

True to precedent, I awoke in this stunning paradise and was quickly whisked away on "low-key" adventures that have already involved 30 (!) miles of not-easy hiking, along with a couple of test spins on my bike. 

One aspect of Banff that has been stunningly different this year is the weather. Snowline is considerably higher than it was in 2009, and it's been well above 80 degrees and sunny the entire time I've been here so far. I know that can change in a heartbeat and I should be grateful for any time I spend near the Continental Divide not shivering or wallowing in mud. But even California-acclimated, I'm roasting up here at this altitude, and sunburned my forehead despite best efforts not to do so. Also, four years in California hasn't made me immune to northern summer mania, where getting out on a nice day feels paramount to rest and food and oxygen. 

My first day in town, I followed Leslie on an 11-mile jaunt up and around Sulphur Mountain. She just returned from hiking 600+ miles of the Pacific Crest Trail in California, and her hiking pace is fierce. Most of my training this spring has been either cycling or trail running, and Leslie's version of hiking feels harder than both. (Truly! It's not just taper anxiety phantom weakness, I swear.) I was a wheezy mess above 6,000 feet and fought to keep up, because I did not want to miss these views. 

My friend and home-based bike mechanic Dave put my bike together for me, tuning it up to near-perfection (or the best I can get for a three-year-old bike with many miles and some neglect.) I took it out for an easy spin on the first ten miles of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, then back. Out of the gate, the route follows a nice gravel bike path along the Spray River. There were more rolling climbs and descents along this path than I remembered, and I actually had a little freak-out about this ("I thought this first section was flat. It's hard!") Then I laughed at myself, because it's not actually that hard. I'm just truly going into panic mode at this point, and fighting it with every ounce of distraction I can find. 

Distractions, unfortunately, come with a bit of a price. In the evening, Keith and Leslie told me we were going out for a "stroll through town" to get ice cream, which was a trick because this "stroll" included a thousand-foot ascent of Tunnel Mountain. 

Okay, it's true, I would have gone anyway. The views are pretty fantastic at 9:30 p.m., which is still before sunset at this latitude. Downtown is full of fun people-watching, and I haven't even run into any obvious Tour Divide cyclists yet. 

The next morning, Leslie was going hiking at Lake Louise. It was again 80+ degrees and clear, so how could I resist? I asked her if she was going for a "long hike" and she said, "no, just a short one." Leslie's version of short is 13 miles with 4,200 feet of climbing that includes a dash of late-spring snow slogging. Just in case you were wondering.

But wow, Lake Louise. I'm not sure you could ask for a better bang for your mileage. It was worth it.

Climbing the Beehive.

Plain of the Six Glaciers. The trail climbs to the end of a valley, where we stopped and had lunch while listening to the thunder-booms of distant avalanches, and eyed overhanging seracs for evidence of calving.

PB&J bagel with a view.

Up there is the Continental Divide. Sadly, not part of any mountain bike route.

After we returned from the Plain of the Six Glaciers, we visited the Valley of the Ten Peaks. This place is unreal. It often feels like standing on a movie set in front of a massive blue screen — it just doesn't look like a landscape that actually exists. The scenery also doesn't translate well in photos taken under mid-day light. You should visit ... before it melts.

I'm working up a blog post on info for this year's Tour Divide, which will remain at the top of this site while I'm away. It looks like there will be well over a hundred cyclists lining up at the start on Friday morning, and between 10 and 15 women. I'm becoming more nervous as the memories come flooding back, but mostly I'm excited. It's going to be a completely different experience, of that much I'm certain. 

Letting go

It was the second to last climb of our long ride, a grunty 2,000-foot ascent with occasional 19-percent grades and a funny Strava segment, the "Pomponio Climbo." I never race it, but I usually feel faintly shattered, with invisible lead weights pulling on my calves and a sharp pain in my shoulders. Not this day, though. This day, like the rest of the day had been after a somewhat ragged 90-minute warmup, was just pleasant spinning. Late-afternoon light saturated the golden hillsides, the familiar half moon hovered over rock outcroppings, and that intoxicating sensation vibrated through my body — the one that flutters behind my eyeballs, slows my heart to a seeming murmur, and tells me to keep going, don't stop. Here, inside this tunnel of motion, it tells me, is peace.

As we reached the top of Alpine Road, I hinted at extending the ride over Russian Ridge or perhaps Indian Creek. But by the time we descended into Stevens Canyon, the guys could smell the barn at the end of 80 miles, and raced up Bella Vista away from me. I couldn't catch them in time to make my case. "That extra 10 percent effort costs too much," I explained. "But actually I feel really good. At this pace, I could keep going for another 80 miles." I can't always say that at the end of this route, and took this as personal confirmation that my "Forever Pace" fitness is in top form. "Then again," I thought as the urge toward motion continued to pull at my heart, "that's often the only element that differentiates our ability to keep going, and the need to stop. Desire."

It was our last long ride of this particular training season. This Friday, the guys leave for South Africa to ride the Freedom Challenge, and I will fly to Calgary to meet my wonderful friends Keith and Leslie. After a long spring of looking for someone or something to tell me no, I finally arrived at the conclusion, "Why not?" So on Friday, June 12, I plan to line up with the hundred-plus others at the Spray River trailhead in Banff, and start the 2015 Tour Divide.

For those who didn't follow my blog back then, the Tour Divide is a 2,700-mile, self-supported bike race from Banff, Alberta, to the U.S. border with Mexico in Antelope Wells, New Mexico on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. I rode it in 2009, in 24 days and 7 hours, and wrote a book about the experience, "Be Brave, Be Strong."

Why, after six years, would I return to such a time-intensive endeavor? The years have their way of both softening and sharpening memories. A lot of experiences happened and a lot about my life changed since 2009, but the Divide is a place I find myself going back to frequently — a place of fierce beauty, discovery, and moments of crushing weakness that pushed me into murky depths of my mind, only to discover strength I never knew I possessed. Also, the second half of the Divide was a place where I was truly alone, and no one was coming to help me, and I had to work through each struggle on my own. In sifting through these memories, I realized it's been a while — six years, perhaps — since I've experienced anything quite like that. A challenge where I had to think ahead in days. Where I made all of my own decisions. Where the parameters weren't rigid, but entirely of my own making. Where the only reason not to quit was my own stubborn desire. What if I could go back to that place? Would I rediscover deeply buried pieces of myself? What would seem different? What would look the same?

What I'm seeking is the edge of the galaxy — the sort of self-transcendence that results in intense and satisfying engagements with both inner and outer landscapes. Endurance racing fosters these experiences, by setting parameters beyond what I believe to be possible, forcing me to break through my own perceived limitations. Much has changed in six years, and to reach that far edge, I'm going to have to push these parameters little bit farther. My goal is to ride the route in 20 days. To do this, I'll need to cover between 130 and 140 miles per day. At my Forever Pace, that's likely to require 15 to 16 hours a day of moving time — meaning sitting in the saddle and turning pedals. Stopping to stretch my back, eating a snack, collecting water from a stream, chatting with locals — every moment of stopped time must be subtracted from the eight hours that remain. Sleep will have to be rationed, and often caught in naps inside my bivy sack. It's ambitious, and I don't know if I have it in me. The ability or the desire. But I won't know unless I try.

I still remember how hard it was in 2009. Time hasn't softened those memories. When my body feels spent and my mind is tangled in a whirlwind of emotions, I often find solace in repetitive mantras. In these moments, there's often nothing left of me but a scared little girl who has long been hidden away behind years of experience and convictions, only to be exposed when the walls are torn away in the storm. She's terrified to move forward, and I can feel the storm about to consume her, so I often start chanting, out loud, and it helps. During my first journey on the Iditarod Trail in 2008, this chant was "I'm scared, but I'm okay," sung as a lyric in "Going, Going, Gone" by the Stars. In the 2009 Tour Divide, it was "Be Brave, Be Strong" — a mantra that followed me for years afterward. During the Freedom Challenge in 2014, I'd repeat "Every day is a gift," when I felt frustrated or stressed. Although the 2015 Tour Divide has not yet started, this is the mantra I already have in mind:

Let go. Let go of your lonely thoughts. Let go of your hangry grumbling. Let go of your anger about the peanut butter mud. Let go of your angst about walking at two miles per hour through miles of snow. Let go of your fear of that big black cloud hanging over the mountain. Let go of your attachments to unnecessary comforts. Let go of your unwanted aches and complaints. Just let go.

I can't wait to get going. 

We all try harder as the days run out

For days the Santa Cruz Mountains were enveloped in a freight train of fog, as apparently thirsty inland winds sucked moisture from the coast. I climbed into it each afternoon, Tuesday through Saturday, in a two-dimensional world where I had to squint to discern the blurry silhouettes of trees from flickering clouds. There was no context or familiarity; vertigo pulled at me as I descended through gray tunnels. I would shiver, even with a puffy coat and mittens, which was such a treat here in California in late May. The cold makes me feel alive.

I had this goal to put some hurt in the legs. Seven moderate to long days, with at least 3,000 feet of climbing each day, on up to 9,000. I felt so strong on Wednesday, chopping a minute off my PR of the mile-long, 800-foot ascent of Indian Creek trail, without even breathing hard. On Thursday I attacked Redwood Gulch on my road bike and imploded in spectacular fashion, heart beating 195 while snot and tears streamed down my neck. Near the end of this mile-long, 800-foot ascent, the fog hit my searing lungs like water on a skillet. "I have no top end, no top end at all," I thought with a smirk. I knew that single mile was going be the only reason my legs hurt at all the next day. Friday had 5,000 feet of climbing, but I took it at a more reasonable effort, and was fully recovered for Saturday's 13-mile run.

As Beat and I ascended Black Mountain into a white ceiling, I listened to the new Sufjan Stevens and Lord Huron albums and imagined I was doing something relaxing, like laying in the sauna. Cold wind licked at my clammy skin and I settled into a soothing rhythm, a place of deep breaths and dreaming about riding a motorcycle across Africa (which is what I frequently imagine when I listen to Lord Huron.) I was happily sedate, and yet I was running up a mountain. "Resting in motion," I thought. "This is resting in motion." I wondered how effectively I'd be able to employ this meditative technique when motion really became difficult. The wind-driven clouds roared past, enveloping me in their paradoxical calm.

Sunday morning we were up bright and early to drive to Oakhurst for an overnight bikepacking trip that I planned. Oakhurst is a town near Fresno, in the foothills of the Western Sierras, which I effectively chose at random. I found a vague recommendation for a touring loop, and drew a GPS track over unknown squiggles on Google Maps. I had no idea how difficult this route would be, whether it would be scenic or bland, and what the percentage of pavement to jeep road to faint forest track might be. Most people would probably do more research for weekend tour where they were effectively guiding their friends through a new place, but that is not necessarily my modus operandi. I prefer a little ignorance in my explorations, with all of the surprises and disappointments.

 I warned Beat and Liehann that I knew nothing about this route beyond some interesting topographic lines on the map and the fact it was just south of Yosemite, and hoped they didn't set their expectations too high. The initial climb was a tedious grunt, climbing 5,000 feet in 18 miles into a gray pall of storm clouds that looked lightly threatening. Air is thin at 7,500 feet for sea-level-dwellers. Still, I felt peaceful and relaxed, refusing to hurry up the hill while I rested in motion. The guys seemed to interpret this as crawling, and based on their demeanors, I was worried they were going turn around and race back to low-elevation sunshine. Slowly, the paved road began to break apart and wind its way out of the dense forest, to more open views of granite domes and jagged spires. The Sierras.

 For lunch we went for a short hike to better views on a granite ridge. The guys carried their bikes part-way for Freedom Challenge training. The wind up here was almost winter-like in its briskness, and we huddled against boulders to eat lunch.

 After riding chunky dirt, climbing some more, descending a whole bunch, and collecting many liters of water from a stream, we climbed after dark to camp on a sandy knoll where we hoped the views would be nice in the morning. I was trying out my new Outdoor Research Helium bivy for the first time, as well as a new pair of nylon three-quarter running tights (I found the bivy cozy and slept well, better than I usually do when bikepacking, actually. I also decided I prefer no chamois during longer rides, and did not miss the wet diaper feel and occasional pinching on sensitive parts.) We used up four liters of water (which Beat carried) making multiple hot chocolates and dinner. Liehann raved about his Mountain House lasagna, declaring it as delicious as anything he could eat at home.

 "I challenge you to try one of these meals at home, and tell me what you think about it then," I teased him. Then we all told stories of the most amazing meals we'd ever experienced, which all shared the theme of mediocre food eaten after a long, difficult effort. The sky had cleared to a palette of stars. A thin film of flowing mist, illuminated faintly by moonlight, made the stars appear to wobble. It was strange to watch stars dance about. I imagined fiery orbs rocketing through outer space as planets spun around them. Rest is the illusion; everything is always in motion.

 Day two was a coaster of a day with mild climbs and lots of descending. We wove through a maze of forest roads in varying states of erosion, with almost no traffic on Memorial Day (a few motorcycles close to campgrounds.) Ah, relaxation. The guys seemed to enjoy this day's set of squiggly lines much better than the first, as I'd luckily chosen more dirt and more rugged terrain.

The scenery was not too bad either, even as we descended down, down toward the furnace of the Central Valley, where it was somehow, inexplicably, 90 degrees. (I'd almost convinced myself that we were having February in May, to match the May we had in February.) I thoroughly enjoyed the trip, but felt like I had failed in my goal to exact some punishment in my legs during this bulky training week. Still, when I think about my preferred state of fitness, relaxation and contentedness are better indicators than soreness and suffering. Isn't this how I'd want to feel, if I wanted to be nearly always in motion?

Week's totals: 227 miles ride, 13 miles run, 33,200 feet climbing

Week in motion

Some weeks seem locked in continuous motion, so much so that I feel the need to go out for a quiet run by myself, just to be still. As I drove through the freeway sprawl of Orange County after a day of mountain biking with Keith and Amber and then working at the Starbucks in Big Bear Lake, I thought about how much of my life I invest in movement. In 2014, I spent upwards of four months away from home. This year, the final tally may be more. Strava has already tracked 15 days' worth of self-propelled motion in the past 4.5 months, and the time investment of movements I don't track — flights and long-distance drives — adds up as well. What is it about movement I so value? I thought about this as I drove up and down the quiet streets of Laguna Niguel, ignoring a confused GPS and trawling the entrances of gated communities to find the one where my sister, brother-in-law, and new niece are house-sitting for an indefinite period of time.

Gated communities are a bewildering concept for me. I understand the desire for security, but I feel locked inside when visiting such places. I find myself wandering the maze of a spacious home and wishing there was a 7-Eleven nearby that I could just walk to, and sit on a curb while sipping a Big Gulp and watching the world go by. You don't really see people outside their homes in gated communities, and everything feels far away.

The purpose of the visit was to meet my niece, now 8 weeks old. She's a cutie, with a big-eyed stare and an occasionally bewildered expression that makes me feel envious — "This is completely new to her. She still has everything to discover."

My parents were in town as well, and I was able to go for a couple of hikes with my dad. I don't think either of us expected to find anything terribly interesting in Southern California, at least within a half-hour drive from Laguna Niguel. Dad found a trail idea on Yelp, Black Star Canyon. I looked up a route on Strava and got the impression that this was going to be a painfully easy road walk, winding up a gentle hillside to the top of a ridge. This was a good thing, as I was in taper mode before the Ohlone 50K, and anyway this was a good way to spend time with my dad (in the spacious house, we all tended to retreat to personal spaces, which is something else I don't like about big homes even though I'm an equal offender.)

The first mile after the gate was a flat paved road. I felt bad, like it was my fault that coastal California was a boring place for my Wasatch-Mountain-trekking father. We wound our way along a fireroad to a weathered post where someone had scratched "waterfall" with some arrows in the wood. So we followed them, dropping into a stream bed that was teeming with poison oak. I pointed out the identifying characteristics of the plant to Dad, and within ten minutes he was more attune to its presence than me. As the canyon narrowed we picked our way over and around increasingly larger boulders, until we were fully scrambling up stone walls. I came to one maneuver where I couldn't quite lift my foot into the only available foothold ($%!* tight hamstrings), and Dad grabbed me underneath my arms and pulled me onto the ledge. It instantly brought back a memory of being 17 years old and hiking with Dad along the knife ridge of the Pfeifferhorn, where he similarly boosted me onto a narrow ledge beside dizzying exposure. I was never afraid of the mountains back then; I always felt safe when I was with Dad. I still feel that way, at 35 years old, with two more decades of fearfulness and scary experiences in my memories.

At the end of the boulder-choked box canyon we reached the waterfall, which was dry (this is California.) The following day, we did a much more mellow five miles to a robber cave, where we ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches as rain poured down outside the sandstone cove.

I'd hoped to spend more time with my sister, who was understandably preoccupied, but I'm hoping we'll have another chance to visit before spring comes around again. I had to leave Friday morning for weekend plans at home. Traffic was demoralizing, from the parking lot of Los Angeles to the aggressive, bumper-to-bumper peloton of I-5. Driving in California makes me want to stab sharp objects into my legs, which is why I don't actually do all that much traveling close to home. But I persevered through the road rage and made it home just in time to join Beat and Liehann on our weekly training ride up the Black Mountain and Indian Creek climbs. By late evening our friend Roger arrived. Roger was visiting from Australia for a Hoka One One sales meeting and the Ohlone 50K, and planned to spend the whole weekend with us.

We found out late Friday afternoon that our race had been cancelled, supposedly because it had rained on Thursday night and the access roads were wet. There were also reports that lightning struck near the finish staging area and the power was out at the picnic area. Either way, a little rain on extremely dry fire roads, three fair-weather days before the race, seemed a strange reason for the park administration to cancel one of the Bay Area's longest-standing trail races. We were all disappointed, but promised Roger we'd show him a good time anyway. On Saturday we put him on Snoots for a five-hour ride up and down several steep hills. On a fat bike. For a guy who's mainly a runner. Because we're awesome friends like that.

Since Roger came here for a 50K, we schemed our own 50K, joining friends Steve and Ken for an all-day outing in Henry Coe State Park. Ken designed the route, and although I don't know Ken well, I do know he likes technical terrain and he's a fast runner, so I should have known better than to agree to what turned out to be an ambitious loop. My running has been limited lately, and although my base is good I'm a fit enough to put in long miles, I feel out of practice and a sense of imbalance has returned. Ken's route connected pieces of singletrack that were sometimes so faint it was difficult to discern the route from anything else, although bushwhacking across grassy hillsides and thorny manzanita groves was fundamentally no different than following the "trail." Roger took a series of photos that sum up this excursion well:

Navigation huddle.

"Running" on the "trail."

Picking burrs out of our shoes and socks. Roger had to leave his pair of shoes with us in California, because he was never going to extract enough of the plant material to get them through customs in Australia.

I rolled my ankle on a clump of grass around mile nine. The joint didn't swell, but it became increasingly more sore, and my footfalls felt even more unstable then before. By mile sixteen I was concerned about the risks I was taking with my summer cycling ambitions by continuing to attempt to run on this terrain, and also feeling guilty about the slowness of the hiking I was mostly doing. We let Ken and Steve continue on their epic, while Roger, Beat, and I made our way back to headquarters on an extremely steep, rolling fireroad. Compared to the more gentle grades of the "trails," most of the fireroads in Coe are gut-busters. Boring, too, when you consider that you're a person on foot and could be out blazing your own adventure through, as Roger calls it, "The evil poisony oakses." (Roger, like my Dad, also learned what poison oak was this week and became an expert at identifying it. "We don't have stuff like this in Australia," he said. To which I replied, "Yeah, but don't you have all those bad snakes and spiders and pretty much everything out there is trying to kill you?" "I'll take the sharks over this," he said.)

"I actually like fireroads," I thought. "Room to breathe. Room to move." We wrapped up 22 miles, which feels so much longer and harder in a place like Coe. But since it wasn't the Ohlone 50K, I think we all left feeling vaguely unsatisfied, quietly scheming our next chance for motion. 

So this is SoCal

On Friday afternoon, I got in my car and headed south for more than seven hours — through the traffic-clogged corridor of the South Bay, into the dusty fields of the Central Valley, over parched hillsides north of Los Angeles, and through the palm tree boulevards of Pasadena. Darkness set in, and my route climbed up and up this narrow highway called "Rim of the World." A thick fog enveloped the sky, ice slicked the road, and suddenly there were several inches of new snow draped over granite boulders and pine trees. Huh? What is this place?

 My friends from the Canadian Rockies — Keith and Leslie — have been in the state for several weeks. Leslie has been hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and Keith has been vagabonding around southern California, vaguely training for a summer tour on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. His friend Amber was flying out from Montana this weekend, and Keith invited me to join them for a SoCal bikecation. The timing was good, as I'd been meaning to make a trip to Orange County to visit my sister and her baby daughter, my new niece.

"Sure," I said. I wanted to visit Keith, and I like to ride bikes. I proposed Idyllwild, as that's the only place in Southern California with which I have any trail familiarity. Plans shifted when a friend of Keith's offered up his cabin on Big Bear Lake. The resort town in the San Bernardino Mountains is stone's throw from Los Angeles. And 6,800 feet higher.

The snow fell fast and fierce on Friday. But in true Southern California fashion, it had mostly melted by Saturday, giving way to a beautiful, sunny, hero dirt day. This would be the beginning of a bike (and running!) binge weekend that left me gasping for air and reduced me to a wheezy, congested mess in three days — but with a newfound appreciation for this island of quietness surrounded by ten million people.

 We rode some singletrack and climbed to the top of Grey's Peak, at about 8,000 feet elevation. The pace remained mellow, and we took long breaks to take in the scenery and have multiple lunches.

 Amber went over the bars and was grateful for patches of snow to ice her knee.

 Although biking has been my main training focus, I do have the Ohlone 50K on Sunday, and didn't want two weeks of single-digit mileage leading up to the race. So on top of the day rides, I put in evening trail runs. This was a ten-miler up to Grandview Point and back. The altitude was annihilating; for a route that only gains 1,200 feet in five miles, I felt like I was ascending a steep mountain in the Alps. Trying to inject more oxygen in my blood only left my throat raw and my lips parched. By the next day, I'd have a cold, heavy congestion, and a sore throat. Thanks, SoCal.

 On Sunday we connected with a small group ride from Bear Valley Bikes. When the only other people to show up turned out to be three talented racer types, I got a little panicked (those social anxieties and inferiority issues run deep when they're directly connected to my passions.) But they turned out to be genuinely nice folks who were stoked to show three tourists around their local trails, and rode alongside chatting amicably rather than racing ahead and waiting impatiently at all the intersections. We followed them through miles of snow and mud, and then afterward the shop's owner, Derek, invited us over to his place and cooked buffalo tacos with fresh guacamole. Awesome folks. Give them your business if you're ever in Big Bear Lake.

 The Skyline Trail — it's okay I guess.

 Sunday night, I headed out for another run. I was really breathing poorly at this point, and aimed for a lower section of the Pacific Crest Trail to avoid long climbs. This is height of hiker season around Big Bear Lake, and I saw a dozen thru-hikers on my eight-mile jaunt out and back. They were all just babies — fresh-faced kids just out of college if not high school. I suppose that makes sense. Not many 30-somethings are in a place in their lives to take off and go hiking for five months. I like to imagine thru-hiking a long-distance trail as something I'll do when I'm in my 60s or 70s. I'd love to be a solo old lady with unruly gray hair and a trucker cap, chiseled calves and my trusty trekking poles, and maybe a huge pair of pink Hokas if those are still a thing. Dare to dream.

 On Monday the three of us all set out to do our own thing. I wanted to get a long ride in, but I was really feeling rough at this point, with my congestion, the altitude, and maybe just a touch of overdoing it. Amber was joining the bike shop racers for an epic, but my social anxieties got the better of me and I declared myself not fit to chase them all day. Instead, I drew out a rough loop on a map, and hoped it would take me somewhere neat and maybe not too punishing.

My loop featured a spur up to Butler Peak, which I included because it was a high point on the map (8,500 feet.) As it turned out, the track was fenced off and there was this fantastic fire lookout at the top. It just sat there, perched precariously on a boulder, looking as though a single dislodged pebble could send it tumbling 200 feet down the rocky face. 

 Fire lookout view to the southeast.

 Fire lookout view to the northeast. The wind was ripping up here and it was, like all of the spots I visited in Southern California so far, not warm. I ate a quick lunch and scrambled down the rocks to my bike.

 The rest of my route was tough, sandy, and disconcertingly lonely. I wheezed my way up and down and up and down a long ridge of steep rollers, before descending down, down, down into Green Valley Lake. The entire community seemed comprised of second homes, and there was absolutely no one around on this early season Monday afternoon. There weren't any vehicles parked outside homes, no dogs barking, no signs of life. It had a post-apocalyptic feel that didn't improve as I turned onto another steep, rolling climb back into the mountains, churning up a sandy jeep road and seeing not a single other human for hours. Somewhere not far away live ten million people, and this whole place was eerily empty.

The loop ended up registering 54 miles with 6,700 feet of climbing, but admittedly was tougher for me than the stats would indicate. I am going to go ahead and blame altitude, and hope a return to oxygenated air and recovery from my cold leaves me in better shape for the Ohlone 50K on Sunday. Of course I still got out for a quick spin up Pine Knot trail with Keith and Amber before taking off on Tuesday. Because this is what you do in SoCal — you ride bikes in the cold wind and snowy mud until your lungs hurt, and then you ride some more! 

Bikepacking gear considerations

Here I am near Island Park, Idaho, during the 2009 Tour Divide. I laugh when I see photos of the junk show I hauled around back then. Of course, I laugh at all photos I see of all of my gear set-ups, including my most recent winter tour in Alaska, which was less than two months ago. But this photo has some gems. The aero bars (never used them.) The LED headlight that was connected to a battery pack with eight AAs. Pedal cages. The cheap rain gear that I purchased in a panic in Banff, because until two days before the start, I thought I could get away with a thin softshell pullover. I probably had more than 15 pounds in that backpack alone, as I tended to hoard food and water. I had a 24-ounce aluminum water bottle that I filled every morning, threw in the pack next to my three-liter bladder, hauled around all day, then dumped all the water out and re-filled it in the morning. I don't recall ever actually drinking from that bottle. It was my water insurance policy. Oh, I had an 11-ounce filter as well, and it rained nearly every day of the trip. Although there are lots of ways in which I could still go lighter with bikepacking gear, my top goal is to not be quite as water-obsessed as I was back then. 

Mulling a limited list of gear, knowing I will have to live intimately with my choices for one to four weeks, is always a difficult chore. Some people are perfectly content with ripped T-shirts and sleeping in the dirt. I envy these people. They have an ability to go light without an ultralight mentality, which I admittedly lack. (The reason I continued to use my ancient and heavy Thermarest after Cady scratched up the newer one — because it worked. Most gear does work. Why fuss over it?) Luckily, Beat is gear-savvy and does the research, and because of this I still find my way to superior items that actually meet my needs. Otherwise, there's a strong chance that I'd be standing here in 2015 with a rusty 2008 Karate Monkey and a lot of other stuff I'd been forcing through the motions for six-plus years. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) 

My current bike is a Moots Mooto-X YBB 29" titanium softtail. I've been riding it long distances for three years now, and would be perfectly happy to still be riding this frame in 2020 if the fates allow. I love this bike. I'd still say the same about my Karate Monkey, though.

I use bags from Revelate Designs. I was lucky to get a custom frame bag for my Moots before Eric stopped making them. He always includes a few modifications to make them extra "Jill-proof," because I am notoriously hard on my gear. Revelate gear is durable and light. The frame bag is still holding up well after three years of near-continuous use. Can't ask for better than that. My packing habits are basic — sleeping gear in the handlebar bag, clothing and spare tube(s) in the seatpost bag, food in the frame bag, repair items and tools in a small top-tube bag, and water and small items in a backpack. 

Here are a few other items I'm currently considering. (Decisions are still being made in regard to all of this:)

Sleep system:

Mountain Hardwear Phantom 32 sleeping bag— This is the same bag I used in the 2009 Tour Divide, and on many summer camping trips since. It still feels perfectly comfortable in temperatures in the 30s, and I don't have a compelling reason to upgrade.

Outdoor Research Helium Bivy — Something I just ordered, but am pretty sold on. This bivy sack received good reviews for its waterproof/breathable capabilities. It also has the single pole that could vastly increase quality of sleep. I need something I can just throw on the ground and crawl into when I am exhausted, without fussing with a bunch of guylines and stakes (This pretty much applies to every camping trip I go on, not just multiday races.)

Thermarest NeoAir sleeping pad — Finally broke down and got one of these. I've been using some old-generation Thermarest for too many years now (think 2006 or 2007. I actually used a newer one during the 2009 Tour Divide, but my cat destroyed that pad.) The NeoAir is considerably more comfortable and warmer than my old inflatable pad, and quite a bit lighter. I suppose that's not a surprise.

Clothing:

Patagonia Capilene 2 Zip Neck — This shirt has become my go-to top/base layer for just about every long event I've completed in the past three years. It wicks moisture well, and the fabric dries very fast. It has good thermal capacity for cold, but it's also highly breathable, so it's reasonably comfortable in hot weather as well. The zip neck is good for venting, and long sleeves provide the kind of sun protection that I require. Although I'd like to go with short sleeves, my skin seems to absorb light in a way that leaves me feeling fried at the end of the day no matter how much sunscreen I apply. Over the years, I've learned I'm better off covering myself with clothing, and trying to vent heat as best as I can.

Pearl Izumi Aurora Splice 3/4 tights — Although I am as yet undecided, I am considering going chamois free for the long ride. It's a difficult decision, because while I like a bit of padding for my backside, I've learned I cannot wear a dirty or wet chamois for long periods of time without consequences that range from unpleasant to full-blown rash/infection. These consequences have nothing to do with my backside, which can actually weather the saddle spanking okay. I rarely have issues with chaffing, and I've never had a real saddle sore (at least what the Internet defines as a saddle sore.) I did, however, sustain a large and bulbous blister on my left cheek during the Freedom Challenge last year, after a particularly rocky stretch. I wore my thermal running tights, with no chamois, for about 75 percent of that ride. This solidified a belief that for me, chamois are nice, but not necessary on a long ride. I like the idea of 3/4 tights because, again, sun protection, and these have venting mesh behind the knee. I could combine these with calf compression sleeves and knee warmers for a warmer tight in cold weather.

North Face Thermoball Hoodie — Love this jacket. Warm when it's wet. Warm when it's dry. Warm when it's slightly cool and you're puttering around camp. Makes a great pillow.

Skinfit full-zip rain pants — I can't overemphasize how important full-zip is to me. I figure since I'm going fairly light on tights, I'll end up wearing these on cold days as well as rainy days. I also use these in winter racing and find them very capable in the wind-blocking department, which is really all that matters to me in a rain pant. (I don't think rain pants can keep you dry, especially on a bicycle, after many hours of pedaling through deluge and mud. No one will ever convince me there are non-imaginary pants that can do this.)

Skinfit primaloft mittens — These are just as light as any of my thin fleece mittens, they're warmer, more water-resistant, and have a flap that can be pulled back to expose fingers when dexterity is needed. They fit well over bike gloves. I'm considering combining these with a pair of Mountain Laurel Designs eVent shells for wet weather.

Hats and mittens are two areas where a little bit can go a long way in terms of keeping one warm and happy in wet weather. I have no idea what the weather will be like this year, only my memories that despite a multitude of winter endurance experiences, my closest brushes with scary hypothermia during an endurance event happened during thunderstorms in the Tour Divide, in Colorado and New Mexico, respectively (so no shipping stuff home from Montana.) I'm thinking about my go-to Mountain Hardwear Dome Beanie for a hat.

I haven't decided on a rain jacket — whether to bring my go-to Outdoor Research Mentor Jacket (like the Capilene top, it's a winter thing that's followed me everywhere for more than four years) or something lighter. It's hard to justify the heaviness of the Gore-Tex shell, but I know it's going to keep me happy in wet and windy conditions, and sometimes that's what matters most.

DryMax socks — These are like gold. Pure gold. For your feet. They really do hold away moisture, which is just as important for cyclists who want to avoid trench foot unpleasantness, as it is for runners trying to avoid blisters.

Acorn fleece socks — For cold days, and camp.

Integral Designs vapor barrier socks — Every since I recovered from frostbite six years ago, I have to be careful with my feet. Even if temperatures are not below freezing, I can sustain more nerve damage if they remain too cold for too long. These are a lightweight insurance policy against bad feet.

Montrail Mountain Masochist trail-running shoe — I know I've addressed the reasons why I don't use clipless pedals on this blog before. It has to do with the aforementioned frostbite damage that limits my tolerance of tight or stiff shoes. Also, I like to move my feet around on the pedals. It's another technique I use to relieve pressure from other areas such as my knees and calves. Long-distance cyclists are always raving about their multitude of hand positions on their handlebars, while locking their feet into a single position for the duration. This, I don't quite understand. The best way to relieve any nagging issue is to try moving in a slightly different way.

Miscellaneous: 

Sawyer Squeeze water filter — This was recommended to me by Mary, and seems like a great option for fast water treatment. Only three ounces, and the pouch can be used for reserve water storage. (I'm hoping to maintain a carry capacity of 5-6 liters, for a couple of long, hot, and dry stretches.)

Salomon Agile 12 backpack — This is a low-profile pack that's large enough to pack six liters of water if necessary, comfortable, and has huge side pockets for easy access to miscellaneous items such as sunscreen, salt tabs, snacks, the occasional comfort bottle of Pepsi, and camera.

Buff — Has so many applications, from blocking sun on the neck, to keeping ears warm, to mopping up water that's pooled on a sleeping bag.

There are of course other small items, tools, spare parts, and bits of clothing, not included in this list. I don't consider myself a gear expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I know what keeps me happy, and what's going to give me the courage to approach a mountain pass when it's dark and cold and raining. It's still a tough decision to make.

As always, input is appreciated.