Opt outside

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, just like Fall Grand Canyon is my favorite tradition, for many of the same reasons. Besides bringing the family together in a low-expectations format centered around mushy food and homemade pie (my favorite!), Thanksgiving also prompts reflection on gratitude. Expressing thankfulness is another way of compartmentalizing values. What am I thankful for? What in life do I value most? Same question. 

This Thanksgiving was particularly festive, as it brought everyone in my immediate family together for the first time in a long while. We always gather at my aunt's house near Ogden for a large traditional spread and brief catch-ups with some of my many first cousins, their kids, aunts, uncles, and my 85-year-old grandmother. It's often a noisy affair that begins in the early afternoon, so my dad, Beat and I only had a couple of hours in the morning to sneak in a hike.

 We went to the lower Bell Canyon falls amid a few inches of fresh snow and frosty temperatures. It was a quick hour-forty-five, stabbing at the steep slope and breathing cold fire. I loped down the canyon behind Beat and Dad — both faster than me — brimming with gratitude.

 For Friday, we embarked on what seems to have become our yearly tradition of climbing Gobblers Knob on Black Friday. This year, some of the hype surrounding this pseudo-holiday focused toward REI's smart marketing campaign, #optoutside. Yes, it's a social media ploy, but it's also a fun sentiment. I love the idea thousands of people venturing outdoors during what is often a cold and windy part of the shoulder season in many parts of the United States. More people still choose to battle crowds at stores on this day, and honestly I think that's fine, too — my sisters are among those who love the Black Friday sales. It's a small slice of consumer culture, and I recognize that I'm very much a part of this. But similar to expressing gratitude on Thanksgiving, it's great to actually set aside a day where you can reflect on what you value more — a cheap television, or a day outside?

 Temperatures dropped into the teens as we climbed up Butler Fork toward the fierce winds that were ripping along the ridge. Winds of 50 miles per hour were reported in the canyons earlier in the day, and I was fearful of potential hurricane-force gusts, but we seemed to find a relative window of calm amid the snow-driving weather happening all around us.


 We even found a tiny pocket of calm to sit down and enjoy a quick lunch of pita bread slathered in Nutella and peanut butter. Thanksgiving dinner is pretty good, but if everyone could taste a Nutella and peanut butter sandwich at 10,000 feet amid a windchill of 0F, lots would have a new favorite food tradition.

With our hands and feet numbed by the short stop, and shards of ice whipping around us, we started down the mountain in giddy moods. I thought about how lucky I am to share these experiences with two people I love, my closest family members, and how grateful I am for our health. Happiness is simple at its core, where reality aligns with our values. I wouldn't trade this for anything. 

ITI training, week six

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. Went for three sets this week, 12 exercises, 12 reps. I stuck with all the same weights as last Thursday and struggled with the third set. When doing these exercises, I contemplate how the movements might correlate with hours of pushing and lifting a loaded bike through unconsolidated snow. I think working toward three or even four sets might be more appropriate than simply trying to increase the amount of weight I can lift. Building moderate strength along with endurance? Seems plausible. 

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:50, 5.6 miles, 692 feet climbing. I again tried to run the Monta Vista loop quickly and only moderately succeeded — 8:55-minute-mile average. The difficulties I'm running up against now are slightly more sore and fatigued quads after long weekend rides, and I'm not willing to pound the descents. But I continue to improve in small increments on the climbs. 

Wednesday: Snowshoe, 2:08, 5.9 miles, 1,743 feet climbing. By Wednesday I was on the road without a bike, so my pedaling miles are going to be zero for two weeks. I believe that's not a problem in terms of training, as slogtastic activities such as snowshoeing are even more appropriate for the "skills" I'm attempting to boost. For consistency purposes I'm going by Strava numbers, but the software tends to short me on time — it seems if I'm moving slower than two miles an hour, I don't get counted for moving at all. I should also note that for training purposes, I count anything I do on foot as a "run." Even if I'm working on a 53-minute-mile through snow drifts, you can bet that, minute-for-minute, I'm putting more physical effort than my 9-minute-mile jaunts on trails, so I'm absolutely going to call it a two-hour run. (Or just call everything hiking. I don't really care.) Anyway, this was a tough climb to Castle Peak, starting at 7,000 feet and working my way up to 9,000 feet through slush, breakable wind crust, and shin-deep sugar. I pushed the pace (yes, at 1.5 mph) so I was blasted by the top, and my calf muscles were quivering. Actually this outing took closer to three hours of moving time, but again, I'm sticking to Strava numbers for this journal. 

Thursday: Snowshoe, 4:20, 11.7 miles, 3,050 feet climbing. Oof. This was actually a six-hour effort with only a few short stops, and I was really feeling the altitude. There were only a few inches of snow at 7,000 feet, but I was still moving at snail's pace as I waded up the Lehman Creek Trail in Great Basin National Park. Past a campground at 9,000 feet, there was more than a foot of fresh snow, and the slog really set in. Close to treeline, above 10,000 feet, I hit these snow-covered boulder fields that involved balancing on loose rocks while wearing snowshoes. I couldn't take the snowshoes off for fear I'd put my foot in a hidden hole and break my ankle in a spot where I was all by myself with only fire-starters and a space blanket as survival gear, and wind-chills were easily below 0F. Winter mountain travel is amazing but it's also extremely intimidating. For many good reasons, I constantly have the "danger, danger" sirens going off in my head, and stress adds to the fatigue I feel on these outings. I turned around about a half mile short of my destination but well past the amount of time I planned to use up for this "run." Damn, I was tired. This is such better training for the ITI than those silly bike rides I do in California. :P

Friday: Trail run, 2:06, 9.6 miles, 688 feet climbing. Calves were sore and hamstrings were tight, so I took it pretty easy on this fun jaunt into McDonald Creek Canyon along the Colorado River, near the Utah/Colorado border. There wasn't much of a trail in the canyon so this "run" involved quite a bit of hiking up and down slickrock ledges, and shuffling in the sandy wash. It was fun to embark on a desert adventure after two snowbound slogs. 

Saturday: Trail run, 1:35, 5 miles, 2,732 feet climbing. I finally made it the Boulder, and Beat and I met up with Daniel (the friend who recently lived in Frisco and helped rescue me when I was very sick during the Tour Divide, and now lives in Denver) and Joe Grant (professional ultra-runner and super nice guy who lives in Boulder) for lunch and a quick afternoon jaunt. Joe guided us on a hike up Bear Peak and we chatted about life on the Front Range. Again, I'm still calling this a run, because the pace was brisk for me and Beat (and clearly a stroll for Daniel and Joe.) I felt moderately embarrassed when I was hugging icy boulders with full-chest contact, and the Coloradans were dancing over them on their tip-toes. But this is who I am. It takes a lot more than a few snowy outings to fix clumsy. Running downhill with these guys did help push me past my comfort zone, which is a good thing. 

Sunday: Afternoon, snowshoe, 2:38, 7.6 miles, 1,082 feet climbing. Evening, weight lifting. Beat and I drove up Boulder Canyon for sightseeing, and chose a random trailhead near Niwot Mountain to go snowshoeing. We hoped to find good ridge access, but instead followed a trail that meandered through the woods in a long traverse around the mountain. Both of us were disappointed about the lack of views, but it was nice to get out for a more relaxing hike. I'm beginning to adjust to the altitude although still sucking wind at 10,000 feet. Beat had more difficulties. I also discovered our hotel has a small gym, so I spent a half hour on a free-weight routine — mostly adapted from exercises I could remember from the "Strength Training for Runners" program I did for eight weeks last fall. Shoulders were pretty sore after 30 pushups, broken up in three sets of 10. But that's far more than I was able to do at this time last year. 

Total: 13:39, 45.5 miles run, 9,978 feet climbing. Well, the numbers make this look like a pretty paltry week. It certainly didn't feel that way. But I'm glad to have this opportunity to embark on snowy adventures this week. These efforts certainly will help more toward my goals than a faster time on the Monta Vista loop. Here are a few more photos: 

Beat and I visited the Boulder Running Company, which is practically across the street from Google Boulder. I was interested in purchasing one of those Ultimate Direction hip belts named after well-known runners who live around here, but got the souvenir shirt instead. Who needs a hip belt when you can just stuff things in the pockets of a jacket and tie it around your waist?

 Joe pointed out all the notable landmarks. There was a stiff wind blowing and I'd guess the wind-chill was around 20 degrees, and Daniel was perfectly content in his T-shirt and shorts. Meanwhile, we Californians were pulling on jackets and mittens and being teased for this, because we're purportedly preparing ourselves for Alaska cold.

 Although I prefer mountains, I share a fascination for the open spaces of the prairies. Colorado's Front Range has fast access to both landscapes. I like this photo for the sharp shadow of Bear Peak spread over the foothills.

 More Bear Peak views.

 Looking west toward Indian Peaks Wilderness. There was some fierce gusty weather happening on the Continental Divide.

 Sunset on Saturday evening.

 Beat hiking on the Sourdough Trail on Sunday. We were breaking fresh trail after a mile, despite seeing a dozen cars at the trailhead, which caused Beat to comment "Coloradans sure are lazy." I had to laugh. The main issue, I think, is that skiing is still pretty thin here, and people who snowshoe are usually pretty casual about it and really do only hike a mile. We did see a few fat bike tracks, and I wondered if they veered off in a different direction. Still, I really enjoyed this outing despite the lack of views. Snowshoeing is such a difficult but soothing activity.  

More adventures in roadtripping

Beat had a business trip in Boulder this week, and since next week is Thanksgiving, we decided I'd drive out to Colorado and then head directly to Utah from there. Between work deadlines and the weekend I figured I could take three days to make the 1,300-mile journey. It's still a lot of driving, but there'd be plenty of time in there for adventuring in 72 hours. 

 On Wednesday I pulled off I-80 at Donner Summit to take another crack at Castle Peak. This is a most ideal en-route adventure, with a trailhead only a quarter mile off the interstate. The current conditions made for difficult snowshoeing — about six inches of slushy muck to the ridgeline, and then a truly energy-sapping, breakable wind crust that covered anywhere from six inches to two feet of wind-blown sugar, over rock.

 At one point I broke through the crust and wedged one snowshoe between two boulders. My foot was stuck a full leg length below an awkwardly kneeling knee, and I couldn't reach the binding. There were several nerve-wracking seconds there while I wriggled and tugged, then finally broke free.

It took an age to slog to the peak, but the reward was uninterrupted views of the northern Sierra. It sure warms my heart to see snow up here — last year this region had almost no snow in mid-January.

 Then it was on to U.S. 50 — the Loneliest Highway. The sun set not long after I passed through Fallon, which meant I had to drive across Nevada in the dark. This was disappointing — I adore the views on this route. But with only 10 or so hours of daylight to work with, something has to give.

 I stopped for the night in Great Basin National Park — my first-ever visit to this park on the Nevada-Utah border. After setting up my tent, I tried inflating my NeoAir only to discover the pad was leaking air. I spent the next hour searching for the hole so I could patch it, trying everything I could imagine. With air temperatures dipping into the low-20s, I knelt on the shoreline of Lehman Creek and dunked the entire pad in the water, searching for air bubbles. Nothing surfaced; the pad ended up coated in ice before I could dry it, and my hands went entirely numb. After giving up on the repair, I spent the next hour lying in my sleeping bag atop frozen soil and ice patches, shivering and shifting my weight in hopes that a different position would keep the ground from leeching heat from my body. I told myself this was good prep for sleeping in the cold in Alaska, as well as an important lesson about relying on inflatable pads in cold weather, but after an hour the misery won. I retreated to my car, and slept reasonably well.

 Bright but not so early the next morning, I set out from the campground to follow Lehman Creek to the bristlecone pine grove. Bristlecone pines are intriguing — both for their long lives (bristlecones in Great Basin rank among the oldest living trees in the world) and ability to thrive in the harshest environments (they grow between 10,000 and 11,000 feet, thrive in alkaline soils that exclude all other plants, but tend to fail in lower elevations.) In short, bristlecones declined to compete with anything else and moved to some of the most inhospitable environments on Earth. My kind of tree!

I'll have to admit that I didn't make it high enough to view the bristlecone pines. I forget just how much harder I have to work breaking trail on snowshoes, and how slow that can be. I started hiking at 30-minute-miles and it only became slower from there. After six miles and 3,000 feet of climbing, I'd lost any semblance of trail and found myself stumbling around on snow-covered boulder fields. There was just no easy way to navigate this terrain with or without snowshoes, and daylight was fast fading.

Sigh. Still, it was a gorgeous day. At 10,000 feet the temperatures were still below freezing, and there was a fierce wind driving the chills down to something that felt quite low. My first taste of winter this year. It's always invigorating.

I retreated feeling disappointed about the bristlecones, but I'll be back. It will be intriguing to visit these trees and compare them to another fascinating old tree — the 1,200-year-old, 300-foot-tall redwood in Portola State Park.

A 12-mile snowshoe that takes six hours sucks up a lot of daylight, and there wasn't a whole lot left to enjoy the views on my most favorite lonely highway — U.S. 6 through western Utah.

Whoa indeed. I wish I could stay longer.

Alas, eastward progress beckons. Welcome home!

One reason I enjoy traveling through these wide-open spaces is renewed perspectives about how much possibility there is out there. A glance in any direction includes intriguing ridges, craggy peaks, vast basins, and unlimited potential for adventure. I could spend the rest of my life exploring only what lies between California and Colorado along the corridor of I-80, U.S. 50, U.S. 6, and I-70 — and I'd still only see a small fraction of even that sliver of the world.

Long drives this time of year also bring out another aspect that I love about late-fall and winter: There may be less daylight to work with, but often what you get is really good.

I spent the night in Green River, Utah, and the following morning decided to go for a run in Rabbit Valley, western Colorado. It was an absolutely gorgeous morning — 35 degrees, frosty still, and clear.


I descended into McDonald Creek Canyon because I remembered hearing about Fremont rock art in this canyon, but hadn't done any research and failed to find it on my own. Still, I had fun exploring this area, running when I could but mostly scrambling around rock ledges, inadvertently wandering up side canyons, plodding in the wet, sandy wash, and slashing through tamarisk. I was determined to see the Colorado River before calling it a day.

There it is! I ran along the tracks for three quarters of a mile in hopes I'd locate a jeep trail to follow out, but huge sandstone walls made it clear there wouldn't be any cross-traffic for a while.

Emerging from the canyon, the sky looked foreboding. Cold sprinkles hit the sand, followed by snow flurries. "Oh, this isn't good," I thought. "I probably should have checked the weather earlier." It's fine weather for running, but driving? Either way, I had committed to I-70 and there was no going back.

I made it as far as Vail before the flurries turned to snow and traffic stopped. I mean stopped. I sat in one spot near mile marker 180 for more than an hour. During this time I sent many texts to Beat, who was waiting in Boulder: "This is my fault. I knew I should have taken I-80 through SLC and Wyoming. I should have gotten an earlier start this morning." That route isn't nearly as scenic, without any of the outings I'd enjoyed, but after one hour of sitting in stopped traffic I was ready to denounce the whole endeavor of adventure roadtripping.

When they finally let traffic creep through, a full blizzard was raging and the road was a mess — at least six inches of unplowed powder was stirred up in every direction, and dozens of smaller vehicles were stopped on the shoulder or stuck in the middle of the road. I was driving a Subaru Outback that admittedly has nearly-bald tires — I was ready to put on chains as soon as I could find a safe spot to do so — but it didn't really have any trouble navigating those conditions. I've driven in considerably worse weather in Alaska and Montana, but it looked like a winter apocalypse on I-70. No wonder this road has such a bad reputation. It was about to get worse.

At Silverthorne, police were directing cars off a closed section of the freeway. So instead of inching along on the interstate, traffic piled up on the unplowed streets of Silverthorne. I managed to weave through stuck vehicles to a City Market, where I drank two cups of Starbucks and refreshed the CDOT Twitter page. Three hours passed before I rejoined the traffic creep to the tunnel and down the luge toward Denver. I drove past Vail at 2 p.m., and didn't arrive in Boulder until 10:30 — eight and a half stressful hours to travel 100 miles. I may never complain about traffic in the Bay Area again (I probably still will.)

Still, it's always an adventure. And yes, still worth it. 

ITI training, week five

Monday: Weight lifting at gym, followed by trail run, 0:55, 4.4 miles, 388 feet climbing. The weight-lifting session went well considering my shoulders and lower back were still a little sore after the 100 MoN. Just my usual 12x12x2 session with the same weights as last week. The trail "run," conversely, was quite bad. I had some digestive issues that necessitated walking uncomfortably to the outhouse, twice, within an hour. That's it — no more high-protein lunches just because I think I'm some sort of body builder now.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:50, 5.6 miles, 691 feet climbing. Because my Monday "recovery run" went so badly, I decided I was not going to hammer this one out. I managed to run a faster pace anyway — my second fastest on this loop at 8:48-minute-mile average. Running is like that, or isn't it? It still baffles me how so many runners train by pace — I feel like I can't hit a precise pace to save my life. Sometimes I run faster without trying and sometimes I run slower no matter how hard I try, and there's rarely a discernible reason. Note: Maybe light salad lunches make for happier afternoon runs.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:14, 29.4 miles, 3,446 feet climbing. Maybe twice a year, I decide to climb the Table Mountain trail out of Stevens Canyon. After I do so, it takes at least six months to forget how horrible that climb is, with its eroded rooty switchbacking singletrack followed by the near-vertical Charcoal fire road. Legally, Table Mountain is uphill only for cyclists, but for obvious reasons it's a coveted downhill trail (I've never ridden Table Mountain downhill. I'm law-abiding to a fault and wouldn't enjoy it anyway.) But I met a couple of mountain bikers who were planning to ride the same loop in the opposite direction. They had a lot of questions about the bike I was riding, which was Beat's YBB soft-tail fat bike. Embarrassingly I could not answer most of them ("what kind of rims are those? How much does it weigh? Is that an Action-tec fork?" Ummmm.) They were nice guys, and although they soon raced ahead, I still managed to reach the top of the loop, Turtle Rock, at the same time as them. Consider Table Mountain conquered, and yeah, I probably won't be back until spring.

Thursday: Morning, weight lifting at gym. Afternoon, road bike, 1:24, 18.6 miles, 1,771 feet climbing. I moved up 5-10 pounds on each of the 12 exercises in my routine. I'm trying to keep it consistently difficult to get through the set each time, and I have this imaginary trainer (Arnold Schwarzenegger type) that says (in more of a Hans and Franz accent): "Pump! Deez are da ones that count!" Anyway, I'm still having fun with the gym routine. Then a quick road bike ride before sunset because it was a beautiful day. I really enjoy this time of year, when the afternoon light is always so rich, and I have to put on a wind jacket and mittens to descend into dark forested canyons before twilight sets in.

Friday: Trail run, 1:40, 8.5 miles, 1,518 feet climbing. Another iffy-stomach trail run with an emergency stop, this time at Fremont Older park. On Monday I cooked all this chicken that I was going to eat for lunch during the week, did so on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, felt off each time, and decided to throw the rest away. At least I rallied for a two-mile spur to the scenic overlook, which is always worth the trip.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 7:55, 76.4 miles, 9,639 feet climbing. I proposed one of our favorite long rides — a loop through Big Basin and Pescadero state parks — and was surprised when Beat expressed interest after a month of recovering from pneumonia. Despite expectations that he lost some degree of fitness, he proceeded to set this blistering pace for the entire day. For as strong as I've been feeling this month, I could barely hang on. I'm still incredulous about this. Strava lets me keep track of these things, and this was my fastest Big Basin loop yet — usually rides on this route fall between 8:30 to 9 hours of ride time. Geez. I don't even want to talk about how I felt when I ventured back into running after emerging from my summer pneumonia fog. Let's just say my fitness base doesn't run nearly as deep. But we had a great ride, and it was fun to get outside with Beat again. My only issue was a knot in my right shoulder, left over from the 100 MoN.

Sunday: Trail run, 2:26, 13.4 miles, 1,896 feet climbing. Rain is the ultimate phantom here in the Bay Area. We can go five months without seeing a drop (I think we actually did this year.) When it does rain, a storm comes and dumps a truckload of moisture in the night, then it's gone by morning. I slept through a storm that deposited three quarters of an inch of moisture in the hills and woke up to sunshine. I probably would have had no idea it rained at all, if I hadn't set out for a morning run only to become mired in peanut butter mud. It was quite windy as well, with a few gusts nearly stopping me in my tracks — probably 35 to 40 mph. Still, I felt great on this run. Just loped along at an easy pace, dodging the worst of the shoe-sucking mud bogs. Everything felt fine. There was no real fatigue from the long ride Saturday. This is my aim with my winter training — to build up tolerance for extended efforts both in the saddle and out, as well as more strength. I think it's going well so far.

Total: 18:26, 124.4 miles ride, 31.9 miles run, 19,350 feet climbing. 

Never-fail getaway

 I felt somber this weekend, for the same reasons many people in the Western world felt somber. It's true I spend an average of an hour each day reading newspapers online, and I'm not blind to the reality that terrible things happen every day, everywhere. Like many people, I harbor deep-set information fatigue, and no longer react viscerally to most of what I read. When information does spark emotions, I question why. What is it about this particular story, and not all the others? It's true that if we all felt equally sad for all the sad events in a world of 7 billion people, we would lose our minds. Yet we do feel sadness for strangers, and sadness for implications for the future. I'm one of those who is constantly fighting to keep my own world view from sinking toward despair.

 This falls back to my love of the outdoors, without which I have no doubt I'd be a much sadder person. There are a number of psychological and philosophical implications that I don't want to delve into for this particular blog post, but I find it endlessly fascinating — and amusing — that simple movement through outdoor spaces is so highly valuable as an experience. I could disappear for hours into an echo chamber of rehashed information and reactive observations, or I could just get on my bike and pedal it to a quiet redwood grove, where sunlight never touches the forest floor in November, and listen to the crush of leaves beneath whirring tires and the almost harmonized burbles from a nearby stream. All I have to do is go there, and I feel happy. These are my two sides — the one that yearns for information with a desire to understand, and the one that yearns for quiet with a desire to simply be.

 The draw of the long ride was particularly deep on Saturday. After being down with pneumonia for more than a month, Beat expressed interest in joining. He still has several physical issues lingering from his illness, including a rib that possibly broke during a coughing fit, but his health has been on a steady rise for a couple of weeks now. I questioned whether he might feel too sore or tired after a month of relative inactivity, but for Beat, "lost fitness" no longer makes much of a difference. He actually can pick right back up where he left off, which quickly became evident as I huffed and gasped to keep up with him on the winding climb out of Stevens Creek Canyon.

Within our busy metro area, we've pieced together a 76-mile loop that is refreshingly remote. We pass no businesses (unless you count the Mr. Mustard hot dog cart at Saratoga Gap, and the forever-under-renovation closed store in Loma Mar.) Trails are never crowded and road traffic is light. After a dozen or so descents along the perimeter of Big Basin Redwoods State Park, I have yet to see another person on the Johansen fire road. The tree canopy over Gazos Creek is so dark in the winter that one could easily mistake noon for dusk. There is much to enjoy, far away from noise.

As evening approached, Beat admitted to feeling knackered but continued to charge up the Bella Vista trail at the same relentless pace. We arrived at Black Mountain just as the sun settled beneath a pink strip of coastal fog. An oncoming cold front had cranked up the wind, and we steeled ourselves with multiple layers as the light faded from coral to crimson, and finally violet.

We descended into the expanding darkness, into a place so ephemeral and yet so easy to locate — my moving tunnel of peace. 

ITI training, week four

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. This session went well. I was able to move up a bar in six out of 12 exercises. I'm thinking about increasing to three sets instead of two on my "gym only" day of the week.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:49, 5.6 miles, 707 feet climbing. Temperatures had cooled off into the 60s, and I had such a great run that I burst through the long-range goals I set for myself a couple of weeks ago. I ran an 8:43-minute-mile average and managed second position (out of 185) on a Strava segment that I targeted as a way to boost my downhill trail-running confidence: 6:20 pace! Whenever I run this fast, a little bit of vertigo kicks in and I begin to feel wobbly. I'd love to get past that, and "Hill Trail Descent" is a fun place to test my limits. Between that mild vertigo and my tight hamstrings, I have serious reservations about ever training to run "fast," but building up confidence is a good thing. Now I'm not sure where to set my goals for this weekly loop. First place on Hill Trail Descent is probably out of the question because it's held by a pro at 5:48 pace. Whatever speed goals I set, they're certain to fall apart as I increase the hours on weekend rides.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 4:40, 42.5 miles, 4,795 feet climbing. It was time to take in the Subaru for service. The dealership is super slow and it's also a quick hop over to the Los Gatos Creek Trail, so I love using this chore as an excuse to go mountain biking in Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. On this day I was determined to take on "Dog Meat," a climb that has been famous among local mountain bikers since the Santa Cruz Klunker days. It ascends 1,000 feet on one mile — *after* you have plodded up 1,500 feet on the steep Limekiln Trail — and averages an 18 percent grade with sections that approach 30 percent. The ultimate goal is "no dabs Dog Meat," and while I didn't think I had this in me, I was still buzzing from my strong run on Tuesday and determined to give it my best shot. It probably will surprise no one that I cracked early. Rain on Monday left the fire road in a strange state — sort of a gummy consistency with loose gravel on top. After I nearly tipped over riding, I struggled to push my bike up that thing. It did occur to me that Dog Meat would be the perfect place for future pushing practice. After I finally reached the crest, I still had many steep rollers to conquer along the ridge to Mount El Sombroso. Then, after several miles of descending, I made a strange decision to climb Barlow fire road toward Mount Umunhum. By the time I was finally coasting down the pavement toward Los Gatos, I was so completely cracked that I feared I'd done irreparable damage to my 100 Miles of Nowhere goal coming up on Saturday. Oh, Sierra Azul. So beautiful, so tempting, so evil.

Thursday: Hike, 3:07, 7.7 miles, 1,419 feet climbing. I had to head out to Lake Sonoma in the morning to meet Ann for some interviews. As such, I skipped the morning gym session, and felt guilty about this. But to be honest, I was quite sore after Sierra Azul — shoulder and calves, probably from pushing up Dogmeat — and reluctant to take any more chances with the long ride coming up on Saturday. Ann and I took a very leisurely stroll above Lake Sonoma, but it was admittedly a long time standing on sore legs, and by the end I felt quite tired. That night I was awakened by an excruciating cramp in my right calf, and the next day the muscle was so tight I could hardly walk.

Friday: Rest. I felt guilty about not going to the gym, massaged my throbbing calf, and nursed a cold dread about 100 miles of Montebello.

Saturday: Road bike, 11:50, 105.1 miles, 20,159 feet climbing. I already wrote a ride report about the 100 Miles of Nowhere on Montebello Road, but as a training ride I think it went exceedingly well. I had few issues outside mild chaffing, still-sore shoulders, and the fact that it was a progressively harder effort as fatigue set in. That calf cramp, which still hurt whenever I stepped off my bike to walk around, didn't bother me at all in the saddle.

Sunday: Rest. I still felt guilty about not going to the gym, but I was sore all over. And yes, a rest day was the plan, but I can already see that my self-induced guilt trips are going to come from slacking on gym sessions. Dog Meat proved that I still have a ways to go in the strength department. But Montebello proved that I am well-situated in the endurance department. All in all, an encouraging week of training.

Total: 20:27, 147.6 miles ride, 13.3 miles run, 27,080 feet climbing.

The beauty of riding nowhere

Each year, Elden the Fat Cyclist — world-famous bike blogger and fundraiser extraordinaire — hosts a charity event called the 100 Miles of Nowhere. He first formulated the idea while riding a virtual 100 miles on his trainer, and now challenges cyclists from all over the world to donate to charity for the privilege of riding a "nowhere" century of their choosing. Creativity is encouraged, and pretty much any crazy century that one could imagine has been done — 100 miles on rollers, 3,000 rotations around a driveway, masochistic hill repeats, you name it. 

Although I've been a regular reader of Fat Cyclist for a decade, support his causes, and enjoy pondering my own versions of a "nowhere" ride, I hadn't participated before. This year the event announcement went out just as I was beginning to formulate a plan for winter training. It just clicked. "I've been talking about 100 Miles of Montebello Road for three years now. I'm finally going to do it." 

Why Montebello Road? I think any cyclist who lives near hills has a go-to climb, and this is mine. Climbing on a bike is my favorite activity, so I ride here a lot. The name means "beautiful mountain" in Italian, and it's appropriate. Starting 3.5 miles from my home, Montebello Road snakes up a scenic hillside beside a small creek, shaded by oak and cedar trees, with occasional steep drop-offs that open up big views of the South Bay and Mount Hamilton. It accesses a few homes and vineyards before the pavement ends 5.1 miles and 2,000 vertical feet above Stevens Creek Reservoir. I enjoy this climb and it doesn't get old for me, even though I've ridden it well over 200 times since I moved here in 2011. Because I ride Montebello so much, I know every switchback and driveway. I know where the grade steepens and where it levels off. I know where the pavement becomes especially broken and I have to hang on for dear life. I notice when cracks widen and when new tarmac is laid down. I notice when chunks of the hillside and larger trees come down, even after the debris has been cleared away. I've had to slam on my brakes for deer, rabbits, rattlesnakes, coyotes, and even a bobcat. There aren't many surprises left for me on that well-trodden road. 

So why Montebello Road? Because even though I've ridden it so many times I know every pothole, it never gets easier. And no, I don't get faster, because it takes a hearty helping of oomph to push the pace for a five-mile climb that scarcely lets off the resistance. My legs are usually quivering by the final steep pitch. The descent, with all of its hairpin turns, steep grades and broken pavement, hardly provides recovery. I think one Montebello is plenty difficult, and two Montebellos break into mental-game territory. So of course I started to wonder, what would happen after five repeats? How about ten? 

A hundred miles of Montebello Road requires ten out-and-backs with more than 20,000 feet of climbing. One participant, Karl, commented that the elevation profile would look like a "sadistic comb," which was an apt description. In all of my years of cycling, I've never climbed that much elevation in a day. Beyond the personal record, a century on one five-mile stretch of pavement requires a whole new set of challenges. There is, of course, the "boring" factor in the repetitions. It's not only the same road ten times — it's the same road I see all the time. On a road bike you don't walk, ever, unless something has gone quite wrong. But the gearing is stiff enough that you always have to pedal hard just to stay upright. Even if your speed is dipping precariously close to three miles per hour, it's always strenuous. I mentioned the hairy descents. Where would I find my motivation when things started to hurt? When I could only slow down so much? When bailing was always as easy as turning around and bombing downhill to my car? In other words, this would be a great mental training ride for the big, physically draining, often monotonous days on the Iditarod Trail. 

When I posted my proposal online, I was surprised to see a lot of initial interest. There were nine "going" and nine "maybes" on my Facebook event page. A couple of ultrarunner friends who almost never ride bikes said they wanted to give it a go. Then Beat came down with pneumonia and Liehann was worried his three-week cough would deteriorate to something worse. One by one, all the others bailed. I can't say I was surprised, as it wasn't the most conventionally fun way to spend what turned out to be an absolutely perfect fall day in the Bay Area. I assumed I would be riding alone and failed to show up on time for my proposed 6:15 a.m. start. So I was embarrassed to pull up at 6:19 to find three cyclists who I'd never met geared up and ready to go. Karl, on the right, wanted to try to best his personal record on one lap, and Eric (middle), had time to try for five. Dave (left), said he was in it for the long haul. Great! Let's get it started. 

Karl and I rode together for the first lap, and then I stuck with Eric and Dave for the next four. It turned out to be a surprisingly social ride. Dave kept a strong pace and commented on the fourth lap that he was surprised it wasn't getting much harder. It was then I knew both Dave and I were in this to the dark and chilly end, because neither of us was going to back down as long as the other was still plugging along. Such is the wonder of human sociality, and the reason why races are so much more fun than solo efforts, and why we were so content to grind out Montebellos on Nov. 7, riding in spirit with as many as 500 other "100 MoN" participants all around the world. We're all striving together. 

Around lap six, Beat came out on his mountain bike to join for a couple of rounds of what would be his first real venture outdoors in a month, besides bike commuting. We also saw friends and acquaintances who were out for their own Saturday rides. Jan, who was just finishing up a 17-mile trail ride, and who has been helpful with tips for dealing with my recent breathing problems, just shook his head. I was buzzing with endorphins and could only reply with a goofy grin, "I just love this stuff. I really do. I don't know why."

Photo by Dave Thompson. I'm wearing my circa-2007 "original" Fat Cyclist jersey and riding
Beat's wonderful 2011 Specialized S-Works Roubaix. Yes, those are flat pedals. Stiff-soled, fitted shoes pinch
my toes and hurt like hell after a few hours. I can't even wear running shoes that actually fit — these are 1.5 sizes
too large. I know this is terribly uncool. I do not  care. If you ever experience frostbite nerve damage and put
your feet through 12+ hour rides, you  can give me a recommendation for clipless pedals.
Otherwise, I don't want to hear it. :P

On lap seven, I hit my wall. All the others had gone home and it was just me and Dave, and the mid-afternoon sunlight dipping low on the horizon. After a summer mostly out of the saddle my "iron butt" had gone soft and chaffing was developing beneath my cheeks. My hands and arms were sore from the descents, and I had to hold one arm behind my back whenever I could to relieve a knot in my shoulder. My quad muscles quivered on the steeper segments. I was certain cramps were coming on, which could only be followed by walks of shame, which could only be followed by bailing altogether. But I'd look ahead toward Dave and kept grinding, because this clearly was not as bad as the simmering anxieties would have me believe.

Dave remained ever stoic. Occasionally, when I could keep up with him, I learned more about his background — he'd lost a lot of weight, and designed and built a special tandem bicycle so he could ride with his adult son who is recovering from a brain injury. At the top, only slightly glazed eyes and flushed cheeks betrayed the appearance that this ride was far too easy for him. We'd stuff down some food — I ate string cheese, squeezable packets of applesauce, Rice Crispy treats, and sandwiches cut into quarters, and realized my diet now completely resembled that of a toddler whose Mom carried just enough snacks to shut her up in public. We'd wipe the sweat from our faces and put on jackets and gloves, because it was always cold on the way down. And then we were off, screaming toward the glistening sprawl of San Jose.

We strapped on lights before lap nine because we'd finally burned all the daylight. The sun set at 5:11 p.m. Climbing the initial steep segments, I thought, "Only two more Montebellos!" which ignited a grumpy backlash because two Montebellos is still a lot. So I looked inward, to a stark white landscape of somewhere in Alaska, perhaps the Yukon River, beneath an unobstructed sky pulsing with emerald light and stars upon stars. Then the wind was howling, and I was hunched over my bike in a whiteout — broken, humbled, and awestruck by the power of it all, by this expansive nothingness on the edge of nowhere. All in my imagination — and perhaps in my future.

We descended in fading light and climbed into the tunnel of our headlights. Dave's light dimmed to almost nothing, but instead of quitting, he shadowed closely behind me as we ascended the quiet corridor. I was hurting all over. It seemed every muscle had to work for this final climb, and my breathing had become raspy and shallow. In part, I believe shallow breathing has become a habit after months of fighting real obstructions and constriction in my airways. So I consciously focused on taking deeper breaths, thinking about all of my quivering muscles and the reality that they just needed more oxygen. "Breathe, just breathe," I chanted quietly, and thought that this was probably going to become my new personal mantra.

"We did it!" I proclaimed at the top. Dave smiled quietly; his lips were quivering. It was 45 degrees and a cold wind whisked along the ridge, heralding an oncoming storm. We both sucked down the last of our water — even in the cold darkness, one bottle was no longer enough. I descended behind Dave with my high-beam on, but he seemed to manage just fine with his flickering commuter light. We rolled back to the cars after 105 miles in 13 hours and 5 minutes, including breaks, and about 11:45 of moving time. You can say that's a long damn time for a century, but I think it's pretty good for ten Montebellos, which are actually nothing like a century.

As I drove away, I realized that while the 20,000 feet of climbing was quite hard, I barely noticed the repetition. Each climb and descent was its own journey, with different light, different conversations, different thoughts, different challenges.

Still, a repetitive ride does provide beneficial numbers for comparisons. These are the times recorded for each 5.1-mile climb up Montebello Road. It's interesting to see the consistency when I was feeling good, and also how it started to break down on the later laps. My "personal best" on Montebello is 39:08, but I generally ride in the 45- to 50-minute range.

Lap 1: 59:18
Lap 2: 52:05
Lap 3: 50:51
Lap 4: 50:21
Lap 5: 50:24
Lap 6: 50:19
Lap 7: 56:01
Lap 8: 54:43
Lap 9: 58:53
Lap 10: 57:26

Maybe it really doesn't get that much harder as you go. I just have to get out of my head once in a while. And remember to breathe.