2017 in photos

Just about every blogger and journalist I read and respect ended the year with more or less the same message: 2017 can go right in the trash can, where it belongs. Of course, just one year ago, we were ranting about the awfulness of 2016 and hoping that somehow the advancement of a single digit would turn things around. But then the daily news cycle became even more surreal, the weather increasingly weird, the lines between fact and rhetoric more blurry, and the outlook just a little more bleak. Beat and I recently talked about the ways current events have affected our day-to-day actions in ways we didn't expect. Personally, I struggle most with my worst impulse, which is nihilism ... or the resigned belief that "nothing matters." Even with daily affirmations that this isn't true, I still question why I should bother with anything. It was, well ... it was a year.

And now it's 2018! I procrastinated on getting around to my annual tradition of posting favorite photos from each month of the year. So I didn't spend as much time combing through the images as I would have liked. For a while I tried the challenge of choosing my best "frosty photo" for every month, but by any stretch of imagination, I couldn't find frosty in June and July. So these are the photos are more or less the best representation of each month of this garbage year. (Okay, 2017 was not garbage. I continued to stay alive and have amazing experiences, so I'm grateful.) 

January: Niwot Ridge

Less than 12 months on, January 2017 has already, for the most part, faded from memory. Although I didn't yet know the cause, I was the most sick with symptoms of Grave's Disease as I had been before or since. I was often simultaneously agitated and exhausted, jumpy but lacking strength, mentally muddled and emotionally depressed. In the midst of this, I continued to believe I'd ride my bike across Alaska in a few short weeks, and forced my training far beyond the extent of reason. When I attempted the Fat Pursuit 200-mile fat bike race in Idaho, my breathing became so bad that I was convinced I was having momentary blackouts ... moments where I found myself wrestling for awareness like a drowning swimmer reaching for the surface ... and it was 40 below. It was a grasping, desperate time for me. But some experiences were still good, like this hike I did on Niwot Ridge with my sled-dragging friends, who were training for foot races. The afternoon was misty, warm, gorgeous.

February: Walker Ranch

Thanks to a training trip to Alaska and a casual observation from my physician friend Corrine, I went on the fast-track to the Grave's Disease diagnosis — a hyperthyroid condition that wasn't even on my radar prior to February. In less than a week I transitioned from holding the last strands of optimism to withdrawing from the Iditarod and beginning the rollercoaster ride of treatment. My motivation for most things withered. If I'm being very honest, I have to admit that February is about the last time I was making reasonable progress on book projects, rather than writing and discarding pages or formulating fragmented notes for numerous projects that may never become anything else. Yes, sigh. At least I didn't have to thrash through futile training efforts anymore. Still, if I don't get outside to soothe the monkey mind, my worst impulses all too quickly take over. Without training pressure, my rides and runs did become more enjoyable. This misty romp through an ice-coated Walker Ranch was dreamy, until I slipped on the ice and bashed my knee so badly that I barely limped out. Still better than gasping for air.

March: Thunder Mountain

Admittedly, the darkness followed me into March, even as I wandered through my favorite places. An illness forced Beat to drop out of the Iditarod. Despite having no real purpose there once Beat went home, I stayed in Alaska — keeping prior trip plans with friends, and sometimes just going through the motions. Toward the end of the month, a weird reshuffling of plans gave me an unexpected afternoon in Juneau. During the layover, I walked away from the airport and up a mountain I'd climbed many times when I lived there, Thunder Mountain. The path follows a sub-ridge through the forest toward a headwall. From the start I didn't intend to ascend this steep section of the mountain; I just wanted to reach a bench with a view of the channel. Warm weather and solid spring snow conditions didn't betray that anything was amiss, until I reached my destination and triggered a wet-slab avalanche that came down on top of me from at least 300 feet above. As I ran in slow motion toward the edge of the slide, snow blocks tumbled into me. It's only by grace that the slide stopped before carrying me over the edge of a veritable cliff. One leg was buried to the shin, but I managed to chip myself out quickly and float downhill on in a post-adrenaline haze. I learned much from this experience. I've since read four books about avalanche science and skills, and from these mostly concluded that no one should go into the mountains during the winter. (I'm being facetious. But wow. Avalanche conditions are complex and the variables are endless.) I also experienced that cliched affirmation that life is, indeed, precious, and can literally be ripped away at any moment. Now when I look back on Thunder Mountain, I no longer see my old friend and "Modern Romance." I see the menacing and indifferent force of the universe that proves how much we really have to lose.

April: Spring storm on Bear Peak

My emotional state improved substantially in April. Perhaps this was because of my renewed appreciation for life, or perhaps my medications were finally kicking in. Several spring snowstorms also helped my mood, because there was still a bit of winter that I was healthy enough to enjoy. Running was a relative breeze and I renewed stoke by scheming a glorious comeback at the Bryce 100 in June.

May: Snowmageddon

Much like this winter, most days of the actual winter months of 2016-17 were warm and dry, while snow fell in droves in March, April and May. I am banking on the same happening this year ... otherwise wildfire season will be horrific. Nearly three feet of snow fell on our home during a May 18 storm that knocked out the power and effectively stranded us in the hills above Boulder. This image is our attempt to plow the road the day after the storm. It's a departure from my usual "small person in a big land" theme, but it makes me smile.

June: Capitol Reef

In June, my health rollercoaster veered downward, and I unsurprisingly struggled with breathing during the Bryce 100. Finally, after 70 difficult and hot but mostly enjoyable miles, I timed out. Bryce was my first and final ultra for the year, and I look back fondly on the experience. Sure, my body isn't always up for it anymore, but I still crave the intensity and emotion of endurance challenges. In 2018, for the sake of my tenuous self worth, I am keeping race expectations grievously low. Yet I won't shy away from a big challenge ... not yet, and perhaps not ever. After the failed race, I treated myself to a scenic drive home via the Southern Utah desert. I visited bristlecone pines in Cedar Breaks, hiked in a 105-degree furnace at Kodachrome State Park, and enjoyed a morning stroll at Capitol Reef National Park. It was a beautiful way to decompress. I truly wasn't all that discouraged about my rather predictable result at the Bryce 100, but the drive home was soothingly satisfying.

July: Continental Divide Trail

My fitness continued to swing downward in July, but I could hardly say no when my friend Leslie invited me to join her on a small segment of the CDT during her summer thru-hike. I shadowed her for three days through Colorado's Indian Peaks Wilderness, and got a small taste of what thru-hiking life is really like — which is notably different than simple backpacking. Despite being an endurance junkie, my backpacking style is quite lax — I like to sleep in, cook meals, read my Kindle. A thru-hike is much more similar to endurance racing — a race to beat winter. The clock is always ticking. The routine can be brutal. Leslie woke up at 5 a.m. and drank cold instant coffee out of a peanut butter jar while walking, for example. I am now deeply intrigued by thru-hiking, and am scheming to plan a "short" one — like the Colorado Trail — during this summer or next.

August: Climb up the moon (Red Mountain)

An injury forced Beat to withdraw from the Ouray 100. I headed out to Ouray anyway, using a single volunteer shift at the race to justify four days of hiking in the San Juan Mountains. During the second day of trip, I was caught in a horrific hail storm and rescued by a nice family from Texas, who took me gold-panning. After a short nap, I opted to head back out and watch racers on the course near Ironton, a refreshingly nontechnical but stunningly scenic loop around one of the Red Mountains. My health had only recently hit an unexpected upswing. This was the first time I noticed the correlation of better balanced thyroid hormones, and a substantially brighter outlook on life. It's almost like taking happy pills — nothing has really changed, but I'm over the moon about the simplest things. This eight-mile hike around dirt roads outside of Ouray was one of my favorite outings of the year.

September: Colle Berrio Blanc

It's difficult to pick a favorite picture from our annual sojourn in the Alps. Big mountain vista after big mountain vista, it's rare for one to stand out, and that was the case this year. I chose this photo for the memories behind this particular hike, where I climbed from Courmayeur to Col Arp and crept along the jagged and intimidating ridge of Monte Favre over a dusting of snow and ice. Here is a place where, in the crowded shadow of Mont Blanc, one can hike for hours and not see another soul. Where impossible terrain fills the horizon, and the faintest of paths allows tentative passage. Where I'm endlessly reminded of past moments of agony and angst, while experiencing an enduring sentiment not unlike romantic love. After I descended this ridge, I encountered the abandoned belongings of a distressed hiker who I later learned had died of hypothermia. It was an eerie scene of clothing and gear strewn along a steep talus slope that already had me riddled with anxiety. Again, life is volatile, and so valuable.

October: Haleakalā 

A Google retreat gave Beat and me an opportunity to visit Maui. We carved out a day to run through the deep crater of a volcano and back. I acknowledge that this photo is odd, but I like its ethereal depiction of a vast moonscape. I did not feel good for the entire outing, and in fact had such breathing trouble while hiking out that I genuinely fretted about getting myself out of the crater. Such seems to be the current nature of my fitness. I can feel on top of the world in August, climb nearly 100,000 feet over mountains in Europe in September, and return to being a wheezy mess in October. "Life is volatile and valuable" may be my lesson of 2017, but "Take nothing for granted" is a close second. 

November: The West Wind

Although tempted to use a photo from my Thanksgiving backpacking trip in Canyonlands National Park, I couldn't let the year pass without a depiction of an authoritative presence in my home in Colorado — the West Wind. Autumn was punctuated with impressive gales, often blowing hurricane-force during weekend outings on nearby mountains. It blows at home, too, and we often return from a trip away to find our Iditarod tripod toppled, branches strewn across the driveway, or door mats and buckets blown a hundred yards away. I am forging an appreciation for the West Wind, for the strength it demands and the intensity it adds to otherwise bland sunny days. 

December: Fossil Creek

Similar to past years, we spent the Christmas and New Years holidays on a "training trip" in Fairbanks, Alaska. This included a five-day hike through the White Mountains, where we pulled our sleds into the narrow corridor of Fossil Creek on a trail that hadn't been traveled in a number of days. The fresh tracks from a pack of wolves pressed into wind drifts, reminding us of their intimidating proximity. In four days temperatures never rose above zero, and we saw as low as -36. Even though I felt remarkably strong and well-prepared for this trip, I couldn't deny the primal fear creeping around the edges. It was a wonderful journey that I'll write about soon, but I wanted to post by 2017 photos before I went too far into January.

Happy New Year! I really do believe 2018 will be better. 

Photo posts from years past:

2006
2007
2008
2009
2010 part one, part two
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016

Halcyon days

Beat and I are returning to Alaska for the holidays, a yearly tradition that we skipped last year because we moved to Colorado, "which already has winter" ... until we realized it doesn't. Actually, although I miss seeing my family, I love going "home" for Christmas. Alaska at solstice is uniquely magical. I'm really looking forward to this trip. 

Because we planned some ambitious overnights near Fairbanks, I had planned to take it easy this week — a bit of a "rest week" to shore up strength that will be sorely needed for the difficulties ahead. On Monday I wiled away the afternoon with work. When I finally looked up from the computer, it was too late to drive to town and go to the gym. 

With an hour until sunset, I opted for a short run on my regular route. I walked out the door feeling sleepy and sluggish, but as soon as my feet hit the dirt, my legs felt refreshingly light. A mile buzzed on my watch, and when I looked down, I was surprised to be moving so fast* (a relative term) when this pace was so easy* (also relative.)

I tend to have a lot of fun with exercise when I'm experiencing an "upswing" in my health. I don't push myself hard — because during downswings I have to push hard just to move forward, so I'm not inclined to continue the practice when it's not necessary. Instead I relax, and relish the exhilaration of a temporary but joyful ability "to run and not be weary." I passed the trailhead and made a last-minute decision to head up to Green Mountain. Glances at my watch revealed more pleasant surprises ... so easy! So fast! (all relative.) 

Ice packed the trail and I took careful steps, but still stayed well ahead of my usual paces. The final pitch to the peak was a patchwork of ice and rocks. I scrambled upward, using my knuckles when needed. Just as I hit the peak, the sky lit up with an incredible crimson sunset. So beautiful! So late! I donned the headlamp that I stuffed in my pocket before I left the house. I had nothing else on me — no water, no camera, no phone. I was angry about my inability to take a photo, and then reminded myself that it's more important to experience the fullness of a moment, rather than get caught up in the futility of documenting beauty.

I picked my way downhill, crab-walking a few spots, as the sky became brighter and redder, and dammit, that spot right there would be perfect framing for a photograph. Why do I care so much? About taking photos of another (yawn) sunset? I smirked at this annoying aspect of my personality, and continued to lope down the trail, alternating brief glances between the sketchy ice and the stunning sky, yet never missing a step or slowing my pace. One of my best runs in months. 

After another great run on Tuesday, I noticed 60-degree temperatures in the forecast for Wednesday. Oh well, so much for taking a rest week. The last day of autumn brought my last long ride of 2017 — sunny, warm, and although not quite calm, the cooling wind was not unwelcome. 

I aimed for one of my many Colorado nemeses, Caribou Road. It's steep and coated in ball-bearing gravel, but then again everything around here is steep and coated in loose gravel, even pavement, so I'm not sure what makes Caribou Road so hard. But it gets me every time. By the time I grind past the stone facade of a long-abandoned mining town, I want to die. Having "upswing" fitness doesn't change this, sadly. 

With searing lungs and lactic-acid-filled legs, I finally topped out at 10,200 feet. Temperatures were still in the high-40s, warm enough that I didn't need to put on a hat or gloves as I sat on the dry tundra and made a picnic out of two almond bars. "This is almost nicer than any day in summer up here," I thought ... one day before the winter solstice.

I had a little more time to spare, so I continued along FR 505. Old snow maintained surprising depth in the forest, but the trail was nicely packed down and 90 percent rideable with skinny tires. Problems arose because the tires aren't studded, and the trail was occasionally coated in white ice that was impossible to discern from packed powder. A few tire slips alerted me to the dangerous game of roulette I was playing, but I chose to ignore the risk in favor of snow biking! In summer! (Oh right, it's December.) There was no surprise when the tires finally washed out and I slammed into hard ice, bruising my hip, shoulder, and a goose-egg-susceptible spot on my upper shin. Arrrrgh!

"You deserved that, you idiot," I grumbled as I limped back to the gate.

All was forgiven as I descended Caribou and swooped around the singletrack surrounding Mud Lake. The afternoon light was gorgeous and I still didn't need a jacket. "This really is the most wonderful time of the year," I thought.


With Solstice, winter came roaring into Colorado, and the temperature plummeted 50 degrees. When I woke up to take out the trash on Thursday morning, it was 10 degrees and snowing.


Again, I'd planned to go to the gym during the day, because missing two weeks of strength training would be unconscionable. But then Beat texted me and said the roads into town were bad ... well, the roads are bad! I suppose I'll go for a hike instead.


My bruised right leg was quite sore from my bike crash, and conditions were not conducive to easy walking — 2 to 4 inches of dry, powdery snow masked rocks and old ice. So I needed to wear studded shoes, while hiking over and around slippery boulders that I could not see. Stumbling and swearing became frequent occurrences, but it was such a beautiful afternoon.

 A single sunbeam pierced the fog, casting a bright spotlight on the shortest day of the year.

At Bear Peak I sat for a few minutes, hoping the setting sun would cast more intriguing light patterns through the fog. But it only took a few minutes to remember that 10 degrees and breezy is actually pretty cold, and not conducive to summit picnics.

The descent was fairly awful. I don't want to talk about it, except for I do, because this blog understands me and my clumsy lamentations. Despite moving about as slowly and deliberately as possible, I could not keep my feet stuck to the ground. In a third of a mile I slipped on snow-covered rocks and fell at least three times, knocking my butt or my bruised right leg. After I cleared the steep part of the ridge, I spent 20 minutes convinced that I had dislocated my thumb. But it feels better now. Everything is fine. All's well that ends well.

Hopefully I'll figure out how to walk on snow in Alaska. Until then — welcome, winter. I have missed you. 

Finally launched some training

Here I am on another Monday morning, face scrunched like child called upon to answer a math problem as I try to conjure article ideas for a proposal. When nothing comes, I migrate over to this blog, which is better than Twitter, right? 

"Your problem," I tell myself, "is that you don't think like a normal person. You have only a vague concept of what other people find interesting. I mean, you're still blissed out about dragging a sled over bare gravel. Who does that?" 

 On Sunday, Beat and I finally got out for our first sled-drag of the season after giving up on snow. Sure, it's been snowing in and around Boulder since September, but subsequent days of 60 degrees means it never sticks around long enough to plan an excursion. I'm still riding my regular mountain bike without studded tires because snow and ice is absent nearly all the way to the Continental Divide.

Below is a photo I took last Wednesday in Golden Gate State Park at 9,500 feet, when I was coasting along on my bike. I felt so strong that I became mildly suspicious about Beat installing an electric motor when I wasn't looking, to help me feel better about myself. (Several months ago, he made a similar move with a power meter. It's a fun data-collecting tool, I admit, but usually it makes me feel worse about myself.)

For this ride, though, I recorded my highest long-ride power reading yet, without applying even close to the usual perceived effort. Yes! Back on the upswing! Just like that, the daunting world takes on a notably brighter hue for no reason besides a better balance of hormones. This is another reason I believe my writing efforts have suffered in 2017, because I no longer trust what I feel or perceive. Whereas I used to ruminate on observations in nature and reach for connections to the wider human experience, now I just think, "Bah. Thyroid anxiety again."

Last Friday, out of curiosity more than anything, I paid for a blood test from one of those private online lab services. I'm nearing a point in treatment where my doctor will only request labs every two to three months, and I'll see her once a year. But, like a person who uses a power meter, I'm interested in the week-to-week fluctuations. I doubt I'll have these tests done often, as they're still $60 (as opposed to the $400(!) that my insurance company is billed and the $2.75 that I pay out of pocket.) But I may treat myself to an occasional blood test when I'm feeling particularly good or bad, or just different, to eventually piece together possible correlations.

Right now my numbers are quite good ... staying steady in the near-normal range despite having my medication dose cut in half. And I feel better, although I'm starting to have more of the symptoms that I tend to have when my T3 is on the low side — daytime sleepiness and feeling cold when I'm not moving, even when the wood stove is cranking and it's nearly 80 degrees in the house. But the other scary symptoms that I associated with times of fluctuation, such as hair loss and brain fog, are subsiding.

The lows definitely feel less intense and more infrequent, and I tell myself that my body is still undulating toward balance. Still, I can't help but draw patterns. Since I started treatment last February, there seems to be general two-month curves in my health:

February and March 2017: Bad.
April and May: Good!
June and July: Bad.
August and September: Good! Even better!
October and November: Bad. But perhaps not so bad.
December and ... January? Good! Perhaps this will be the best yet!
February and March 2018 ... Doh!

 An ongoing dream has reflected the nervousness I feel about February and March. In my dream, I'm about to set out on the Iditarod Trail. For strange reasons of the subconscious, I'm using a backpack (my old 50-liter Golite Jam to be specific) to carry my gear. But when I look inside my bag, it's nearly empty. Or a water bladder has burst and everything is wet. Or I've forgotten food. Actually, each time I have this dream, the gear faux pas is a little different. But every time, the conclusion I make — even while filled with real dread that follows me into the waking morning — is "Oh well. I'll make it work." Then I take off at a full sprint from the starting line, which is located at the Aurora Dog Mushers trail system in Big Lake, where I started the 2006 Susitna 100 (I just love this about dreams. So random.)

It's strange to have this same dream so many times, but it reflects the way I feel right now — I may or may not be physically prepared for upcoming winter races. I genuinely fear this potential two-month curve and the notion that even if there is no pattern, how I'll feel on race week is largely not in my control. But I'll show up anyway, and I'll hope for the best. 

 So Beat and I headed up Niwot Ridge for our first real training run of the season. The base dusting of snow that fell on Thursday had been mostly swept away, so we ground over sharp rocks, loose dirt, and roots. The scraping of plastic sounds terrible, but Beat designs sleds for this. Winter conditions in Alaska are so volatile these days that you go in assuming that the majority of your time might be spent on open tundra, scree, or glare ice, unless there's a big storm, in which case hip-deep snow isn't unthinkable. There's still enough snow that backpacks aren't practicable (despite my dream), but a sled needs to be robust enough to handle rough terrain.

So nearly snowless Colorado mountains provided realistic training conditions, although not exactly the traditional kind of "fun." My sled was considerably lighter than Beat's (he threw in 25 pounds of dumbbells for good measure.) But it was still 35-40 pounds, dragging like an anvil on high-friction dirt. This type of effort pulls hard on hamstrings and hips, which is why it's best to actually train with a sled — and start sooner than 10 weeks before the race. Still, I felt fantastic. I was working so hard that my mind was the tranquil surface of a sea, a blue slate masking the turbulent depths of an ocean. My breathing was steady and desperation was absent. Nothing could break my reverie, even as Beat occasionally turned around to remind me that we weren't actually having fun.

"When are we going to stop this charade?" he asked, standing on bone-dry, rocky doubletrack.

"Just a little farther," I panted.

Despite the terrible conditions, and agreeing from the start we wouldn't go all that far, we ended up at the research station on the ridge, 2,500 feet higher. The final mile was utterly brutal — tracing the punchy tongues of snow drifts into a frigid, blasting wind. A later check of the numbers revealed 55 mph wind gusts and an air temperature of 15 degrees, for a windchill of -10F. I didn't apply any more layers, but still felt mostly comfortable (except for my face, which a buff did little to protect from being pummeled by ice shards.) Waves of sastrugi were so wind-hardened that we barely left footprints, unless we were punching into knee-deep powder as sharp and fine as shattered glass.

At the research station, we ducked into a shack where a plywood bunk and a metal folding chair provided luxurious accommodations for lunch. Wind continued to rattle the thin walls as Beat told stories of all of the worst places he's walked in Alaska, where he huddled in the collapsed shell of a tent on Yukon ice just to get out of the wind. Even the most basic shelter has unmeasurable value when it matters.

Returning to the gale felt like imminent death, for a minute or two, until we donned our sleds and commenced rushing downhill. Our bodies adjusted, and contentedness returned. Humans are amazingly adaptable, even as we resist change at every turn. This gives me hope that, regardless of "patterns," I'll fare just fine with whatever comes my way. 

Here's to my yesterday

Last weekend, Beat scheduled work meetings in Mountain View, which also coincided with our friend Liehann's birthday. Liehann has a 5-month-old baby, so for a present he requested the "gift of time" — a day-long ride on his favorite route over the Santa Cruz mountains. His wife, Trang, contacted us and proposed we make a trip to the Bay Area to join him, as a surprise. I haven't been back to the Silicon Valley since we moved away 20 months ago, so I was excited about the prospect. I miss this place. It's not that I want to move back. Really, I miss all of the places I've lived, and many I've only briefly visited. Nostalgia runs through my blood like oxygen. Each renewed memory is a breath of fresh air. 

Trang picked us up at the airport on Thursday night, after telling Liehann she needed to "pick up your present." I'm guessing he thought it was going to be something really cool like a new bike, but he still acted happy to see us when we walked in the door. We immediately launched into the 90-minute task to convert Liehann's somewhat neglected bikes into workable machines. I claimed his Moots, which is just like my bike, only larger, with subtly different features. A poor choice of a cheap saddle notwithstanding, Stranger Moots and I quickly bonded. Within a mile of leaving Liehann's house Friday morning, I felt like I was riding my own beloved mountain bike alongside heavy traffic on De Anza Boulevard, just like old times.

My destination was Mount Umunhum, one of the taller summits in the Santa Cruz Mountains at 3,500 feet. It's home to a defunct air force radar surveillance tower known to locals as "The Cube." This peak was closed to the general public for decades because of hazardous material concerns and access disputes. But its distinctive landmark made this mountain particularly enticing. Whenever I rode through Sierra Azul, I would stare up at the looming monolith and ponder the possibility of secret trails. In 2013 I attended a Mid-Peninsula Open Space District meeting to advocate for bike access, and learned that MidPen was developing the area for a planned opening in 2017. "Ugh, we have to wait four years?" I remember thinking. And, "I hope I'm not still here in 2017." (I moved to California with low expectations, and my appreciation and love continued to grow throughout the years.) When Umunhum finally opened in September 2017, I scrolled through California friends' social media posts and felt tinges of jealousy.

Friday was a beautiful day for a visit. Temperatures were in the low 70s, and it felt truly strange to ride a bike through a space absolutely devoid of wind. Despite warnings about popularity and crowds, there was almost no one on the road or at the summit. The weirdness of The Cube did not disappoint. I hiked a spiraling trail to the true summit and sat on a rock, eating one of three Nature Valley bars I'd packed for a 55-mile, 6-hour ride. (I'd left the house with the wrong perception of Unumhum's proximity to Sunnyvale.) Then I hopped on MidPen's new trail for the long descent. It's a buffed-out wheelchair ramp ... and I loved it, so much. I do miss the flowing ease of California trails.

On Saturday morning we were up at the crack of dawn to squeeze in Liehann's long birthday ride before his friends arrived for dinner. As a new father who also recently took on a tough new project at work, his riding for the past several months has amounted to occasional commutes to the office. So you could say he was fairly undertrained, but enthusiastic. We set out for the route we often used while training for our long bike adventures, the "Big Basin Big Loop" — which Strava tells me I only rode 10 times during my five years in the region, but in my memory it's dozens. Morning temperatures hovered near freezing, and a thick coat of frost clung to grass in the shade. (Geez, there's more snow here than there is in Boulder, I mumbled at one point.) It was interesting to observe the altered shape of Stevens Creek Canyon after last year's flooding — not-subtle reminders that change is constant.

We stopped for lunch at the exact corner in Big Basin that at some point had been designated the lunch spot. Trang made delicious rice squares for snacks, and after grabbing a share, I somehow managed to forget all of the other food I intended to bring. The lunchtime assessment of my supply revealed I was working with about 1,000 calories, which probably would have been fine had I not already felt a bit depleted from not carrying enough food the previous day. I felt pretty silly about the oversight, and thought I could get by rationing my food. But after several more hours I felt dizzy, and swallowed my pride to beg for fruit snacks from Beat.

The hours ground on and the landscape became more dreamlike — probably because I was mildly bonked, and also fully saturated in nostalgia. The towering Big Basin redwoods ... the almost oppressive darkness and mid-day cold in the Gazos Creek forest ... the subtle aromas of coastal air along Cloverdale Road ... the strange pumpkin patch near Loma Mar ... the harsh contrast of light and shadow beneath the Pescadero canopy ... the disconcertingly blurry leaves carpeting Haul Road (okay, I was quite bonked by that point.)

Besides the bonk, I had a good day. For that I can probably credit the low altitude, although I like to think I'm gaining a better grasp on my breathing again. When my breathing remains steady, my muscles feel stronger, my head is clearer, and I'm an all-around happier person. Strava would again reveal that, no, I'm not quite as strong here as I was two years ago. Right now, though, there's more inherent value in simply feeling something resembling strength. After Beat gave me snacks, I felt like I could breathe fire and sprint up a mountain.

Beat pushed a tough pace for most of the 85-mile ride and Liehann held on like a champion, only slowing near the top of the grueling climb up West Alpine. He still agreed to a longer trail diversion to the top of Black Mountain, another favorite spot for Beat and me.

We were lucky to arrive right before sunset, and watch the sky light up over the Pacific. More snacks were consumed, and everyone was giddy.

As we rolled home in the fading light, Liehann demonstrated his impeccable luck by sustaining the day's first mechanical — a flat tire — on the only bike of his that sees regular maintenance. But it was quickly remedied, and we returned just in time for birthday dinner — an interesting fusion of French raclette, Vietnamese barbecue, and chocolate fondue for dessert. A great day.

Beat and I had one more day in town, so on Sunday we set out to visit the 1,200-year-old Coast Redwood called Old Tree. Although not necessary, we like to start this pilgrimage from Long Ridge, and descend deep into the frosty canopy of Portola Redwoods State Park. This afforded my third view of the Pacific for the weekend, and my third gasp at the sweeping expanse of blue. We often describe ourselves as "mountain people" or "ocean people" and I'm definitely the former, but miss the ocean all the same.

This quiet grove is one of our favorite spots in the region. There's a reverence surrounding Old Tree, that unspoken wisdom of the ages extending beyond our meager lifetimes. I love touching the gnarled bark of Old Tree and imagining the centuries it has witnessed, the storms and fires and floods it has endured, and the unlikely way it survived the aggression with which humans reshaped this land. Sometimes I trick myself into the superstition that I can stand beneath this 300-foot-tall giant and absorb some of its power of rejuvenation — a kind of healing wish. Always I see in Old Tree some hope for the future, that even as everything changes, beauty endures.

The run (cough, hike) out is a rewarding slog — a redwood forest obstacle course punctuated by a steep and sun-exposed fireroad climb that always feels like the surface of an oven, even in December. After 15 miles of this, my quads were nicely battered — and as has been the case recently, I was ecstatic to feel the effects of hard efforts that have nothing to do with my lungs. Almost unintentionally, it turned into a hard-effort weekend and a "best of" tour of my old stomping grounds. I hope to carry all of this good energy into the near future. 

Pretending it's not December

'Tis the season — that time of year when everyone (meaning a small sampling of friends and acquaintances) is planning 2018 outdoor adventures and races. I see their posts on social media and admit to feeling a small sting of resentment ... "Oh, look at you with your high confidence in a predictable fitness arc built on training and preparation ..." 

Beat has been sending me links to enticing events, but I've resisted the temptation to sign up for anything past next March. The sting of 2017's disappointments and failures is still fresh, and my body hasn't given any consistent indication that it's going to cooperate for me next year, either. I feel like I should continue working on acceptance and nurturing other interests rather than beating my head against the same wall. 

Of course, I'm as bad as the sugar addict who swears off sweets in the morning only to eat a giant cookie for lunch (which, incidentally, is something I would do.) This resolve to not sign up for any more races completely ignores the two huge events I'm supposedly training for right now, which are happening in just over two short months. ("80 days!" someone posted. I prefer this characterization because 80 sounds like a comfortable buffer of days, while two months sounds soon.) What gives me any confidence that I'll have what it takes to survive the Iditarod or White Mountains 100? Nothing, to be honest. Besides, I suppose, the reality that I've done it before. 

My most recent thyroid numbers have fallen into normal range. In theory I should be feeling better. I am, I suppose, but my breathing is still on the rough side, and there hasn't been much pep in my recent efforts. On the positive side, my weight-lifting has rapidly improved in the past few weeks. I almost feel like a real athlete again every time I hit the gym. This leads me to believe my body isn't consuming muscle right now (which is something hyperthyroidism does.) It also sparks a temptation to just go full gym rat and forget all of the running and biking. Of course, I'd probably last three days before missing the outdoors so terribly that I'd come crawling back, in the literal sense. I am a addict. 

The rough breathing is probably tied to multiple issues and won't be easily solved. I've had multiple discussions and tests with my endocrinologist and asthma doctor, and they both agree that I have allergic asthma. Asthma has nothing to do with my thyroid, although these numbers affect my heart rate and therefore breathing, and the autoimmune responses may be connected. This autumn has been particularly bad for allergies, with little moisture and lots of wind. I let myself believe that if winter would just come, everything would be all right. I'd be relieved of this dust-filled air. I'd actually be able to drag my sled, and put my recently boosted strength to better use. And if my sluggishness doesn't improve, it won't matter because winter is guilt-free slog season. So I continue to hope for snow, even as the high-pressure ridge lingers. 

The snowless late autumn even extended to Utah, where I managed a couple of fun outings between the Canyonlands backpacking trip and returning home to dusty Colorado. My dad and I hiked to the ridge above Desolation Lake, with views toward Park City. It was 63 degrees when we left the trailhead, and 37 and snaining when we returned three hours later. Sadly the cold front didn't stick around long enough to bring much precipitation.

On my way home I opted to drive I-80, mostly to take a quick jaunt up the west ridge of Grandeur Peak on my way out of town. This is perhaps my favorite hike from the Salt Lake Valley, because it's short enough to wrap up in a couple of hours, and although it gains 3,500 feet in just over two miles, it somehow feels more gentle than other routes of similar steepness. From the peak I could see the beginnings of a smoggy inversion, and felt grateful that I was leaving town. Salt Lake is my hometown and I still think it's an ideal place to reside; however, I suspect that I no longer possess the lungs to tolerate the awful air quality of a Salt Lake winter. If life brings me back here, I may have no choice but to become a seasonal gym rat.

Looking east at the Wasatch Mountains. No snow, no snow, as far as the eye can see.


The week in Boulder was very warm, with temperatures rising into the low 60s. It was almost enough to make me forget that the calendar had rolled into December, which is also good for my denial that there are only 80 days until the Iditarod. Then a snowless front moved through, and suddenly it was cold. I understood this on an intellectual level, but it was still a shock to the system. Wednesday presented an opportunity for a six-hour solo ride — still one of my favorite ways to spend a half day regardless of how healthy or fit I'm feeling on any given morning. Wednesday morning also brought temperatures in the low teens, and a 15-20mph west wind for exhilarating subzero windchills.

"Better put the pogies on," I thought. Then I proceeded to severely under-dress, because I don't even understand what subzero windchill feels like anymore, given my last ride in 60-degree temps. From the outset I felt awful, with that wind needling into my core until my knees and shoulders ached with cold. My hands and feet were dead slabs of meat. It was stupid, but I was convinced I just need to ride harder to warm up, even as the cold wind drove dust particles into my lungs until I was coughing up gunk and sucking water to spit it out (that is, until my hose froze, and then I didn't have water for four hours.)

It was all so stupid is because I was carrying multiple layers in my backpack. After two hours of purposeless suffering, I stopped to put them on — every last piece, even though I knew this may mean more suffering when it came time to descend 4,000 feet into town. Encased in a virtual space suit, I almost instantly felt better. Windchill was the sole cause of two hours of misery. I'd say oh well, live and learn ... but apparently I never do.

It was a great ride in the space suit, though. The lower mountains had received a dusting of snow overnight. I churned up Caribou Road until the powder was too deep for my semi-skinny tires, did a little snow dance while unsuccessfully trying to thaw my water hose with my hands, and started the long descent into Boulder. Wearing wind-proof layers, with the piercing gusts at my back, I felt like I was floating through a bubble of silence and warmth. As it turned out, descending was somehow warmer than climbing. Next time I will just start out my rides in the space suit.

Beat and I are now headed to the Bay Area for a weekend, so my pseudo-summer will extend further yet. Although our time there is short, I'm really looking forward to visiting old haunts ... both for nostalgia, and to compare my current fitness on routes I did regularly two years ago. I suspect I will love the first and mourn the second, but knowledge is always better (unless I'm counting days until the Iditarod, in which case I'd really rather not know.)