Gear junkie

"If you always use a compass to draw a circle and a ruler to draw a square, you will always remain a slave."- Song Zijing

"Next life, trail runner. One pair of shoes. Maybe one of those water-bottle holder fanny packs," Eszter Horanyi, talented endurance mountain biker, adventurer and skier extraordinaire, musing on the paradox of gear geekery.

I like to say it was the inspiration of the Swan Crest 100 that did it — but really, it was the frustration of TransRockies. With a mountain bike dangling precariously on my shoulder and my legs buried to my knees in mud, I resolved then and there to take up trail running.

The mountain bike stage race in the Canadian Rockies last August was a ton of fun, but after four and a half hours of dragging the bike through foul-smelling, cow-stomped sludge to gain a mere 25 kilometers of ground, I had an epiphany: I carried this bike over mountain passes. I carried this bike down headwalls. I carried this bike across rivers and up impossibly steep trails. I carried this bike through a seemingly endless bog of mud. This race would be a whole lot easier without this bike.

I love riding bikes. I like the flow of smooth trails, the quickness of pavement, the crunch of gravel, the challenge of climbs and the exhilaration of descents. But there are times that bikes feel like anchors — riddled with mechanicals, demanding endless maintenance, clogged with mud, limited by skill and strength and the restrictions of wheels. During the Bear 100, Beat asked me about the farthest distance I had traveled on foot in one day. I started to cite my Grand Canyon hikes, at 26 miles, but stopped myself when I remembered the Iditarod. “I pushed my bike over Rainy Pass,” I said. “About 50 miles in the deep snow. It took me 27 hours.” And the whole time I was dragging that heavy, suddenly useless anchor.

I had this fantasy about being free from all of it — free from gear, free from responsibility, free from expensive and highly breakable bike parts, free from trail restrictions and rules, free to just lace up a simple pair of shoes, fill a simple bottle with clear stream water, and just run. There would be nothing to break down, nothing to maintain, nothing to hoist over awkward obstacles, no restricting myself to staying within the lines if I didn’t feel like it. There would just be me, running up the mountains, down the mountains, wherever I felt like running. Free.

And then I entered the Susitna 100.

I couldn’t have picked a more gear-intensive trail run. Sleeping bag. Bivy. Closed-cell foam mattress. Down coat. Wind shell. Fleece socks. Gortex shoes. Hydration vest. Sled. And on and on. The list is quite long. When I throw it all together, it’s downright shocking. I scour my list for things to cross off, but I can’t. I need it, I tell myself. All of it.

(Click on image if you want to actually read it.)

The other day, Beat accused me of being a gear junkie, because I always manage to choose the most gear-intensive versions of the outdoor sports I enjoy. I had to concede. Once, way back in a far-away but simpler life, I was just a hiker. I owned one pair of hiking boots. Then I started multiday hiking with grotesquely heavy loads of camping gear on my back. Then I got a road bike, panniers and a bunch of extra gear so I could go road touring, followed by yet more bikes and yet more gear for mountain biking, working my way up to the most heavily laden of them all, snow bike touring, along with snowshoeing and mountaineering … then GPS units, small and large backpacks, bike bags, poles, crampons, ice ax, clothing layers, coats, mittens, shells, socks, more socks, boots, trail-running shoes, more shoes, and finally all of this Susitna 100 crap.

“But I need it,” I reasoned. “I’m a frail human who wants to run across Alaska’s Susitna Valley amid the ghostly beautiful scenery of winter. I need it to survive.”

And deep down, I am grateful for everything my gear has enabled me to do. It’s opened my freedom of exploration to realms I could have never dreamed to venture otherwise. Traveling 350 miles across Southcentral Alaska, over the Alaska Range and into the Interior in February? I wouldn’t have survived a night without my gear. 2,780 miles from Banff to Mexico in 24 days? I certainly needed my bike to help with that. Running the Susitna 100? I can’t wait for that challenge. If I need the stuff in my sled, so be it.

But in my next life, I’m going to be a barefoot runner in the Montana mountains. One water bottle. Huckleberries for food. Maybe some bug spray.

Either way, life is good.

Winter road rides

On Monday, I awoke to fresh snow.

I giddily packed my commuter bag with all the things I would need for a ride after work and launched my snow bike into the cold morning. The wide wheels glided through six inches of untracked powder like a swan in a tranquil lake. I grinned and pedaled faster, racing to match the bike's effortless glide. A wake of snow spray coated my jeans and I giggled out loud at the feeling of quiet weightlessness, floating in a fountain of powder, like an urban snowboarder.

Suddenly, the rear wheel swung sideways, launching my formerly weightless body into the cold air. It was one of those suspended moments, slow-motion terror. I remember the soft outline of the sun through the morning haze, and then the metallic taste of pain as my elbow slammed into the ground. I laid for a couple seconds, dazed, feeling the trickle of melting snow on my face, and then I stood up. The bike had spun a complete 180 and lay toppled beside a cleared half-circle of glare ice at least five feet wide. The contents of my commuter bag were strewn in wreckage — a full yard sale. I gathered the dented apple, the smashed bagel, the snow-drenched clothing, and the broken yogurt container sprawled beside an eruption of blueberry blobs. An orange had bounced a full 30 feet away. So much for lunch. Still shocked by the impact, I tenderly remounted my bike and soft-pedaled the rest of the way to work, terrified of hidden ice.

At 5:20 p.m., I left work to a full-blown blizzard. There would be no extra miles tonight. The wind howled as shards of snow stung my exposed neck and forced their way into my still-sore throat. I couldn't tell the street from the sky. The white out turns the cars and intersections and buildings into flickering shadows. Even with goggles I felt blind. I put my head down and ground the pedals toward the wind. On the other side of the bridge, I ran into my friend, Bill, who was also returning from work. "Man, commuting sucks," I grumbled in an open moment of weakness. I doubted Bill heard me over the wind. He had a huge grin on his face. "This is awesome," he said. "This is so much fun." I forget Bill likes blizzards. I can't say I understand, but he did manage to deflate my bubble of self pity. We churned in the general direction of home, hopeful we were still in Missoula on not on the top of some forlorn mountain, and plotted a bike ride for Tuesday.

A foot of new snow meant trail-riding was out. We decided to ride the Deer Creek loop from Pattee Canyon down to East Missoula, about 25 miles on packed snow and a bit of exposed pavement. The sky cleared up and the temperature dropped to the low teens. I have a bad habit of commuting to work with only the clothes I wear at work, a soft shell, liner gloves, and a hat. For the bonus ride I brought tights, gaiters, a thin balaclava and a fleece pullover. It still wasn't enough. I shivered on the climb, and I knew I was probably in for an uncomfortable ride down.

"It's 10 degrees," Bill announced at the top of the canyon. I mounted my headlight and put on the last of my extra layers, then followed Bill into the brutal descent. I was decently prepared for a run in those temperatures, but I had nearly forgotten just how cold winter bicycle riding can be, with the added windchill and periods of lower intensity. All of this is amplified tenfold when you have to coast for 15 minutes on a painfully long, gradual downhill, but can't crank up the speed lest a patch of ice meet you unaware. There's nothing you can do but clench your teeth and take your beating, bidding goodbye to the feeling in your toes and fingers as you dream about an anti-cyclist's-fantasy where there are no descents, only toasty warm sweaty climbs.

I knew I deserved it so I could laugh about it. At the bottom of the canyon we still had five miles to pedal into town on ever-more-icy, flat pavement. It was impossible to work up any heat. I held my hands in clenched fists in my pogies, hoping brakes wouldn't be necessary anytime soon. Bill seemed perplexed, and admitted he too was painfully cold. "This is good acclimatization," I reasoned. "Like taking cold baths. Getting ready for Susitna." Bill did not laugh.

Remembering Bill's blizzard grin, I said, "This is one of the things I like about winter activity. You can't quantify anything. Sometimes it's really hard, and sometimes the same things are not all that hard. But it's never easy."

Bill nodded, and I think he understood, but his face was probably frozen. We parted ways and I followed my commuter route home, thinking only of warm showers, and nothing of glare ice.

Super Sunday

The first Sunday of February rolled around and it seemed prudent to continue my lifelong tradition of completely ignoring the Superbowl. After Beat and I went running at Blue Mountain yesterday, we determined the trail to be in excellent condition for travel of the wheeled variety. We've been so running-focused these past months that he hasn't had too many chances to really try out his Fatback. The Big Boring Game promised a whole afternoon of almost zero traffic on both roads and trails, so we set out for what we decided would be a "short" snow bike ride.

The lower mountain is still coated in ice, necessitating a spiked walk both up and down the first mile of road. Beat also took the opportunity to test out his Big Boots.

We felt relieved that Sunday's chosen mode of travel negated the city's promises of certain death on Blue Mountain. After all, bicycles are much safer than sleds.

Once we got past the glare ice, the trail continued to be intermittently icy and hard-packed. The tread and ski tracks left behind by snowmobiles had frozen into concrete-like ruts, making the riding surprisingly technical at times.

On the plus side, every open field was covered in rideable crust, making for fun diversions from the uphill grind.

The steady climb made us work hard for our miles, and Beat noted that we were consistently making slower time than we had during our run, when we not only lacked the advantage of wheels, but also were dragging ~20-pound sleds. Snow fell steadily throughout the day, and soon the ruts and divots were masked by an inch of fresh powder. I knew the descent was going to be equally slow and tough.

We made it seven miles up the road during our run yesterday, and wanted to see how much farther we could ride today. We passed mile marker 9 before the trail started to become too soft and punchy to ride more than a few yards at a time, about 3.5 hours, 2,500 feet of climbing and 15 miles total into the ride. So much for a short day. The ride down really was difficult — so many ruts and exposed ice that it really was impossible to just let go and coast. Sort of like riding a rocky road where the rocks are covered in really slick mud. But we took it slow and relished in the technical challenge, keeping the spikes on our boots just in case we had to bail.

But it is fun to be way up in the mountains on a snowy February afternoon when most people are stuck inside, gorging themselves with beer and nachos to stave off the pounding boredom that is professional football. I feel bad they had to miss out, but grateful for the silence that allowed me to really enjoy the crunch of fat tires on snow.

And, for comparison's sake, here are the numbers from the Garmin GPS. Running versus snow biking up Blue Mountain:
Saturday Sled Run
Sunday Snow Ride