That's Banff

Ah, Banff. What would my life have become without it? Leslie, Keith and I still joke about what might have been if I had never started the Tour Divide in June 2009. I came close, so close, to backing out. I remember standing with my bike box at the Salt Lake airport thinking, "Should I do this? Do I really want to do this? I remember holding my phone in my hands and nearly calling my parents to return and take me home. But then I didn't. I got on that plane, and set the rest of my life in motion. I arrived in Banff and met Keith and Leslie, the catalyst for so many adventures since. I finished the Tour Divide, prompting a perspective shift without which I probably wouldn't have left Juneau, which means I never would have moved to Missoula, which means I wouldn't have met Danni (who Keith introduced me to), so then I would have never met Beat. Speaking of Beat, I miss him. The only sad thing about Banff is that he couldn't be here this time around.

Today, Keith and I rode from Lake Louise to Bow Summit on the Icefields Parkway ... about 50 miles round trip. Keith let me ride one of his beautiful Rocky Mountain carbon road bikes. If I were a gear-inclined person I might even remember the make and model, but unfortunately I do not. I do know it rides smooth and is so feather-light that I could fit two and a half of these sweet babies inside my Pugsley. I still maintain that, for the most part, bikes are bikes and what matters most is that they take you where you want to go in the way you want to go there ... but I am starting to understand why roadies love their sport.

Here are some pictures from the Icefields Parkway. It was a gorgeous ride. I secretly wanted to pedal the whole 230 km to Jasper, but I didn't want to impose that kind of a dare on my friend Keith, who between work and prepping for this North Dakota trip had enough to worry about.

Wide-open views and skiable snow at 6,000 feet. Had I known what the mountain snowpack was like right now, I might have pressed for a snowshoe outing to a high peak over road biking. But the riding was plenty fun.

This place is OK, I guess.

Even at 50+ miles, the ride was quite relaxed and almost effortless. We had a strong tailwind on the climb, which did translate to a harsh headwind upon descent - but we also had 2,000 feet of elevation to lose. The wind was strong and the downhill grades were gentle, but they were no match for light bikes and legs fueled by warm air, empowering scenery and a summit Twix Bar. I felt great. Keith will probably be annoyed at me for saying so, but I kinda felt like we had motorbiked 50 miles rather than pedaled.

We still wrapped it up in 3:14 even with multiple photo stops and our 20-minute Twix Bar break. As promised, Keith delivered lots of beautiful white snow. I'm a happy Californian.

After the road ride, I still had lots of energy so I decided to tackle Sulphur Mountain. I've climbed Sulphur at least once every time I've visited Banff, which for the record has been seven visits since June 2009. I've climbed this mountain beneath a splash of stars on a zero-degree evening in January. I've climbed in on hot summer afternoons in June and July. I've climbed it with runners on freshly packed snow in November. Today, I got to see it in its spring glory. Conditions were less than ideal. Leslie referred to the trail as a "ribbon of doom," which was an adequate description. The slushy, rotten snowpack started right at the gate and continued amid a minefield morass of postholes. An oh-so-narrow ribbon of foot-packed snow wound through the bumpy slush garden, and even a tiny deviation off the trail would land me in an ankle-twisting posthole or thigh-deep snow.

I was determined to "run" this trail as fast as I physically (and safely) could. It's 3.25 miles and 2,500 feet of climbing. My all-time fastest uphill hike was 57 minutes, last August, when I was in TransRockies race shape and the trail was completely dry. Today I strapped on my microspikes and plunged my poles into the slush minefield, and I had to run - when I could. Sweat streamed down my face and soaked my cycling jersey and tights despite a 45-degree chill. Sometimes I floundered and punched hip-deep holes, or wallowed by choice to get around a handful of slower hikers. The trail hardened and conditions improved just as the grade really got steep, but still I fought and ran. It was not a fast run. I became upset when the speed on my GPS dropped below 20-minute miles. But I assure you I was working as hard as I physically could and still have enough left in the tank for the descent. My heart rate remained solidly above 170 the entire climb.

And the final result? Despite a quarter-mile dead sprint (on sun-exposed soft snow) I couldn't get in under an hour. 1:03. I was happy with my time. I sat down on a picnic table, watched golden sunlight fade behind the snow-capped Rocky Mountains, and enjoyed my last evening in Banff. Tomorrow we leave for the prairie. But I couldn't have planned a more perfect prelude.

Kananaskis Country

Even though it's my second (Canadian) home, my own custom version of paradise, I was reluctant to come all the way to Banff first. Of course, I've wanted to ride the Maah Dah Hey Trail ever since I heard of it. When my Canadian friends organized a group tour in mid-May, I signed on before I had even thought through a single logistic. I first considered driving, but then I moved away from Montana. I looked into flying, but Alaska Airlines doesn't land anywhere near western North Dakota (although it might be fair to say that there really are no airports or even towns in western North Dakota.)

My friend Keith told me I should just come to Banff first, and drive down with them. "Fine," I thought to myself. "I will fly from San Jose to Calgary, with a three-hour layover in Seattle and another hour-long wait in customs, then drive an hour and a half from Banff to pack up the car and embark on a 14-hour horizon-line pavement odyssey across the prairie just to cross back over the border so I can ride a borrowed mountain bike in the middle of nowhere.

"Come a couple days early," Keith urged. "It's the off-season now but we'll find something fun to do. We'll go road riding! You like road riding now, right?"

I do like road riding and I do love Banff, but do I love it enough for what essentially adds up to 24 hours of travel, each way? "Fine," I said, "but only if you can promise me some snow. I miss it already."

"Not a problem," Keith said. "It's full-on spinter right now. I think today is January 125th."

So I flew to Canada, and inadvertently brought California with me. Late last week Keith reported six inches of fresh powder. By Tuesday morning, I awoke to 70 degrees, windless warm air, and not a cloud in the sky. Keith and I rode downtown for coffee and the streets were alive with people wearing shorts, sitting on outdoor benches, smiling in the sun. Friends gushed about "the first day of spring." I tried to hide my disappointment that I wasn't even going to be able to break out my arm warmers. "What can I say?" I replied. "Canada always puts on its best face when I come here. You're welcome."

Keith and I left town well after noon to embark on a road tour of Kananaskis Valley. Temperatures were warm, winds were light and traffic was nonexistent. The scenery was of course unconscionably incredible. Pure bikey heaven.

The Kananaskis Lakes. I believe this is the upper lake, still frozen in mid-May. As beautiful and summery as it was outside, evidence of the cold, hard winter was everywhere. The elk and deer were particularly scrawny. Mountain slopes billowed with powder and several feet of slush and ice lined the roads. Buds and leaves were still a distant dream.

And then there was this discovery - a point where the road crosses the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route at the Elk Pass trailhead. There was at least two feet of packed snow across the entire trail, at the bottom of the pass (the pass itself is about 1,200 feet higher.) And Elk Pass is just the first of dozens of higher passes across Canada, Montana, Wyoming and Colorado on the GDMBR. The Tour Divide starts in a month. And of course a lot can happen in a month, but something tells me this year's race is going to be particularly interesting to watch.

We wrapped up an awesome 55-mile ride with a lynx sighting.

Then home for a town tour on the tandem with Leslie, followed by sushi. Worth the trip? Without a doubt. And I still have one more day in Banff.

The writing process

In the winter of 2009-2010, I sat down to relive my vivid and often emotional journey surrounding my bike tour from Banff to Mexico during the 2009 Tour Divide. I usually came home from work around 11:30 p.m., fed my cat, made myself a peanut butter sandwich, and sprawled out on my bedroom floor in front of my tiny netbook computer. I often stayed up typing until 3:30 or 4 in the morning, and then I'd get up the next morning at 9 or 10, briefly peek outside into the white and gray morning, close my blinds to shut out the already minimal light trickling in from Alaska's winter sky, and type until I had to go to work at 2. If the morning was slightly more inviting I would go for a bike ride, and on my day(s) off I would occasionally venture outside my weird hermit lifestyle to visit friends. They'd ask me what I'd been doing and I'd shrug. "I've been .... sick." And to be honest, I felt sort of sick. My outdoor adventures and physical exercise had fallen by the wayside. I was one-track steamrolling through that book. Working on it brought a wash of intense memories and it was often the best part of my day. I took this strange and uncharacteristic behavior as a sign that I needed to make a major change in my life.

That's the short story about how my Tour Divide book came to be written. The major change I decided to make was to quit my job in Juneau and move to Anchorage to further pursue this project and perhaps start up another writing project. With the fun part all done, though, I was loathe to deal with the tedious work of analyzing and editing my text. I read a dozen books on the traditional publishing market and set to rework my simple adventure memoir into an elaborate book proposal package, which I modified, personalized and sent to six carefully researched agents. Four got back to me. Two weren't interested. Two requested my manuscript. One said he was intrigued but was unable to take on new clients for at least another six to eight months, and left it up to me to get back to him. Another gave me particularly positive feedback. She seemed very genuinely interested in representing me and asked me to send her my "platform" for further consideration.

Platform? I had a simple story; I didn't have a tell-all celebrity expose or amazing new diet or analysis on the war in Afghanistan, or anything one would normally associate with a focused marketing platform. I had already grown weary of the whole tedious process and applied for a new job in Montana that I was almost certain I was going to land. It had suddenly become a bad time to be mired in a big book promotion blitz. So, grasping at a meager hope that the word had suddenly come to mean something different than what I had studied, I asked her to be more specific. The response was both expected and discouraging. "How will you promote your book? How are you going to reach out to your audience? What networks are you a part of? What speaking engagements can you line up? Do you have resources for a potential book tour? Etc." I had dabbled in self-promotion two years earlier with "Ghost Trails," and was already starting to wonder what traditional publishers even offered beyond editing, printing and a stamp of approval. Since modern digital publishing and networking make editing and printing easy commodities to obtain, I was beginning to resent what seemed like an awful lot of work for a simple stamp of approval. With her assertion that I'd be responsible for essentially all book promotions, even the potential funding of them, the agent confirmed that all of my time and efforts could only achieve that one thing - a stamp of approval from an established publishing company. And not even a guaranteed one. "Screw that," I thought. "I'd rather have a job." I put the Tour Divide book back on the shelf. I never even wrote the agent back. Dropped one ball and burned one bridge. I did not consider it a loss.

The book industry ... ugh. I was glad to leave that dream behind. I did not want to be a professional author for the same reasons I would never want to be a professional cyclist (even if I had the talent to do so.) Writing and riding are things I do because they're fun, they're fulfilling, they're challenging, and because they soothe my mind, nudge me out of my comfort zone, and ultimately reward me with a solid sense of well-being. Trying to leverage activities that bring personal joy and fulfillment for profit brings up too many unsavory (if necessary) duties. When I left Anchorage for my new job in Montana, I decided that even if things hadn't turned out they way they did, I would rather work a blue-collar drudgery job and write and ride for fun than write for a living. In December, I had my book edited and gave more serious consideration to publishing, but I really had too much going on to deal with it.

But then life continued to happen, and despite my efforts to renew my convictions, the dream continued to smolder. When I came to California, I decided it would be fun to try to write again, even if just for a while. I could always get that random job later. So I sat down again. I tried to close the blinds against the warm California sun that threatened to lure me outside. I took a few article assignments, received a few small paychecks, generated a few intriguing project ideas. But I couldn't focus on anything. I certainly couldn't write. That Tour Divide book was still looming on the shelf, like a discarded gift box begging to be reopened. I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I had no choice but to move that project forward.

(to be continued. I'm actually at the Seattle airport awaiting a flight to Calgary that's just about to board. I'm headed back to Banff for a week of mountains, snow-lined scenic highways, and mountain biking on the Maah Dah Hey Trail in North Dakota. As with most things I do, this blog post is running longer than intended. But I'll write more on this soon. All photos in this post are from runs with Beat and friends on Mission Peak and Black Mountain this past weekend.)

Views from Skyline

Wow, this week really got away from me. I have been one-track focused on moving forward with publishing my book. I'm glad to have finally made a decision on the matter (and I'll blog more on the details soon), but being mired in the logistics of it has left me more than a little fuzzy-headed. It's been a beautiful (hot) week and I've hardly even been outside. This afternoon, I just had to get out. I rode Beat's Calfee up Highway 9 and turned south on Skyline Boulevard, which was new territory for me. I was all business going up Highway 9, but as soon as I turned south, I lost all intensity and focus and just gawked at the scenery and smiled in the sun. I truly am a bike tourist at heart. Luckily, there is a lot of territory up there to explore, both on pavement and dirt roads, as well as fantastically extensive singletrack running routes. Someday soon I am going to ride a huge road loop that traverses the Santa Cruz Mountains twice. Then I am going link up as much dirt as I can legally piece together with my mountain bike, all the way to the sea. Yeah for bike touring!

Skyline does make it hard to keep the focus on training. Lots of open mountain views and a beautiful layer of fog over the Pacific.

Smooth, narrow pavement with lots of climbing and almost no cars.

More views. I stopped for a little Honey Stinger Chews break at this spot, but had to peel myself away and turn around before I lost too much elevation and really let the ride run long. Ended with 40 miles and 5,000 feet of climbing. Can't wait to double or triple that!

Minimalist shoes and fixie mountain bikes

This afternoon, Beat and I went for an eight-mile run in the heat of the day. I didn't feel any strain in my feet — an encouraging development. For two days after the 50K, I had mild soreness on the sides of both feet that felt like muscle strain — very much like one's biceps might feel after too many reps with heavy weights. Even after the long day Saturday, my legs still felt great, so I did two days of bike recovery — 20-mile, 2,900-feet-of-gain mountain bike ride on Sunday, and a 25-mile, 2,600-feet-of-gain road ride on Monday. By Tuesday, I'm back to running. It feels good.

Since I started wearing my Hoka One One shoes in public more often, a lot of people have asked me how I like them. Since this is a bike blog, I feel like I should back up first and explain. In trail running right now, there appear to be two growing trends on opposite ends of the spectrum. The first are ultra-cushioned shoes like these Hokas that claim to absorb 80 percent of the shock associated with heel striking. The second and arguably more popular are minimalist shoes, or "barefoot" shoes like Vibram Five Fingers, which eliminate cushioning to prevent heel striking altogether. Both claim to minimize injuries and make running more fun.

Beat bought me the Hokas as a sort of "I'm sorry for wrecking your feet" gift following our awesome first date at the Bear 100. I traveled 50 miles with him and developed so much foot pain that I could scarcely hobble the last eight miles of the race. I attribute this pain to excessive impact, the kind that could arguably be reduced with heavily cushioned shoes. At the time I was wearing an admittedly worn-out pair of Montrail Mountain Masochist shoes. The pain, which was similar to a mild case of plantar faciitis, bothered me for nearly six weeks after the Bear. I accepted my injury because it is quite reckless to go from practically zero running to 50 miles overnight, but at the same time desired a way to get back into running quickly while keeping my soft feet functional. Beat, who had seen the Hokas work very well for more than half the field in the grueling 200-mile, 80,000-feet-of-climbing-crazy-steep Tor des Geants, told me I should try out the clown shoes.

The verdict: I like them a lot. I still run in my regular Vasque shoes in mixed and soft terrain, such as mud and snow, but I by far prefer the Hokas on hard dirt and rocky trails. I compare them to trail riding with a full-suspension mountain bike. The thick cushioning floats over small rocks and allows me to pound hard on terrain where I otherwise might tiptoe or hold myself back. While I am still a running klutz, the Hokas do help improve my downhill confidence by absorbing the shock and allowing me to increase my speed. They also seem to maximize foot and leg comfort over higher mileage runs compared to my regular shoes. I mean, a mere 36 hours of minimal foot strain after an eight-hour run, following two months of relatively little running, really isn't too shabby.

And then there's the other end of the spectrum — minimalist or barefoot running. As a newbie runner who has never even tried these types of shoes, I can't claim to know anything about it. But when I hear others counter my "awesome full suspension" views about Hokas with the case for barefoot running, I can't help but smile and think of the claims of the growing culture of mountain bikers who like to ride fixed-gear bikes off road. Both tout simplicity and the lack of extranious and arguably needless pieces of metal and plastic that just weigh you down. Both tout connectedness, a sort of "one with the trail" feeling that can only be achieved if there is a high risk of stubbing your toes or bashing your pedals into a large rock. Both claim to force a flowing, natural sort of movement — for runners, that means landing on your forefoot. For fixie mountain bikers, it means mashing pedals really really hard when you are climbing a hill and then spinning your legs into a soft whip upon descent. Both take a higher level of skill and both are more physically taxing than the "geared" version. Both embrace abstract and therefore unsubstantiable ideals such as liberty, freedom and mindfulness. And both, from my limited perspective, seem to sustain a whole lot of injuries — barefoot runners get stress fractures, and fixie riders crash a lot.

But, of course, both require a slow buildup and time and distance in order to master the discipline, which is great. But not all of us have that kind of time or patience. Some of us just want to spend as much time and as many miles as possible in the beautiful outdoors. We want to run and ride whatever terrain we want, when we want, instead of building up distance on smooth gravel roads in 1/10th-mile increments over many tedious years. To me, tools that allow us to move more easily and freely — tools such as full-suspension mountain bikes and Hoka shoes — just make a lot of sense.

I'm not saying those arguments that heel-striking leads to long-term injury have no merit; I'm only saying that there does seem to be inherent risk in trying to fix a "problem" that may not need fixing. As Beat likes to argue, the problem isn't running shoes — the problem is running on roads. Technical trail running by definition forces natural movement and all but eliminates repetitive motion and heel-striking issues, even over long distances. But it still feels rough on soft cyclists' feet, which is why I love my Hokas.

Berry Creek Falls 50K

It was a reason to go there — Big Basin Redwoods State Park. It's California's oldest state park, established in 1902 and now teeming with coastal redwoods, old-growth conifers, chaparral and oak trees that have been largely left alone for more than a century. It's less than 30 miles from our house on a narrow, winding road, but through the occasional openings along the thickly forested ridgeline, all we could see were green mountains and trees — no buildings, no roads, no logging scars. "Might as well be in Montana," I said, just before we caught a glimpse of the Pacific, deep blue and sparkling in the morning sun.

After a month of recovering his Achilles inflammation, Beat got a go-ahead from his doctor on Friday to "tread slowly" toward running again. I had already expressed interest in running a 50K at a mellow pace as I start to increase my own running mileage. Saturday just happened to be the Berry Creek Falls 50K. We both signed up less than 24 hours before the race start. I used it as an excuse to dress up like a complete trail-running geek, with a GPS watch, Nathan hydration pack and ridiculous-looking but "hurty-foot"- preventing Hoka One One shoes. As the perfect finishing touch to my costume, I recently acquired a hot pink running skirt. Take note — I have never been a girly girl. I was the kind of kid who tried to get away with wearing jeans to church and once did wear jeans to a formal high school dance. I thought it would be fittingly ironic to grow into the kind of adult who wore pink skirts on 31-mile trail runs. Plus, it went so well with my purple shoes.

It was simply an awe-inspiring day; 75 degrees, sunny and not a particle in the sky. When the views did open up we could see clearly across many miles of mountains and ocean. Deep inside the forest, the water ran clear and needles and leaves took on a blazing green hue, sprinkled with flecks of sunlight. The race was small — a few dozen people for the shorter distances, and only seven for the 50K. I was the only woman, which meant I automatically won by default. Or, I remembered, I would still have to finish the race first.

I felt strong. Beat was moving conservatively to be kind to his Achilles. He agreed to drop at the first sign of pain, and I was torn about whether to really try to push my pace or hold back and run with Beat. The course quickly proved to be quite difficult, with incessant steep climbs and descents on root-clogged singletrack. It felt good to run hard up the hills, but I couldn't quite master the footing on the descents. After a few miles, it became apparent that my most comfortable pace essentially matched Beat's, so we ran and hiked together.

The course was hard — a 15K and 10K loop each completed twice, each almost entirely on singletrack (with the exception of about 2.5 miles of steep fireroad on the second loop), and each with 1,500 to 2,000 feet of elevation change apiece. I emphasize the word "change" over "gain" since the descents were often tougher for me than the climbs. It was still a lot of climbing, and I soon started to feel the 75-degree "heat."

In a good indication of overall fitness, I felt strong and had no foot or leg issues for the duration of the race. Beat and I moved steady at our conservative pace, but it was by no means easy. I think we were both holding back more than we wanted to, on some levels, but we were also enjoying the scenery and relishing a long day out in the Big Basin Redwoods. I've spent this past week stressing over my book project, and this long run provided much of what I needed to balance out my mindset. Many times during the run, I'd feel a wash of peace or euphoria and think, even believe, that "this is all I need to be happy." As always, the feeling fades as soon as the run is over, but a good run — or bike ride — really is a beautiful state of bliss where those feelings are emphatically — if temporarily — true. I like it when a run goes long.

I made one tactical error when I arrived at the 25-mile aid station about three minutes before Beat and lost self control on the delicious spread of race snacks. As a cyclist I have a "feast or famine" style of fuel intake, but I am learning during running I have to take my calories in smaller, more frequent doses. I made the mistake of eating three brownies and spent the final 10K wracked with stomach cramps. Although his Achilles wasn't bothering him, Beat was feeling fairly rough too — it has, after all, been nearly a month since he's done any significant running. We mostly hobbled through the last six miles, and it took us nearly two hours to wrap them up.

I'm still pleased with how it went, even if it did take seven hours and 50 minutes. My GPS registered 32 miles and 7,900 feet of elevation change. The elevation reading may be too high by 1,000 feet or so due to thick tree cover, but the ruggedness of the course definitely added another layer of difficulty. It was certainly my most physically difficult 50K yet, of the four I've participated in. And yes, I did win. Since I signed up so late for the race and was the only woman, they didn't have a mug made up, but the friendly race director Wendell promised he'd send one my way.

Really, it was the ideal day out. Races are fun because you meet new people and challenge your limits in ways you likely otherwise wouldn't. But in the end it was just a fun eight-hour romp through the park, with soup and good conversation at the end.

Flailing and awkward

It was a gorgeous day on Russian Ridge. I was out for a 10-mile run, soaking in sunshine and searching for wildflowers that haven't yet emerged. I veered down the steep trail toward Coal Creek and quickly developed the side-stitch that I often suffer from when I run downhill. I realize this is likely caused by too-shallow breathing, but running downhill honestly frightens me a little and I almost can't help myself. I slowed down and took deep, long breaths, concentrating on the rhythm of motion as the sharp pain stabbed at my rib cage. While I was locked in focus on steady steps and breathing, I planted my foot in a deep mud puddle across a particularly steep slope and slid forward. Leg kicked up, arms flailing, and just like that I was lying sideways in the mud with yet another bloody elbow, scratched leg, bruised hip and skin coated in brown sludge.

After I arrived at home, I had to explain to Beat why I was yet again coated in mud and blood. He just shook his head. "When you slide like that you're supposed to ride it out," he said.

"Well when that happens to me, I fall," I protested. "That's how I roll."

I thought back to a friend I used to hike with in Juneau, who was constantly criticizing my walking style as we picked our way down 45-degree slopes covered in mud and moss. "You need to keep your feet forward," he told me. "Keep your weight back. You always walk like you've been sitting on a bike for too long. Why do you stick your hips so far out?"

I thought even further back to rock scrambling in the canyons of Utah's redrock deserts. I'd cling precariously to some craggy ledge, frozen in place as the blood drained head and my arms and legs slowly went numb. "What's wrong?" my friends would ask. "This is an easy pitch. Class 3 tops." I could never explain; they just didn't understand what it's like to not trust your body, to truly believe there's a measurable time delay between your brain circuits and motor functions. You never really know when your body is going to do something completely erratic or clumsy and send you plummeting into the sand far below. It's scary, and that fear helps perpetuate the physical awkwardness.

I don't think it's a coincidence that upon discovering cycling at age 22, I instantly latched onto the activity with an almost obsessive zeal. It wasn't just the ease and quickness of movement that most beginner cyclists experience. I also found a method of motion that felt natural and comfortable — which, up to that point, was an almost foreign sensation. I had spent the first two decades of my life accepting the seemingly unbridgeable divide between poor coordination and an innate desire to explore the outside world and participate in intense physical challenges. Through cycling, I discovered a way to span that gap. Bikes just fit me, literally. I can ride all day on other people's bicycles and not feel even slight discomfort. I can wear big backpacks and switch from platform to clipless pedals without even noticing a significant difference. I can appreciate full suspension but I don't feel out of place riding rigid or singlespeed or fixed. I don't get saddle sores, or back and neck soreness, and even my weak knees have adapted to the strain of thousands of pedal rotations. Unlike the criticism I've received for my walking style, I've actually been complimented on my riding style — straight back, flexible arms, steady legs. I am, truly, a cyclist.

But there's still that other side of me, the side of me without a bike, the side with the weak ankles and soft feet, the side who's prone to flailing awkwardly all over the trail and sometimes slamming into the ground at the seemingly most random spots. This makes her quite bad at running, but all those years of self-discovery through cycling have also made her the kind of person who refuses to accept this. There is freedom and satisfaction in removing a heavy dependence on wheels, and finding new ways to move light and fast through exhilarating spans of open space. I want to be free; I want to run, even if my body doesn't quite cooperate, and even if I'm realizing that a large base of endurance just makes the learning process that much more difficult — because it's actually not all that difficult to run 20 or 30 miles; the difficulty lies in doing so without hurting myself.

I won't stop riding bikes. I am, after all, a natural cyclist. But I'm also a glutton for a challenge, and running long distances is truly a challenge. Full training for the Tahoe Rim Trail 100 has begun. If I can make it to the starting line without a cast or crutches, that in itself will be a satisfying success.