Life on the run

To casual readers of my blog, it probably seems like I've had a busy year so far. But everything has just been build-up to my big crescendo for 2011, which happens to be most of the month of November. In the first week of November I'm traveling back to Utah for my sister's wedding and also to compete solo in the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow. Then on Nov. 16 Beat, myself and two friends are traveling to Nepal for a six-day, 155-mile stage race through the Annapurna Foothills with Racing the Planet. And right now, October, is when I have to get my body ready for all of this.

How does one train for a 25-hour solo mountain bike race followed by crazy travel sandwiched around a 155-mile, week-long run, and still be at least partially productive in other aspects of life? I wish I knew the answer to this question. For now I'm just trying the strategy of ride, run, write, ride, visit with friends in town from Utah, send-emails, write, run, blog, and maybe occasionally sleep and eat. For an unstructured person my days seem surprisingly busy.

I actually rallied for a fairly full week of training directly after my 68-mile weekend. So I settled for a more "moderate" schedule this weekend, which means I only did a 4.5-hour mountain bike ride and 3.5-hour run. On Saturday Beat and I linked up a network of trails along Skyline for a solid 35-mile ride with 5,300 feet of climbing. He rode the singlespeed to test the new shock, so he really had to work hard for every foot of elevation gain. I enjoyed the relative ease of my geared bike, but I was still encouraged by how painless the ride felt through 35 miles of steep grades and loose descents. "Riding a mountain bike is easy," I thought to myself. "This doesn't even feel like work. Just float up and coast down. I am so going to rock the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow. This is going to be awesome."

Then, on Sunday, I paid for my shameless hubris. I wanted to complete a "long" run in preparation for Nepal. I planned to climb Black Mountain, a 17-mile loop with 3,600 feet of climbing. Beat, who is still recovering from the Slickrock 100 and our ambitious singlespeed ride, joined me for the first four miles. Even when he's tired, Beat is still a significantly stronger climber than I am. I had to push hard to hold his pace up the steep trail. As I sucked down ragged gulps of air through my congested sinuses, I took small comfort in the idea that as soon as our four miles were up, the trail would get "easier" and I could run "slower."

But I was wrong. After four miles the trail does not get easier, it turns to singletrack and becomes even steeper. If I wanted to run at all, even just to shuffle at a pace only slightly faster than walking, I had to push my effort to the redline. My ragged gulps of air turned to desperate gasps, sweat streamed from my pores in full shower mode, and the 74-degree air felt unbearably hot. But I was going to *run* the *whole way* because I was *running* so just harden up and ...

I'm not sure how I actually made it to the peak. I'm suspicious that I may have even blacked out for a half mile, but when I staggered onto the final crest I had a strong urge to just curl up in a fetal position next to a rock and maybe if I was lucky I would die quickly. I'm only exaggerating slightly; I really haven't felt that bad during a workout in a long while. I was six miles into a 17-mile run.

This is the part where I knew the learning experience would begin, and I knew it would be painful. I began shuffling down the steep trail and developed a side stitch almost immediately. I was already breathing badly through my congested nose; the side-stitch made oxygen even more scarce. I continued to gasp and shuffle on a downhill grade that I can normally almost coast. It was bad. I was in pain. Running is hard.

It took four slow miles for the side stitch to finally loosen its grip. By then I had reached a rolling section of trail, gentle climbs and more steep descents. This is the part where my IT band started to tighten and hurt. By now, I was just angry. Running is hard. Why is running so hard? When I ride a bicycle, even if the ride is long and difficult, it's almost never painful. Running, even when my route is short and easy, almost constantly is. This is the part where fellow cyclists nod their heads in agreement and say, "Yes, this is why humans invented bicycles, so they wouldn't have to run." I'm inclined to agree. And yet — in my own strange universe where struggle and pain travel arm-in-arm with reward and bliss — this is what makes trail running so appealing to me. Running is difficult. It's so disproportionally difficult that I can't simply accept the difficulty at face value. I want to accept the challenge, embrace it, and run with it, so to speak.

So today I suffered for the entirety of 17 miles and I wasn't even fast, even relative to myself, nor did I take a single photograph. But I did it, and I learned some things. And perhaps when I'm in a really amazing place like Nepal, I'll be able to take what I've learned and run that extra mile, the one I didn't think was even possible. After all, that's what running is about.

The many makeovers of Kim

After the sun set, the entire sky turned a pale shade of pink. I made it home just before darkness set in, after another lap around Steven's Creek Canyon. The numbers are good for a solid mountain bike workout — 25 miles, 3,200 feet of climbing on a mixture of pavement, gravel and singletrack. I've been aiming for intensity during climbs this week, but my head cold and its accompanying congestion has made that difficult. I've also found I have no confidence on the descents. I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get that back.

I was using a rag to peel off chunks of dust-and-grease paste from the drivetrain of my Rocky Mountain Element when Beat rolled outside on the Karate Monkey, sporting a brand new Rockshox Reba XX fork. "You already put that on?" I was surprised. He only told me yesterday he even ordered it, and when I left for my ride it hadn't even arrived. Beat's been talking for a while about putting a new fork on the Karate Monkey. The old Reba Race, which I bought used on eBay before putting untold thousands of my own miles on the thing, had finally given up all together, and no rebuild was going to save it. Beat seems to prefer singlespeeding to all other types of cycling, so he wanted to fix what is becoming his bike (which is fine, as I've commandeered a couple of his bikes for my own.) Still, the Reba XX looked almost comical on the rusty old steel singlespeed. Sort of like putting a souped-up new engine in a Geo Prism (RIP, Geo.) Beat promised that someday we'd put the fork on a better 29'er. And yet I think I prefer my Karate Monkey. She's been such a good bike. And she's been through so many incarnations in the past three years.

She was just a wee frame when she arrived in Juneau in March 2008. I didn't really want a new mountain bike. I had been perfectly happy with my Gary Fisher Sugar. But my then-boyfriend coerced me into a Surly Karate Monkey, reasoning that I'd need a hardtail 29er if I ever wanted to ride the Great Divide Race (to which I just laughed. "Like I'm ever actually going to do that.")

I mined eBay and Performance Bicycle for parts, trying to build it up as cheaply as possible. The Reba fork, which cost about $400 used, was my one conceit. The rest of the components were fairly low budget. I think she came in under $1,500. Karate Monkey seemed like an unwieldy name, so I shortened it to Kim. This picture was taken just before her test run in April 2008, through a typical Juneau drizzle. She would never be so shiny again.

Kim and I hit it off immediately, and she proved to be a capable mountain bike. Here we are at the 24 Hours of Light in Whitehorse, Yukon (first woman and second overall. One of our proud moments together. There would be many more to come.)

As autumn approached I decided the swap out the Reba for the rigid fork that came with the frame, switch to skinny tires, slap on my Surly Pugsley's bike bags and create a touring bicycle for my 370-mile ride around the Golden Circle. The set-up worked beautifully. Nighttime temperatures dropped into the teens on that trip and I was grateful for every stitch of warm clothing and the winter sleeping bag that I brought.

As winter deepened, the studded tires went on, and Kim became an ice bike.

Then, in 2009, we set out to do what what Kim was born to do, which is ride the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route during the 2009 Tour Divide. I can't really gush enough about how beautifully Kim performed throughout that 2,740-mile race, despite weather-caused mechanicals (failed freehub, worn brake pads and general drivetrain wear and tear were my only immediate problems. I didn't even have to change a flat tire.) I realize this mostly had to do with luck more than it had to do with Kim's build or (lack of) maintenance. But wow, lucky me!

During my short-lived stint in Anchorage, Kim served a short-lived stint as a rigid mountain bike-slash-randonee bike. Here we are during our first (and only) randonee, the Denali Classic —a gravel 200K that actually was 145 miles.

After we moved to Montana, I acquired my Rocky Mountain Element, but continued riding Kim on a regular basis when I deemed the ride called for 29" wheels, which was fairly often.

Several months later, my friend Dave stripped off the aging drivetrain and converted Kim to a singlespeed. I continued to ride my Karate Monkey nearly as often as I rode the Element, when I deemed the ride and/or workout called for a singlespeed (and then throughout the winter, when all rides called for ice.) The Element hung from my wall unused for five months but Kim just kept chugging along.

Here's Kim the Singlespeed getting some redwood singletrack action in California. Before I moved here, I considered selling the bike but couldn't bring myself to give her up. I'm glad I didn't, because she seems to have become Beat's favorite bike, and now with a brand new fork and relatively new brakes, she's all ready for another trip down the Great Divide. Long live Kim!

Fall in the Grand Canyon

My dad and I have created a tradition around hiking across the Grand Canyon in one day during the second weekend in October. Our first trip together was in 2004, with a group of my dad's friends. Back then, rim-to-rim was a daunting prospect — 25 miles and 6,000 feet of climbing under possibly intense heat. I trained specifically for the outing, mostly by hiking to peaks in the Stansbury Mountains and riding my touring bike up a canyon in the Oquirrhs (I lived in Tooele, Utah, at the time.) The night before, in our hotel room on the North Rim, I was so anxious I hardly slept. We started more than an hour before sunrise. It was a hot day, unseasonably so. A few people in our group showed early signs of heat exhaustion near the Colorado River. A thermometer at Indian Gardens read 105 degrees. But by the time we emerged, I was sore, fatigued, and wholly absorbed by the beauty and vastness of the Grand Canyon. We've made a solid effort to go back nearly every year since.

The great thing about traditions is that you can return to them with expectations unchanged, even as every other aspect of life shifts and evolves. After seven years, 25 miles isn't such a daunting distance anymore. The other R2R hikers in the original group have mostly dispersed. My dad and I have experienced absolutely perfect weather, torrential rain and even minor flash flooding in the Grand Canyon. Much has changed, but I still love going back and making the annual crossing with my dad. It's my favorite tradition.

And the great thing about our Grand Canyon tradition is that no two crossings are ever the same. You never know what the Grand Canyon will dish out during the second weekend in October. During our first hike, we experienced triple digits. This year, there was snow.

The massive cold front that rolled over the West last week dropped a couple of inches of powder on the North Rim above 8,000 feet. I prepared for winter conditions, even nearly packing my microspikes before I decided that amounted to excessive preparation. On Thursday, we left Salt Lake City and drove through several wet blizzards and icy conditions across central Utah. But by the time we hit Jacob Lake, the clouds were beginning to clear, and the emerging sunlight revealed golden aspen leaves and pine needles dusted with snow.

That evening, we watched the sunset from Imperial Point, where I slipped on a patch of ice and nearly fell into oblivion while walking along the rim to take photographs.

Temperatures were in the mid-20s when we started our hike from the North Rim on Friday morning. I love that I'm wearing all my high-tech winter stuff — Patagonia micro puff jacket, Goretex shell and windstopper gloves, and my dad is wearing work gloves and a cotton sweatshirt that I brought home from girls' camp in 1992. That white towel is his sweat rag. He never had to use it.

It was such a gorgeous morning. I've walked down the Grand Canyon five times now, and it never ceases to stun me.

The North Kaibab Trail. Dad and I had to cancel our trip last year after my grandfather died, so this year was my first trip down the Grand Canyon with any experience as a trail runner. I can understand why the rim-to-rim-to-rim run is such a popular thing in ultrarunning circles. Beyond the stunning scenery, the trails themselves are well-built, wide and runnable, almost to a fault. I'd love to try a R2R2R run someday but I have a lot of work to do before my feet are in that kind of shape.

Ribbon Falls. This little spur trail ends at a sparkling, mossy waterfall and is entirely worth the side trip, although in the past we've had a tough time convincing our hiking companions of this. We actually timed the hike this year. Six minutes off the main trail.

This was actually the first year that my dad and I hiked rim-to-rim alone, just the two of us. My dad is a no-nonsense hiker. He likes to stay in motion, and because of this we covered ground quickly. I tend to take more breaks, even when I'm racing, but I enjoy keeping up with my dad's steady motion and solid pace. He can out-hike me any day, and it's always been this way, no matter how much I improve my fitness or how much closer to 60 he gets. (He's 58 years old, and in incredible shape.)

At Phantom Ranch we filled up on water — all 20 ounces or so that I had consumed so far — and enjoyed our annual "lemmy," which is what they call lemonade at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. There's a whole resort-style compound down there, with cabins and a dining hall and indoor plumbing. I used to think that kind of thing had to be an anomaly in such a remote setting, but now that I've been to the Alps I no longer think of it as strange.

We marched up the Bright Angel Trail under mostly clear, cool skies. The thermometer at Indian Gardens read 60 degrees, if even that high. I was pleased that for my first time in five Grand Canyon crossings, my feet actually didn't hurt on the final switchbacking ascent. My mom waited for us at the top, where we emerged just before 4 p.m., for a total time of nine and a half hours and a moving time of 8:05. Not bad.

That night, my dad debated hiking back down the canyon to the North Rim the following day. He wanted to wait and see how he felt after the first rim-to-rim crossing before deciding. I would have loved to join him but I had already made prior commitments to pace my friend Danni at the Slickrock 100 on Saturday night, and I needed the day to travel to Moab. (Plus, rim-to-rim-to-rim followed immediately by 43 miles of an ultra-race is just craaaazy.) He wanted to try it but was struggling with very sore feet. During long runs, I often experience agonizing foot pain that goes away completely after just a few hours off my feet, so I speculated that he would feel better in the morning. Sure enough, he got up early Saturday, felt fine, and headed down the South Kaibab Trail. He wrapped it up feeling even better than he had at the end of the day before. It was my dad's first (intentional) dabbling with a kind of "ultra" experience. I wish I could have been there to experience it with him, but he had a great time going solo. Instead my mom and I woke up early and headed back around to Jacob Lake, where I began my drive north into the long night ahead.

A great tradition. It requires early commitment and a lot of planning and arrangement on my parents' part, so I'm not sure if we'll plan a trip for next year or not. But I have no doubt we'll be back again, someday.

Cranking the generator

(I planned to post about hiking the Grand Canyon with my dad, but ended up finishing my Slickrock 100 pacer report first. I'll post Grand Canyon pictures later.)

The situation was eerily similar to my "first date" with Beat at the Bear 100: I hatched a convoluted scheme to transport myself from somewhere many hours south to the halfway point of a 100-mile Utah trail race, only to stumble in at the last — and yet serendipitously perfect — moment to take a pacing job that I was unprepared for, mostly as an excuse to spend time with the person doing the running. This time around, I left Jacob Lake, Arizona, in the late morning on race day. My dad's tiny Toyota pickup puttered north as the last wisps of autumn's first snowfall faded from the ground.

The plan was to drive six hours to Moab, where I arranged to meet my friend Danni at the Slickrock 100, a brand new 100-mile trail race in the redrock desert. I hadn't seen Danni since I moved away from Montana in March, and looked forward to quality time spent chatting about past and future adventures, giggling randomly and generally catching up on life. The fact that we would also be plodding through the dark in the desert was an added bonus.

I made an unexpectedly long stop in Kanab to cope with symptoms from a head cold I'd been fighting all week, which flared up badly enough to make me feel concerned about driving. How was I going to rally enough to run with Danni in the Slickrock 100 when I already had 25 miles on my feet, was so congested I could barely breathe and felt disconcertingly nauseated on top of all of that? I sat at Subway sipping Diet Coke to hold down the panic gurgling up in my gut.

I managed to calm my stomach and continued north and then east to Moab, arriving at the finish line just before sunset. I learned the race organizers had completely rerouted the course after a large rainstorm washed out several sections of trail and made other regions completely impassable — in the desert, that can often mean neck-deep quicksand, potential rockslides and hidden craters. The reroute was understandable. But since the course changed, I had no idea where to go and no one could help me, because none of the volunteers knew either. The race director was essentially out in front of the runners, marking the course as he went, and communications back to volunteers appeared to be limited. Just when I was about to give up entirely and crawl into the bed of the truck to sleep for twelve hours, I randomly came across the race director, who was marking the last few miles of the course. He recommended I go to the Deadhorse checkpoint, which was at mile 53 of the new route.

I rushed up the highway and found the checkpoint at 8:30 p.m., which just happened to be the exact time that Danni arrived at the aid station. Luckily, Danni wanted to take a long break to eat some ramen and put on warm clothes, so I had time to change out of my jeans and into better socks and running shoes. I hadn't prepared any race supplies, so I just grabbed my hiking pack — complete with discarded wrappers, an old bagel and an unknown amount of water that I had hauled all the way from the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Add a flashlight and I was ready to go.

Danni looked strong and said she felt good. We made good time to the Gold Bar aid station at my mile 8.5, where Danni discovered she had a bad blister on her big toe. As she sat down to fix it, I noticed a massive plastic jug of florescent orange cheese balls on the table. It must have been five gallons worth, and looked as though not many racers had partaken. A young man at the aid station asked Danni if she wanted any cheese puffs. She refused, so he waited a second and then said, "Well then, how about some cheesy poofs?" She looked up and said, "yeah," then proceeded to eat several handfuls and ask for a bag so she could take more with her. I grabbed a handful of the greasy salty snacks myself, the only aid station food I ended up partaking in (I had an astonishing amount of my own food in my Grand Canyon leftovers.) They did hit the spot.

We started up Gemini Bridges jeep road, gabbing away, when we saw another racer walking toward us. "Have you guys seen any race markings?" he asked. "I haven't seen any in a while." I had to admit that I hadn't seen any race markings all night. The director marked the course with pink ribbons that had a little piece of silver duct tape on the end. The tape was about as shiny as a tin can, and did nothing to reflect light from our headlamps. In the dark, the pink ribbons became almost entirely invisible, hidden among the red dirt and juniper trees. I pulled up my GPS track and sure enough, we had veered almost a mile off the main track. Since I was the pacer and navigation was supposed to be my job, I felt a surge of guilt. The three of us ran quickly down to the point where the track crossed and realized we had completely missed seeing a Y-junction in the road, let alone the pink ribbons directing us in a different direction. I watched the track like a hawk as we continued on the jeep road, vowing not to veer off again.

After a bit, an approaching racer told us there was only 1.5 miles left to the next aid station, which I thought was strange because I knew it to be closer to five. Another time, Danni commented that it was weird how the trail seemed to go downhill both ways. The very steep drop into the too-soon checkpoint should have been a huge red flag, but the truth is we missed all of these warning signs until we arrived at the aid station and a familiar young man said, "weren't you here before?"

My stomach sank as I finally zoomed out on the GPS track we had been following and saw it dead-end right where we stood. We had backtracked to Gold Bar, five and a half miles later. Danni stomped her foot and let out a long, loud "F____________!" The volume even surprised me a little, but the frustration was mutual. The ever-friendly race volunteer held up the vat of orange balls and said in a cheerful voice, "So, do you want more cheesy poofs?"

The tension shattered and even Danni, as demoralized as she was, started laughing. She refused to blame me for the major navigational error even though it was really my fault since I was the one so confidently following a supposedly infallible GPS track. Then, just like he had for me earlier in the evening, the race director magically appeared out of seemingly nowhere and told us that because of confusion caused by the reroute, many of the racers had gone off course, and he was telling everyone that they could simply subtract their bonus mileage from the final spur at the end so that everyone could complete a fair hundred. Forgiving bonus miles is pretty much unprecedented in ultra-racing, but we weren't about to argue. I wanted to hug the race director, who I was sure had adverted a time-sucking morale blow that was my fault and may have cost Danni her race.

After that, I made finding pink ribbons my job, rooting them out of the darkness with my high-beam flashlight and determined hyper-vigilance. We still got lost a couple of times, once while looking for a turn we knew was coming but simply could not find. 1.5 more bonus miles.

Danni struggled with the usual issues of a 100-mile run: Sore feet, Advil loading, blisters, lack of appetite, malaise and extreme bloating. We compared ultrarunning to heavy drinking, and listed reasons why the latter might actually be healthier. I told little stories to fill the miles if I sensed Danni wanted to chat, and turned to silence when the mood called for it. My own feet started to hurt, my throat and sinuses were clogged with phlem, my body longed for sleep and I began to flag in my own motivation. The temperature dipped below freezing. We watched ice form on puddles and thick frost build on the brush. The windchill cut through to my core even after I put my Goretex shell on. It was a cold night. None of this rattled Danni in the least. Her determination held strong, as did her legs, and we moved much faster than I expected at that point in her race.

Once, while climbing an expansive slickrock plateau, we turned off our headlamps and jogged by the light of the nearly full moon. Sandstone slabs glowed in the silver light, and the frosted sand shimmered. Distant rock formations were as visible as they would be in daylight, but with the kind of stark definition and otherworldly colors that only moonlight can create. We ran in silence, with our footsteps adding soft rhythm to the oscillating melody of the wind. I glanced toward the startling clarity of the sky, stars upon stars splattered across the fathomless emptiness, and visualized the energy moving from them, across vast distances, through me. I like to believe that this energy is what continues when consciousness ceases. That whispers of life echo in the wind, and if we quiet our minds and release the burdens of our bodies, we can almost hear our part in the universal symphony. I sometimes question the sanity of my "hobbies," but the truth is I need this as much as air, these vivid moments to experience the universe on my own terms, in my own version of heaven — the stark, cold, ethereal desert. I move through the world like the ghost that I am and generate what feels like pure energy.

Danni probably could not tell that I was blissed out. She may have even been having one of her low points. I didn't say anything, I just hummed to myself the earworm that had been following me across the desert, a song whose lyrics reflected my feelings, "Generator First Floor" by the Freelance Whales.

We get up early just to start cranking the generator
Our limbs have been asleep, we need to get the blood back in them
We're finding every day, several ways that we could be friends

We keep on churning and the lights inside the house turn on
And in our native language we are chanting ancient songs
And when we quiet down, the house chants on without us

Despite my navigational failures and selfish bliss-seeking, I was able to redeem myself as a pacer in small ways. I successfully located all of the pink ribbons in the most difficult navigational section of the course, a rugged and forested jeep maze that another racer referred to as "the Easter Egg hunt." I found spare batteries in my pack for Danni's dying headlamp and kept her updated on the stats after her Garmin died. We started up the 22-mile spur that the race organizer had supposedly cut to 18 and we planned to cut to 15 to match up with Garmin's stats. The sun rose as we moved across the plateau, and suddenly for the first time since I arrived in Moab, I could see real color in the landscape. Slickrock fins appeared like petrified waves across Canyonlands National Park in the distance, revealing the presence of the places that ripple through my past — the Colorado River, Island in the Sky, and the White Rim. The morning dawned clear and gorgeous. So we were both shocked — and despite seriously sore feet almost disappointed — when the race director cut us off with only 4.5 miles on the Garmin.

"We haven't gone nine miles," Danni argued with him. "We're only supposed to go seven and it hasn't even been that."

He said the storm had created an impassable hole in the road a mile ahead and insisted we had traveled nine miles. We thought he was sleep-deprived and significantly disoriented. Looking back, he may have meant the round trip. But either way it brought the distance of the Slickrock 100 down to something closer to 90, and our own extra-bonus-miles Slickrock down to something between 95 and 97 miles. We debated doing more extra bonus miles to bring Danni's personal total to 100, but once you've been given an out, even three extra miles is tough to manage mentally. We reasoned that Garmin stats are rarely perfect and perhaps with the usual margin of error she had done 100 anyway. We mustered a solid run into the finish at 8:24 a.m., giving Danni a 25:24 finish. I ran with her for 43 miles in a little less than 12 hours, only one of which was in daylight.

Danni was deservingly thrilled, although her own bliss may have been muted by extreme fatigue and the fact she had retained what looked like at least ten extra pounds of water weight. Her hands and lower legs looked like the Michelin Man. We debated what might have gone wrong with her nutrition but couldn't come up with any definitive theories. Sometimes these things just happen. Which, kids, is why it's not healthy to run 100 miles. But it is, in its own way, lots of fun.

Beat finished the race in just over 22 hours. We saw him once on the course, where he claimed his feet hurt and he hadn't quite recovered from the Tor des Geants so he was going to quit the race before the final spur, at what was supposed to be mile 78 and turned out to be mile 81. But then he DNF'd his DNF and ended up earning his well-deserved belt buckle. Danni and I joked about how funny it would be if he quit before the last, easy, nine-mile spur. We celebrated with 50K finisher Meghan Hicks at my favorite southern Utah haunt, Ray's Tavern in Green River.

So there is my pacer report, which is considerably longer with less photos than Danni's actual race report. I think Danni does know this about me — that I only sign on for long-suffer fests so I can write lengthy reports about them on my blog, and also so I can get blissed out on exhausted night running, and of course spend time with Danni, who is a super awesome chick that lives entirely too far away in Kalispell, Montana. It's funny that my circle of friends conducts reunions this way, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Rain lets me run fast

I had a fun weekend "at home," a distinction that included traveling to San Francisco to visit my friend Monika. Monika and I were good friends in college. We even lived in the same house for more than a year. We've only gotten together a couple of times since I moved here, one of the sad truths of busy lives and the way social networking has replaced face time. But it is fun to get together with an old friend and interact as though the last decade never happened. Monika still remembers me as the naive Utah girl who embarked on daylong slickrock canyoneering adventures wearing jeans and Sketchers. I remember her as the funny Slovakian who was one of the only friends willing to join my more harebrained adventure ideas, such as climbing Mount Timpanogos in the middle of the night. We treat each other as though we were still the same vivacious 20-somethings, and it's fun.

Monika invited me to breakfast on Saturday morning and asked if I wanted to join her and her friends who were visiting from North Carolina for "this bluegrass festival." I pictured a small gathering in Golden Gate Park where I could lounge in a camp chair and chat with my friends. I honestly had no knowledge or concept of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, a massive annual music festival that draws upwards of 750,000 people over three days. I didn't have any idea that I'd be pressed into a crowd near the stage during a Kris Kristofferson and Merle Haggard duo, or that I'd be dancing on the periphery during a Broke Social Scene set (one of my favorite indie rock bands), or giving up all hope and plopping down near several sketchy-looking men who launched into random, screaming rants during Gillian Welch. I used to be a big live music fan but realized some years back that I actually don't like feeling trapped by swarming masses of humanity. Now I've apparently fallen so far off the bandwagon that I wasn't even aware this huge free music festival was happening this weekend. It was a treat to experience, but exhausting. Monika would ply me for tips on how I could "run all day" and I would insist that ultrarunning was easier and less harrowing than waiting in line for the port-a-potty, which, between the four of us, we spent most of the day doing anyway.

Then we waited in line for the train. I saw the line of festival-goers at the train stop and asked my friends to consider walking home. They protested that Monika's house was "across town," which I knew in urban-speak basically meant five or six miles. The crowd grew and I tried begging, to no avail. We ended up waiting nearly an hour to be wedged in a train so full of bodies that I could feel two different strangers' breath on my neck, then had to catch a connector train that was similarly crowded and slow. It took us more than two hours to travel "across town." There are a lot of aspects of San Francisco that I appreciate. I like the cables strung over buildings like a crackling spider web. I like eating Guatemalan food at a heavily decorated storefront in the Mission district and almost feeling like I'd traveled to central America. But I'm glad I live farther away from the crowds, closer to more sweeping trails and even some small mountains, in the burbs — or, as the city people I met on Saturday put it, "Oh, wow, way down there" as though I lived in Mexico and not Los Altos. I guess if you're used to spending two hours using public transportation for a five-mile commute, then Los Altos would seem impossibly far.

Today it rained for the first time in a few months, a long-awaited weather event that I was thrilled about. I only had time for an hour-long run before dark, so I headed to Rancho, thinking I would do my usual five-mile loop. But I was running so strong up the PG&E trail that I decided to continue up to the top, a seriously steep four-mile climb, then launched down the other side of the ridge as rain pelted down. The trail was deliciously sticky, covered in a thick moon-dust paste that clung to my shoes, but it was worth it. I felt like I was running on the moon, light and fast without worrying whether my feet were going to slide into gravity's gravel purgatory after every step. At one point I looked down at my GPS and saw "holy cow sub-seven-minute mile!" so I picked up the pace even more. I still made it back before dark, just barely, having run nearly twice as far as I'd planned to run.

I missed the rain more than I realized.

Thanks, Mr. UPS guy

It was going to be my first mountain bike ride since Aug. 10. As it turned out, I didn't have time for the ride I originally planned, so I would have to settle on my usual, the Steven's Creek loop. It's the route I always fall back on and subsequently crashed on seven weeks ago. I'd been looking forward to getting back at it, but I'd be lying if I said I felt excited for this particular ride. More like dread.

I felt the tell-tale lead weight in my legs as I churned up the paved Monte Bello Road. It was a humid day and far from clear; a brown haze hovered over the Silicon Valley. Sweat beaded on my arms as I sucked the thick air, which felt to me like 110 degrees but was probably closer to 80. A brown truck rumbled past, heading toward the wineries that dot this narrow, dead-end road. The grade steepened and light-headedness set in; it felt to me like 11,000 feet elevation but in reality was still under 2,000. The brown truck emerged from a driveway and passed again. I thought about the trail runs I did this week and the current condition of the trails — loose gravel with nothing left to hold it together because all of the dirt had been churned up and dehydrated to a fine moon dust. The result was a little like a teflon-coated baking sheet spread with granola and topped in several inches of powdered sugar. A slippery, skidding mess on descents and churning, slipping grind on the climbs, and if I fell there were only sharp things to land on. My riding confidence is already shattered and these chunder trails don't seem like the best place to pick up the pieces. But they're what I have to work with, for now.

Today, however, I just wasn't feeling it. I was already hot and tired and the mountain biking hadn't even begun. My GPS was running and the numbers weren't good. This just wasn't my day. I resolved to finish the paved climb and then turn around. I would ride trails another day. Maybe on Sunday. Or next week.

The brown truck passed again, and this time the driver stopped the vehicle beside me. I put my foot down and looked up at the UPS guy, expecting him to shout at me for obstructing the narrow road with my bicycle. Instead, he was smiling. "You're toasting this climb," he said enthusiastically. "I don't often see mountain bikes up here that are really ripping it up."

For a second or two, I just looked at him. Who me? I glanced back to make sure he was definitely talking to me. Had he even been up Monte Bello before? Had he actually seen other cyclists riding up this road? I personally had ridden this thing at least 25 percent faster in the past, but today I was just a plodding, tired slowpoke. I didn't really know what to say. "Wow, um, thanks."

"You gonna ride down the trails?" he asked.

"Um, yes," I said. "Heading down Steven's Creek Canyon."

"Awesome," the UPS guy said. "Rip it!"

And with that, he continued up the road. I plodded after him and watched him turn into another driveway. I had at that point only about a half mile to the end of the pavement. But I could hardly turn around then. The UPS driver would see me retreating down the road. And anyway, he had such a big smile on his face. He told me to rip it. Secretly, I hoped he wasn't talking about my skin. But his enthusiasm was infectious.

I rode the loop. It wasn't that bad. I didn't exactly rip it. I was overcautious and poky. But I had fun. And I got my Steven's Creek crash demon out of the way. I'm one ride closer to rebuilding my confidence. I'm glad I went. Thanks, Mr. UPS guy.

Redwoods road ride

Big Basin Redwoods State Park

I didn't actually mean to binge on this much road biking this week. I blame jet lag, which wrestles me awake well before sunrise each morning, and a bit of writer's block, which makes me feel reluctant to return home to my computer. It's not that I'm necessarily stuck with my project, it's just that I've forgotten where I'm going with it. It's a bit frustrating, staring at blank screens, tapping out a few sentences and then erasing them. I want to reset my mind, and anyway I have that 25-hour bike race to train for. So I take to the road.

I winced as I placed my sore sit bones on the saddle this morning; of all the body parts that have fallen out of shape since my August bike crash, my suddenly sensitive butt is the most noticeable. I rode 40 miles and Monday and 45 yesterday, both with 4,000-plus feet of climbing, so I decided I'd take it easy today. I brought one water bottle and no food. The sun burned hot even at 8 a.m., foreshadowing the 95 degrees it would hit later in the day. I motored up Highway 9, feeling strong. An hour and a half later at the crest of the climb, without even really deciding too, I kept going.

Who's a big tree?

Miles sure go by fast when you're coasting downhill. I knocked off six miles and launched into a new climb, again, without really making a conscious decision to do so. Twenty miles and about 3,500 feet of climbing into my ride, I placed my water bottle to my lips and found it was empty. So I had no choice but to descend to the nearest water source — the headquarters of Big Basin Redwoods State Park.

I've never even ridden down into Big Basin before, which is inexcusable, really, because it's so close to my house and such a great route for beauty, climbing and solitude. On a weekday morning, you'd never even guess you were in the midst of one of the largest population centers in California. I saw exactly two cars, and had the rest of the narrow, shady, steep roller coaster of a road all to myself.

The unobstructed view from Highway 236

See what I mean? Forest as far as the eyes can see. And this is about halfway between San Jose and Santa Cruz as the seagull flies. It's all open land — a sliver of small mountains that people nearly forgot. Except for, of course, the loggers who deforested this area about a century ago. The entire Bay-area coastline is second-growth forest at best, but the region still contains a few stunning redwood trees that loomed like towers over my tiny bicycle. I loved this ride, and never even really noticed the effort, that is, until I ran out of water again near the crest of the final climb, and my toes developed a sharp ache from too many hours in road shoes. (Even though it's been two and a half years since I had frostbite, my right toes can still only tolerate about three hours in hard-soled clipless shoes before I develop excruciating pressure pains.)

I ended the ride at 53 miles and 7,345 feet of climbing, which is way more than I intended or really felt necessary. (Garmin map here) But at the same time, I almost wish I took the initiative (brought more water and food) to ride even farther. Sometime soon I'd love to ride all the way down to Santa Cruz, a coastal town I'm ashamed to admit I have not yet visited. The road riding opportunities in this region really are sublime, which helps temper my reluctance to get back on my mountain bike. (I know, I know. I need to get over this. But there hasn't been a significant rainstorm since June, and the trails were moon-dust on top of loose gravel before the elapsed six weeks of continuing, persistent dryness.) But I can't wait for rain forever.