When the days get long

I woke up to the sound of bicycle tires grinding on sand, so I knew I must have slept a little. I hadn't set an alarm as part of my "let my body do what it needs to do" strategy, and almost felt disappointed when I realized the sky was still cast in pre-dawn violet. It was 5:45 a.m. and my mind was struggling to find the surface in a sea of grogginess. "Oh well. No use in laying around any longer." I packed up camp as color started to creep through the shadows on the eastern rim of the canyon. I was nearly 3,000 feet higher and it was still spring in this part of the desert — shades of green dotted by a bright palette of yellow wildflowers, cream yucca blossoms, and crimson Ocotillo.

I ate a robust breakfast of two flattened Snicker's Bars, having forgotten the day before that chocolate can't survive in the desert. I figured I needed to dispatch of them before they liquefied once again. Having neglected to eat "dinner" the night before, I was surprised how much more spring I had in my step after the Snicker's Bars. Still, as I commenced climbing through the sand, I was disappointed to see speeds in the three-miles-per-hour range. Was I pedaling this slowly last night? Probably, I thought grumpily.

I didn't have much time to be grumpy as the route soon lifted onto one of those famed Southern California 4x4 roads, the Pinyon Drop. The rutted, more-vertical-than-not hike-a-bike would be tough any day, but on this morning I struggled to find the strength I needed to continue basic forward motion. I felt like a vehicle with a faulty clutch. When I tried to engage the high gears, they slipped and I faltered. Gasping didn't feed enough oxygen to my racing heart, but I already had the bike perched precariously on a ledge above me so taking breaks or slowing down wasn't an option. There were several pitches like this and every one felt like a barbell loaded with one plate too many. I'd stand at the bottom, taking rapid breaths like a powerlifter trying to psych myself up, and charge up the hill in an all-out effort to push to the top before it crushed me. Good intervals for getting a lazy body back in shape — but not so good for a long endurance effort amid an already depleted physical state. This wasn't really "letting my body do what it needs to do," but at the same time I didn't have a choice. It was both refreshing (in a "yeah, cleared it!" kind of way) and discouraging (in a, "this race is going to take me a year" kind of way.)

It did feel satisfying to arrive at the top in still-cool morning air, head swimming happily through the endorphin surge and a half-bonked haze. My body had entered the hard end of living, and even two whole Snicker's Bars weren't going to go very far any longer. I pedaled in a drunken stupor and gazed over the Borrego valley, saturated in golden haze that accentuated just how far below it was now.

The jeep road took a dramatic turn downhill as it approached Highway S-2, the remnants of the Overland Stage Route of 1849. It's always fun to travel through historic areas that you know haven't changed all the much in an century and a half. And cycling on these sandy roads really give one a sense of what these stagecoach passengers jostled across in search of elusive fortunes. Today travelers are just looking for quick thrills — or slow punishments.

I arrived at the Stagecoach Trail Store just before 8 a.m., lucky to find the owner opened early specifically for Stagecoach 400 racers, as the place usually doesn't open until 9. I stumbled around the aisles, casing the place for any kind of coffee maker. Beyond that, I hadn't really thought about what I wanted to buy. I figured I would "let my body get what it wants to get." Turns out that was frozen egg and sausage burrito, a package of Hostess cupcakes, and one of those giant cans of Arizona fruit punch. Now, I utilize junk food as much as any amateur endurance athlete, but even I have my standards. All of these foods dip well below these standards. The place had bananas, and I didn't even give those a second glance. When left to its own devices, my instinctive side invariably veers toward all kinds of food my logical side has deemed disgusting. I find this amusing, and maybe a little telling. I usually feel great after I eat this garbage, until a few days go by and I can think of nothing but vegetables and fruit.

As I shopped for resupplies, a large contingent of Stagecoachers trickled in — Brendan and Mary, their friend Carter, a couple from San Diego, and two other guys. None of us were in any particular hurry to start pedaling again, so we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and talked about the previous day's adventures. Part of the fun of participating in these types of events is meeting the other weirdos who share this strange desire to go out and beat themselves up on a bike for days on end. Everyone seemed so normal while sitting at picnic tables in the morning sun, devouring donuts and yogurt.

Still, there was little time to be social, as we all understood we had to make a break for Oriflamme Canyon before the sun really started cranking. Oriflamme Canyon was the ramp that would take us from the low-lying desert to the crest of the Laguna Mountains. Its name sounds like a brand of wood-burning stove, and its steep walls feel like one. Hurt, hurt, hurt. The couple from San Diego admirably struggled to ride up the steep, loose road in the crushing heat. I gave up early but shadowed them consistently at walking speeds. Still, even the hike was brutal. I again couldn't find my high gears and soon began to see plenty of flowers and vistas to take pictures of during needed "camera" breaks.

The reward for climbing Oriflamme were alpine meadows in the Lagunas. I say alpine although the elevation was only about 5,000 feet, and the climate zone for pine trees was actually still a thousand feet higher. But this terrain had the look and feel of a high mountain meadow, and was wonderful to ride through.

A short section traversed by a flowing ribbon of singletrack nearly made up for all of the heart-bursting effort of the early morning.

We crossed onto the California Riding and Hiking Trail, and the only part of this region I've seen before. This trail serves as part of the course in the San Diego 100, where I paced Beat for 40 miles last June. I remember thinking some of these trails would be way more fun to ride than run, and promising myself I'd come back with my bike. The context under which I'd returned amused me.

I dipped back into my pain cave on the hot climb up the Sunrise Highway, and the cave only deepened after I topped out at 5,500 feet and began the steep descent into Noble Canyon. The early part of the trail flowed but it quickly turned chunky, and then extra chunky. I'm not a good chunk rider even in the best of circumstances, and these were far from the best, given the heat, my fatigue, and the fact I was riding a fairly-new-to-me bike loaded with touring gear. Sections of trail were rideable for me, but after I while I grew tired of crawling off my bike every hundred yards and relented to hiking the whole thing, even the easier parts. Downhill hike-a-biking over boulders is strenuous, and after four or so miles I was the most irritable that I'd be during the entire Stagecoach 400. It was unfortunate that I spent much of this time chatting with a local mountain biker, who would ride a few hundred yards at not terribly fast descending speeds and then wait for me to catch up so he could ask more questions. It was fascinating to watch him ride and realize that at least some people don't just bomb down technical trail, but ride it so deliberately that their pace is almost confusingly slow (as in, why bother?) But I get that chunk riding is fun for people. I admit it has never done much for me and I doubt I'll ever develop enough interest to really learn. Anyway, the local rider was pleasant to chat with but toward the end he insisted that I couldn't get to Alpine via the supposed direction I was heading, and I needed to take this and that shortcut. When I told him I couldn't shortcut the course no matter what, he argued that his way was better, and I should either just race the thing or do what I want (I presume he said this because I was hiking a mountain bike downhill, so I obviously wasn't racing.) Anyway, he was nice, just inquisitive, and I wonder now if I my annoyance with him stemmed from how grumpy I was at the time.

Still, I was annoyed with this guy because I believed he questioned my "racing," so I was happy with the trail split off in another direction after he'd already ridden ahead. The trail immediately turned up this crazy steep chip seal road. I spent so much of the morning hiking that I already had blisters, so I engaged my highest possible non-slipping gear to ride this climb. As I was mashing the pedals, two guys from the Stagecoach 400 motored up beside me. They weren't carrying any bikepacking gear, so I assumed correctly that these were the "hotelers" — fast guys who were touring the course by cranking hard for a hundred or so miles every day and spending longer nights in high-end hotels. A great way to ride this course, really. I approve.

"Awesome riding," one said to me.

"Who me?" I replied and laughed. If only they had seen me on the Noble Canyon Trail.

"Yeah," the other guy said. "We're about to give up and walk."

"Let's do that now," the first said, and they dismounted their bikes and began walking as I drifted ahead of them. I admit it felt good to climb, well, anything faster than the hotelers, so I pressed a little harder on my unreliable accelerator. I may have even beat them to the top of the climb if my GPS battery hadn't died, but I wasn't about to let that thing blank out for a second. They were riding again when they passed, and that was the last I'd see of the hotelers.

After that was more exhausting singletrack, a wicked fun descent out of the mountains, a steep rolling fire road, more descent, and finally I reached the town of Alpine right at sunset. After stopping for dinner and a small restock, I strongly considered staying in town. Somehow I let Beat talk me into continuing for a few more hours after I called him. (Honestly, I don't remember what he said to me if anything. I only know that I blamed him in my mind for coaxing me out of Alpine after I reached a horrendous hike-a-bike right at the end of the night. Sorry, Beat. I don't think you deserved the blame.)

I was so tired. I guess that goes without saying, but it's more difficult to describe the subtle ways in which fatigue accumulates alongside hours of effort. One minute I was inexplicably giddy, and the next I watched crazy-eyed rabbits dart toward my front wheel. I'm not certain these rabbits were real. It was only about ... oh, it was midnight again. The couple from San Diego had told me I'd probably find a good spot to camp at the top of "the hike-a-bike." I lifted my bike over a cement barrier and saw yet another near-vertical wall of a dirt road. I'm not even sure how I managed to keep the bike from rolling back down the hill due to my own inertia, but I think I pushed that climb at a rate of about 0.5 miles per hour — meaning I think it took me an hour to climb it. It probably wasn't that long, but it felt that long. I found a nice flat spot at the top to collapse and unrolled my bivy in record time. I was lucky at the time not to know that I was on an Indian reservation where the tribe didn't take too kindly to trespassing bikers and had already threatened a few who were caught trying to access this part of the course earlier in the day. I say I was lucky I didn't know, because I was going to sleep well tonight. (Map from day two.)

Taking the stage

My earliest memories of Southern California include a glass tank full of dolphins, evenly spaced palm trees dividing the street from the gleaming walls of glass skyscrapers, and a homeless man sleeping in a pile of dirty clothing on a manicured lawn. Now, some 25 years later, I admit this is what I see when I think of Southern Cali, and I still can't comprehend how mountains, forests, and vast tracts of desert could exist beside the urban finality of my memories.

When I signed on to ride the Stagecoach 400, it's because I saw an opportunity to immerse myself in part of California that I otherwise would likely never see. I could appreciate the big forests and open space of the north, the Sierras of the east, the cliff-lined coast, and my own comfortable perch between the Santa Cruz Mountains and the San Francisco Bay. But Southern California, in my mind, was the domain of glass buildings, bland deserts and marine life in tanks. And because I despise biases even when they're my own, I thought a 400-mile mountain bike tour would be a perfect exercise in shattering expectations.

The Stagecoach 400 route was the brainchild of Idyllwild frame-builder and bike-shop owner Brendan Collier and his wife, Mary. Mary finished the Tour Divide one year before me, in 2008, but now the two are parents and business owners and don't have as much time for extensive bike tours. Brendan wanted to create a route that he could get excited about, and I presume recruited friends and others in the region to add their own input. The result is a diverse range of landscapes and trails strung together so compactly that it would be difficult to believe they all exist in the same region if you weren't the one linking them up yourself. As fellow rider Katherine put it, "It's like having a local take you on a tour of all their favorite trails, for 400 miles." The Stagecoach 400 really is a cool route ... even if it turned out to be considerably more strenuous than I expected. But that's what you get, when you set out for an adventure purposefully ignorant of what's in store.

Thanks to my perceived lapse in fitness, I went into this race with few expectations. Because of this, I didn't feel my usual nervousness as I plowed through my pre-race routine in Idyllwild. I met up with Sharon and Michael, two cyclists from Anchorage who I know through the Alaska snow biking scene (Sharon won the Susitna 100 earlier this year.) I also had the opportunity to spend some time with Eszter Horanyi, who I really admire because she has the kind of talent I'd kill to have, and yet just quietly goes about her awesome mountain bike feats with humility and perspective. This was perhaps my favorite aspect of the Stagecoach 400 — all of the amazing women who lined up, including Mary, two-time Nome finisher Tracey Petervary, and Katherine, a good-humored Kiwi who was also conducting a shakedown for this year's Tour Divide. There were other women whose names I've forgotten, but the number was notable as what is likely the largest percentage of females to participate in a multiday bikepacking race.

The race started two and a half hours late because of last-minute delivery issues with the SPOT trackers, which Brendan managed well, given the stated lack of central organization in this race. (The Stagecoach was conducted in the usual self-supported style, meaning you look out for yourself and don't expect any support from the people who simply designed the route and set a date for a group ride.) There was another early snag when a landowner blocked most of the group from a gated road after the leaders went through. Brendan turned the rest of the peloton around and led us down a nearby singletrack trail. I always try to ride off the back at the beginning of these long races because I like to stop when I want to stop, but I don't want to impede others. However, too many stops early in the Stagecoach 400 resulted in a wrong turn that nearly separated me from the pack for good. Brendan was nice enough to wait up for us stragglers and point us in the direction of the original route. From then on, we were truly on our own.

I settled into a good rhythm, watching my little blue arrow creep along the purple line of my GPS. GPS has become my lifeline in endurance racing, to the point when I find it difficult to function without its trusty map images. This is actually one of my difficulties in ultrarunning races, which favor signed courses over electronic gizmos. I can navigate hundreds or even thousands of miles of unmarked trails just fine with my GPS, but put me on a course with a bunch of ribbons and I'm likely to wander around in bewildered circles.

We quickly descended out of the mountains and into the depths of the Anza Borrego desert. Every large dip in elevation increased the temperature noticeably. The day started in the low 70s at 6,000 feet in Idyllwild, and soon rose to the 90s in the exposed desert. I have another anti-strategic habit of carrying way, way too much water — but I was grateful for it on the first day. As long as I have plenty of liquid on my back, I feel calm about setting out toward these barren expanses — landscapes that otherwise intimidate me immensely.

The route followed the sandy bottom of a wash, which proved to be quite a technical obstacle thanks to soft piles of sand, breakable crust and boulders. I was feeling playful and tried to ride as much as I could, even though spinning out through the loose sand often proved to be slower than walking and at least twice as hard. I could see where most of the leaders had gotten through on the crust, and churned it up for the rest of us. My fault for starting off the back — not that I'd be able to hold anybody's wheel for long given all of the technical riding that was already scattered across the course. Still, I was excited just to be out for a long bike ride in new-to-me country. I could worry about how hard I was working when the time came, later.

The wash snaked through the wide canyon and suddenly dropped into a veritable jungle, a natural springs area known as Middle Willows. The transition was startling — from sun-baked rocks to a deep green oasis. The trail wound tightly through the willows and crashed through tall blades of grass beneath Sasquatch-like palm trees. Truly another world. I loved it — not because the riding was fun, although it was — but because I was fully immersed in this alien world, and it was nothing like the Southern California of my imagination.

Others had told me there was an awesome place to stop for burritos in Borrego Springs. But by the time I reached town, I was feeling ill from the heat and not in the mood for solid food. I stopped at a small store in the clubhouse of a ritzy golf course and bought an ice cream sandwich, two bottles of Gatorade and another gallon of water. The woman at the counter told me a story of one Stagecoach competitor who had already come in well-cooked and delirious, saying he had been out of water for "hours." "Tough way to start a race," I thought, and wondered how much farther he'd make it down this course. The sharp edge of the afternoon heat made me glad for my slower pace and water-hoarding ways.

The next section brought more interminable sand, which, like the technical riding in the wash, took away any of the ease or speed of losing elevation. I mashed my low gears and pined for my fat bike, hoping the combination of desert, beach, and rock-garden riding wouldn't make me wish I had brought the Fatback all along. I do love the Moots though; it's so comfortable it's almost like not even having a bicycle underneath me, and it was much lighter and easier to drag up the interminable hike-a-bikes to come.

Darkness descended as I turned away from the day's long drop and began the sandy climb up Fish Creek Wash. In the faint starlight I could see towering black shadows of canyon walls and realized that this must be a stunning place in the daytime. I considered stopping low in the canyon so I could view it better in daylight, but Friday's heat had already been stifling and it was supposed to be hotter on Saturday. I knew I needed to gain as much elevation as I could manage in the relative cool of night. I motored through the sand, wishing the miles could go by faster but glad I didn't feel worse than I did. I drifted into a pleasant daze until I saw a house-sized boulder that looked like a homey place to stop for the night. It was nearly 1 a.m., which shocked me, as I had little sense of time passing since the sun set. I had traveled 102 miles and, despite the rapid loss in elevation, still managed to climb 6,150 feet over the long day. It was a good target, but I originally expected to be further along after 14 hours on the trail. I rolled out my sleeping gear and laid on my back for seeming hours, gazing at stars. It didn't feel like I was ever fully unconscious during the fitful night. But I hoped I had managed sleep at some point, because I still wasn't certain I had the wherewithal to handle three more days of this.

Endless climb: Stagecoach 400 intro

My water tasted like weak, rancid coffee, and was nearing throat-searing temperatures. I collected it from a hose at a fire station, where it probably sat for days absorbing heat and minerals. I had better water in a reserve bladder, but I was too paranoid about dying to dump out the fire hose water. If I sipped it slowly enough I could deceive my gag reflex into accepting it as hydration, but only barely. The unavoidable sun had already stifled my willingness to eat. I felt dizzy and strange.

I wanted to walk, take a break, take a nap, but I couldn't let myself do any of these things. The numbers weren't in my favor. I was down to three fig bars, two cookies, and some sunflower seeds. If I didn't make it to the Sunshine RV park before the market closed, I was going to either have to ride the last 25 mostly uphill miles after the RV park with no food, or I would have to pedal six miles off course to the town of Anza. I expected to take the second option, but neither was ideal. The reason I was so low on food again is because when I restocked at the last gas station at 10 p.m. the night before, I expected to pedal through here many hours earlier, and eat considerably less in the process. I should have known that the Stagecoach 400 wasn't going to give away any easy miles. Instead of pedaling up a wide valley on pavement, I had to cross these sandy mountains first.

I did the math. If I wanted to hit Sunshine Market by the reported 6 p.m. closing time, I would have to average a little over six miles per hour — which was, sadly, faster than my average had been all day. I had no idea how much climbing lay between me and the market, but I figured I might as well plan on "a lot" and give everything my depleted, sun-cooked muscles had to give to those climbs. My heart pounded into my throat, and the only thing I could do to ignore its desperate thumping was sing in my head — a Modest Mouse song I sometimes chant because it has a calming effect as well as a good cadence for three-mile-per-hour granny-gear pedal mashing.

A nice heart and a white suit and a baby blue sedan,
And I am doing the best that I can ...


I was doing the best that I could. I was giving everything I had to give, even if I believed that everything I had to give wasn't all that much. From the moment I cracked on Cache Mountain Divide in the White Mountains 100 a month ago, I've been struggling. I knew that going into the Stagecoach 400, knew that more rest or at least more mindful training might be the better option for long-term health and performance. Part of me really does care about all that, but another side — I might call it my more primal, instinctive side — needed to face the struggle head-on. "Oh, you need a little nap after your two-hour ride, do you? I'll show you."

Sad song, last dance, and no one knew who the band was,
And Henry, you danced like a wooden Indian ...

The course was harder than I imagined. I must have said it to Beat at least a half dozen times in grumpy 10 p.m. dinner-time phone calls. "This is really hard." He tried to reassure me that I was still moving okay, that I was in fifteenth position in the starting field of 42, that it must be hard for everyone. In those grumpy times, the idea that there were other people out here doing this ridiculous thing made me feel angry. Were they riding, struggling, and hike-a-biking for 18 hours a day just to make a hundred or so miles? Were they sleeping only three or four fitful hours even though they found beautiful campsites under the stars in the vast quiet of the desert? Were they still wearing the same chamois after three days until even regular wet wipe baths weren't enough to quell the revulsion of crawling into a clammy sleeping bag? Of course these questions were pointless because everyone was in the same pain cave. The leaders weren't sleeping at all, some riders had succumbed to dehydration and heat exhaustion, and one unfortunate guy was hit by a car (he's fine, but it ended his race.) Lots of people had major aches and minor injuries. I was lucky to get away with just being a little tired.

Except this one mattered and I felt it had a spirit
And I shot the story because I didn't hear it that way ...

I thought at the top of the climb I'd catch a glimpse of the Anza Valley and the distant San Jacinto Mountains, my final destination. But I was wrong. The crest only brought a view of another narrow valley, and beyond that, a steep ridge scarred by this same sandy road. I coasted to the tree-lined bottom of the Chihuahua Valley and began my Modest Mouse chant anew. Dizziness had abated, replaced with a strange out-of-body sensation, as though my head and torso were detached from my sweat-soaked limbs. A drunken buzz replaced the desperation in my pounding heart, and I welcomed this surge of heat-intoxicated energy. I believed I was climbing better than I had in all of the last 350 miles. Maybe I was finally over this hump, finally out of the slump — until I reached the next crest only to see ... another dip into a bowl, and beyond that, more climbing.

And it's hard to be a human being
And it's harder as anything else ...

Reality soaked in that this rolling terrain could go on for a while. I let the dream of the Sunshine Market slip away, and expected to find frustration in its place. Surprisingly, I didn't feel angry or discouraged. Those feelings had faded behind a primal fascination with the boulder-studded mountains surrounding me, and bemusement about the thing I was becoming. It was the kind of thing that wandered around convenience stores in a daze until instinct took over, and I found myself devouring Hostess cupcakes and frozen burritos without understanding why I chose those particular foods ... the kind of thing that sometimes gasped happily while pushing up 45-percent grades and other times threw silent temper tantrums on the same terrain, for no discernible reason. My face was permanently caked in dust and sunscreen paste, my lips were cracked and bleeding, and a broken rubber band was tied around the crusty knot that was once my hair. Last night, I screeched at a kangaroo mouse that darted in and out of my path — no words, just screeching. In the morning, I woke up to a spider crawling across my face and I didn't even care. I no longer felt like a human being and had a distinct sense that I was experiencing the rare sensation of what it was like to be anything else. It was hard — really hard — and yet, somehow, desirable.

I finished the Stagecoach 400 four days ago, and ever since haven't had the mental energy to piece together enough of the experience to write anything about it. There are of course more stories and photos and I'll add those in the coming days. But I thought I'd start with my favorite moment of the Stagecoach 400: The moment I raced alone on the California Riding and Hiking Trail in the intense heat of the afternoon, surrounded on both sides by rugged wilderness, and realized the thing I was racing — closing time at the Sunshine market — was probably futile. All I could see were a seemingly endless series of climbs, making the finish line seem impossibly far away. I was overheated, exhausted ... and really, truly happy. Go figure.

Here goes nothing

Right now it's 38 degrees and clear in Idyllwild, California. I arrived in town this afternoon after visiting my sister in Huntington Beach. Less than two hours of driving through traffic-choked Orange County sprawl and into the mountains landed me in this awesome little mountain town at 6,000 feet, with wisps of new-fallen snow on the ridgeline just above our heads. By Saturday afternoon it's supposed to be close to 100 degrees in the low-lying desert just a few miles south.

I spent the evening with my friends Sharon and Michael, who flew all the way out here from Anchorage to escape Alaska breakup and soak up a little Cali sunshine. I'm splitting a hotel room with Eszter, the supa-fast mountain bike goddess who is gearing up to crush my Tour Divide record this summer. The Stagecoach is just another training ride for her. Interestingly, we spent most of the evening talking about Alaska.

I head into this ride with an open mind and a lot of food (really, I have a lot this time. I checked.) My hope is to put as many miles across the brutal desert tomorrow before the heat really returns, and then see how my body holds up for the following days. The race is starting a bit late because of tracking issues, around 10 a.m., which is fine with me. Now I have time for one more meal with Sharon and Michael. I was fretting about my perceived physical state earlier, but I've mostly let those fears fade into the background. This is bikepacking, after all. After the first day, it all hurts the same.

You can follow my progress on the Stagecoach 400 tracking page, http://trackleaders.com/stagecoach400. I'll probably be plodding up a mountain, or dripping sweat on the soft sand of a desert wash, lecturing my legs to stop hurting and singing catchy pop music to myself like AWOLNATION:

I say ya kill your heroes 
and fly, fly, baby don't cry. 
No need to worry cuz everybody will die. 
Every day we just go, go, baby don't go.
Don't you worry we love you more than you know.

Fighting inertia

After another "but it's only for fun" mountain bike ride on Sunday that ended with dead legs and nap-time fatigue, I made the unprecedented (for me) decision to take the rest of the week off from exercising. I admit I'm beginning to feel nervous about the possible onset of mild burnout, because some of the symptoms feel similar to my post Tour Divide physical malaise: Molasses muscles, mild but persistent soreness in my quads, rapidly shifting energy levels, sugar cravings. Experts have a label for all of these symptoms — "overtraining."

While the reasoning makes sense, it's harder for me to accept the simple explanation. For starters, my activity volume, while relatively high, hasn't changed all that much in the past year. I don't train like most athletes, in peaks and valleys of hard effort and recovery. I stick to a mostly even plain of effort because it's what I enjoy most — having the ability to go out day after day for long efforts if I choose. Athletes call it "long slow distance," and usually scoff at those who practice it, because athleticism is generally perceived to be the pursuit of speed. But it's fine with me, because it's who I am. If I was a true vagabond I wouldn't be the athletic type who travels from race to race; I'd probably be the frumpy tourist pedaling a loaded bicycle around the world. A perceived ability to pedal — or hike — all day, every day, is an important part of my physical identity.

When I have a slump that disrupts this identity, I consider the physical explanations but also look for mental and emotional reasons as well. A few days ago I was discussing my physical concerns with Beat, and a few questions from him shifted the topic to my current creative frustrations. For the past year I have been trying to pursue the long, often difficult slog of writing as a (mostly) full-time profession. For every personal triumph there have been many dead ends. I have quite a few unfinished projects and ideas strung in threads across my computer screen. I'm currently focusing most of my time on two specific book projects, one that's nearing the final editing stages and one that I'm basically just beginning. This second project is one I'm excited about, but it's proving difficult in execution. I buzz with anticipation when I'm out for a ride, thinking about what I want to write. But when I actually sit down to write, I'm stifled by uncertainties about all these supposedly great ideas. I spend more time staring at blank Word pages, scrolling down to prevent myself from re-reading the same sentences over and over, and diverting my attention to banal tasks and Web surfing. Meanwhile other projects, which could at least add to the salmon wheel trickle of my income, sit unfinished.

I keep telling myself I'm going to develop a real routine, set goals, and get away from the Internet, and somehow that will make a difference. But I continue developing excuses as to why I can't cement a better routine — traveling to Nepal, spending much of the winter in Alaska, training for the White Mountains 100, preparing for the Stagecoach 400. The truth is I'm afraid to devote more energy to writing. My most successful days can be so mentally consuming, the failed days so frustrating, and I fear that the only thing I'll find on the other side is failure, or worse — indifference.

If you asked me right now if I honestly though I could make a living as a writer, my answer would be no. Content is abundant, most of it is free, and the economic climate is only going to make it more difficult for those who create content to generate income. My current income comes from the sales of my two books, a few small magazine contracts, and the occasional editing job that I pick up from the community of people who call themselves "indie authors." Based on these experiences and my past in the newspaper and magazine industry, I believe authorship of books is the best avenue for me, with the highest potential for both income generation and personal fulfillment. But I also recognize that to actually achieve financial independence through writing, I am either going to have to simply get lucky or write and market a whole lot of different books. When I'm struggling, as I am right now, I find myself browsing journalismjobs.com and wondering if the newspaper industry will take me back. Sadly, things are pretty sparse over there these days. Never mind the return to 60-hour workweeks, the giving up of adventure time, the death of dreams.

If you asked me right now what I want to make of my life, that answer would be simple. I want to tell stories. I want to tell my own stories, and I want to tell the stories of others — in other words, personal narrative and biographical writing. I enjoy interviewing people and writing profiles, and hope to do more of that in the future. Still, my most natural inclination is to write through the lens of my own experiences. In olden days I might have called myself a memoirist. My memory is my most influential intellectual asset, and written words one of my most fulfilling means of self expression. Another is movement — physically drawing my presence across the contours of the world. I recognize that these things are not always economically practical or even possible, but I am happiest when I am able to do both.

I wonder if creative inertia contributes to my physical inertia, and vice versa. A kind of vicious cycle. Which brings me back around to the Stagecoach 400. I'm nervous about this trip because of what feels like less-than-optimal physical fitness, but at the same time believe I'll likely extract a richer experience from this ride because of a penitent mindset (after all, I have only myself to blame if I am indeed "overtrained.") My plan is to (hopefully) manage my food and water better than I did during my last bike tour, enjoy the scenery, take breaks when I am tired, and just ride. I don't have a goal time. Four days and change would be hopeful. The race has a limit of five days, which is a bit tight in my opinion, based on what I know of the course. It's good, though. I believe a few good days of the raw existence necessitated by endurance bikepacking are just what I need right now — mull over some of my ideas, test the true status of my physical state, and fight the inertia.

The race starts Friday morning. I'm planning to write a more in-depth gear post before then, but one encouraging bit of news is new bags from Revelate Designs arrived just in time. I now finally have a new seat-post bag to replace the well-worn prototype that Eric made for me in 2007, a fitted frame bag and an awesome handlebar bag. The innovations Revelate has made in the past few years are impressive — better materials, waterproof adaptations, simplified straps, and an impressive amount of volume in small and stealthy spaces, so I can carry all my overnight gear and still "get rad" on singletrack. Eric (who wrote a fantastic race report after the White Mountains 100) went to a lot of trouble to send this stuff in time for Stagecoach, and I owe him a huge thanks.

At least the Moots is fully awesome and ready to eat up miles, even if I am not. 

Embracing the slump

Leah climbs out of Rodeo Valley during our Wednesday evening ride in the Marin Headlands.

As soon as my bike tour ended, the tired returned. I can't say there was anything about the trip — besides the obvious energy deficit during the low-calorie day — that made me feel especially fatigued. But as soon as I stopped pedaling, recovery mode set in deep. My quads felt shredded in such a way that the remaining intact fibers were holding on by threads — in other words, sore and tight. I rested over the weekend and embarked on one run to try to work out the muscle soreness, but that just made my knees ache. There were renewed desires to take naps in the middle of bike rides. Despite concerns about the big effort looming at the end of the month, I couldn't feel too frustrated about my fatigue; I try not to let myself to succumb to frustration for conditions I know are self-inflicted. At the same time, the fatigue was frustrating because it didn't necessarily make sense. My "training volume" hasn't been much different than any other point during the winter, or fall for that matter. Perhaps it's the rapidly shifting weather, mourning the end of winter, entering the "off season." Either way, my fitness is only as good as the intriguing and fun things it lets me do, or the beautiful places it lets me visit. I am tapering with survival of the Stagecoach 400 in mind, but I still snuck a few fun hours outside amid the resting. I wouldn't let sub-optimal fitness stop me unless I thought it might literally stop me.

Fog moving in over San Francisco 

On Wednesday I went riding in Marin with Leah. We started in the city, rode through town, crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and pedaled up and down, up and down, up and down the quiet hills of the Headlands. I love riding in this region because of the dynamic transitions between urban and trail riding, and also because the scenery never disappoints. We watched fog roll in from the Pacific and cloak the peaks, then descended into valleys saturated in rich evening light. The ride ended with deep dish pizza and discussions late into the evening about adventure possibilities in Northern California. There wasn't a second in the evening that I would trade for a rest day. Which is my problem, really. It's really just a matter of my own motivations and rewards. I'd rather be "out-of- shape active" than bored and fit.

Already rocking the biker tan

The next morning's planned mountain bike loop with friends came all too early, and sore quads compelled me to cut my own ride short. Then came another day of rest, followed by today, when the high temperature was forecast to top 90 degrees. Normally, temperatures like that combined with a better excuse to taper would prompt me to stay indoors. But I've been working on acclimating to heat in preparation for my ride across the desert in Southern California. Until today, this involved 35 minutes in the sauna, nearly every night. Although sedentary, the sauna acclimation seemed to be working. My paperback copy of "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" had nearly disintegrated, and I was up to roasting myself in temperatures over 180 degrees (the safe temperature of cooked chicken) without almost passing out, unless I sat up too fast. It's been a wonderfully cool spring in the Bay Area, but today the outdoors finally cranked out enough heat to put my sauna training to the test.

Beat and I set out for a run on Black Mountain Trail, a steep and often sun-exposed route that climbs 2,900 feet in 10 miles round trip. The trail winds through a wind-protected canyon, where hot air just sits and stagnates like an outdoor sauna. I've only embarked on about five trail runs since March, but I keep receiving ominous weekly tweets from Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc (only 19 more weeks!) and I figured it would be wise to starting putting my running muscles back in motion. But considering my lack of running, the sudden burst of heat and accumulated cycling fatigue, I started the run expecting to feel really bad the whole time.

The run actually went well. I was vaguely sick to my stomach, most likely from drinking too much water, but I figured out if I could coax myself to run just a little bit faster, I actually felt a bit of a breeze. Even though I haven't experienced any heat over 70 degrees outside the sauna since last year, I made it through without almost passing out. When we returned to the car it was 93 degrees in the shade. I'm willing to chalk that one up to successful sauna training. Also, I think the rest days — even when sandwiched between still-difficult efforts — are helping. I plan to take a few more before it's time to tackle 400 miles of sun-drenched Southern California. 

South Pole bike revisted

Helen Sketon on her Hanebrink ice bike. Courtesy BBC.

Earlier this week I randomly received an e-mail from Kane Fortune, the president of bicycle-maker Fortune Hanebrink, asking me if I wanted to revisit my conclusions about British television personality Helen Skelton's 500-mile multi-sport trip in Antarctica. I thought, yes, it would be good to follow through on this. Helen successfully completed her expedition to the South Pole on January 22. Her methods of travel included 329 miles (eight days) of kite skiing, 68 miles (three days) of skiing, and 103 miles (seven days) of biking on a custom Hanebrink ice bike.

I and other snow bike enthusiasts were critical of the media coverage of Helen's expedition, which perpetuated several unsubstantiated claims (such as the "longest bike ride on snow" and "first bike ride to the South Pole," which was not even one-fifth true given the start at an arbitrary point 500 miles from the pole.) Some snow bikers also questioned the practicality of that particular brand of bicycle, which I'll address soon. However, I was enthralled by the adventure of Helen's trip, and followed her progress with interest despite what I viewed as anemic coverage on the BBC blog. I also watched parts of a couple of episodes of her television show online, but I admit I don't have much patience for the standard filters of reality television. However, if Helen ever writes a book about her adventure, I'll be the first to buy it.

She was absolutely successful in what set out to do. But after the completion of her trip, I continued to question just how much Helen and her partner really "rode" their bikes. Their final tally was 103 miles over seven days, which is an average of 14 miles per riding day. On the anemic BBC blog, Helen dropped a few hints about the difficulties, calling the Hanebrinks "push bikes" and admitting their her partner, a champion kite skier, thought the bikes were "a little silly." On the first day of the expedition, they stopped after riding 15 miles and indicated they had put in a long day to make it that far. Most of the other bike days also were depicted as long and arduous. I understand that high winds that could slow a bike down to two miles an hour might slow a walker or skier down even more. But I think even the most avid snow bikers would question this level of progress ... if it's consistently harder and slower than walking, what's the point?

I'm among the few who have wondered how viable a bicycle might be for explorations in frozen, wild places such as Antarctica, the North Pole, Greenland and Baffin Island. Not merely out of personal interest, although I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't jump at any opportunity to travel through these endlessly intriguing corners of the world. One of my big motivators for finishing the past two Susitna 100 races on foot was to experiment with long-distance foot and snowshoe travel (For me personally, walking and running are a more enjoyable, versatile and even more efficient method of travel than skiing has proven to be, but if I ever receive a serious invitation to an Arctic ski expedition, you can bet I'm going to do everything I can to develop skiing technique.) But I digress. The big question still remains: Is it possible to ride a bicycle, entirely self-supported, from the Antarctic coast to the South Pole?

A decade ago, Dan Hanebrink developed what might be the first bicycle designed specifically for an Antarctic expedition, an "ice bike" built for Antarctic adventurer Doug Stoup. The ice bike was included among Time's "Best Inventions of 2003." Stoup supposedly rode the bicycle 200 miles of a 300-mile trip before he was shut down by high winds, and hasn't tried it again. There were reports that he had been preparing to take it to the South Pole, but little information about why Stoup hasn't yet attempted another bicycle expedition amid his continuing ski trips in Antarctica. In Internet chatter, the general assumption seems to be "because the bike didn't work the way he thought it would."

Again, I don't know many of the details, but the fact remains that no person yet has actually completed a full, self-supported ride from the Antarctic coast to the South Pole — which is the generally accepted explorer's standard to qualify as "the first bike ride to the South Pole." No one has taken a bike to the North Pole or any other major Arctic winter backcountry traverse for that matter, at least not publicly. There are some who have expressed interest and others who have publicly expressed interest and put a lot of time, effort, experience, and knowledge into such an expedition. While it goes without saying that securing funding for such a major undertaking is by far the biggest obstacle, the logistics of the bicycle itself also present an interesting puzzle.

After Fortune contacted me, he graciously answered a few questions about Helen's trip and the bike:

What feedback did you receive about the bicycles after Helen and her partner returned from Antarctica? Did they make any suggestions that you would incorporate into future designs?

Fortune: As with Doug Stoup's 2003 trip to Antarctica, the bikes were very successful on Helen's recent trip. What this teaches us about future designs is that we must continue the mission that Dan Hanebrink began in 1991 and that is to build the best bike for riding in the snow and soft terrain. We must continue to build our chassis and wheels as strong and light as possible and to build relationships with various parts suppliers for the highest quality and most durable components in all conditions. Helen's riding partner was a world champion kite boarder. You can bet that if Dan or I (champion and competitive cyclists respectively) were on the trip, we would have spent much more time in the saddle and less on the board.

Did you design the bike in order to accomodate pulling a heavy sledge?

Fortune: Designed as a backcountry snow bike, it is invariably a utility bike as much as it is a recreation bike. The Hanebrink has been pulling trailers and sleds since its inception. Before Doug's trip to Antarctica, he spent many hours pulling a tire behind his Hanebrink in the sand at Redondo Beach. Doug required Helen to do some training of her own, pulling a sled behind the bike in San Diego sand dunes.

My understanding is Stoup did not reach his goal to ride to South Pole, and has not made another attempt. Has anyone else approached you about building a bicycle for another South Pole attempt?

Fortune: Doug Stoup had a successful trip riding the Hanebrink more than 200 miles in Antarctica. His goal was a 300 mile ride of the bike (not a trip to the South Pole). Because of severe katabatic winds, Doug was forced to spend five straight days in a his tent, sleeping with his legs straight and strong to keep the tent from collapsing. Doug has since been very busy with expeditions and he would love an opportunity to ride a Hanebrink to the South Pole. In 2013, a Japanese adventure cyclist plans on riding a Hanebrink to the South Pole. We are also coordinating with a Spanish adventure cyclist about a future trip on his return from a trip crossing Greenland.

What mechanical adaptations did you make for extreme cold? Were you able to test any of the mechanics in cold temperatures?

Fortune: As an avid cyclist living in the winter resort town of Big Bear Lake, Dan first developed the Hanebrink in 1991 to be ridden on snow (much of the bike's early attention came from clients in beach communities for its ability to ride in sand) With the San Bernardino National Forest as his backyard, Dan has been building, riding, and testing in all types of conditions for over twenty years. While his focus is now solely building Hanebrink All-Terrain bikes and Electric All-Terrain bikes, he has developed many bicycle and motorcycle products since inventing the "Ice Bike." The Ice Bike is built without plastic parts and uses a mechanical brake. When Doug made his trip, Dan Hanebrink was still making bicycle suspension forks which he retrofitted for Antarctic conditions. In building the bikes for Helen's trip, White Brothers Suspension in Colorado would keep the fork legs in meat lockers during the building process to test their performance in cold conditions (these were the only new component we had not yet tested in Antarctica).

A few of the days that Helen and her partner reported riding the bicycles, they logged less than twenty miles while reportedly cycling for eight to twelve hours. To an outsider, these bike speeds appeared to average less than two miles per hour much of the time. I wondered if you wanted to comment on this or correct any misperceptions. As someone who has done some long rides on snow trails, I know that "riding" at these speeds generally means pushing the bike — i.e. walking.

Fortune: If the misperception is that she walked and not rode: We have no reason not to believe Helen when she has told us that she rode. (Living in Los Angeles, we are cognizant of how "Hollywood" can manipulate a story) Depending on the external environment, some miles may have been ridden as slow as two miles per hour, and some much faster. Built for endurance over speed, our eight-inch-wide tires can not only traverse terrain that no other bike will can travel, it also balances comfortably when forced to pedal at idle speeds unlike any other bicycle.

Based on this last question, do you believe your bicycles or any bicycle for that matter can actually provide an advantage on the wild terrain of Antarctica over walking on snowshoes?

Fortune: There is a momentum gained when riding that is just not possible when snowshoeing; especially pulling a sled.

The snow bike industry is taking off right now, with a number of different "fat bike" offerings in North America. All of these bicycles' designs favor a style more similar to a traditional mountain bike. In lay-person's terms, could you explain a bit why you believe the features of your design are better for Antarctic riding? Also, do you think your bikes would perform well among traditional fat bikes in, say, an Iditarod Trail race across Alaska? Or are they specifically designed for the kind of conditions one might encounter in Antarctica, which from my understanding can be quite different from packed trails in North America?

Fortune: Every type of bike —road, mountain, bmx, etc. — is suited for a particular type of terrain. Hanebrink is the only bike that rides in all terrains: deep sand, snow, streets, steeps. The standard "fat bike" is a mix between a standard mountain bike and a Hanebrink All-Terrain bike. A standard "fat bike" will ride better in the snow than a standard mountain bike and a Hanebrink will ride better in softer terrains (snow and sand) than either a "fat bike" or a mountain bike. Riding successfully in soft terrain is a matter of tire floatation. The less pounds per square inch, exerted from the tires over the terrain, the more success you will have riding over the soft stuff. Our bikes at three pounds per square inch, fully loaded, have the lightest footprint of any wheeled vehicle in production. In the softest possible riding conditions, the air pressure in our tubeless tires is let out to 4 psi and when traveling on paved roads our tires are pumped to 18 psi. For any surface in between, the tire pressure can be adjusted accordingly. Fat bikes are designed for snow packed trails and have proven successful over many years in the Iditarod traveling on the frozen rivers and hard-packed snow. They are not designed for the deep backcountry snow that our bikes are designed for. There have been some years (at least one) where the bikes were walked more miles than ridden during the Iditarod because the snow was too deep. We would love to see a Hanebrink in competition during one of these years.

....

I appreciate Mr. Fortune taking the time to answer my questions. I realize winter backcountry expedition cycling is a highly esoteric subject, but if you have an opinion on the matter, please comment. Perhaps Mr. Fortune will check in and answer more questions as they come along.