Tuesday, July 10, 2012

First run in weeks ... started as a ride

I managed an okay morning of work, but by early afternoon I was back to glancing out the window every few minutes. Bright sunshine, white puffy clouds, and the sky was a piercing shade of blue that one only sees at these clarifying altitudes. It was really too perfect of a day not to go exploring by bike, so I set out from our friends' house with a borrowed Trek 4500.

Trek 4500 was an okay steed; she reminded me of my first mountain bike, which was a Trek 6500. But she was also a strong reminder of why I used so many resources to continue to trade up over the past decade — heavy, not well fitted, and the drivetrain had some issues. These issues probably went unnoticed in her regular role as a commuter, but as soon as I started up the Peaks Trail, the sluggish shifting, missed gears, and manic chain dropping became a liability. Any time I applied even the slightest increase of pressure on the pedals, the chain either locked up or went flying, and a pedal reliably ended up embedded in the back of my leg. I swore at this bike more times than I'd like to admit, and finally relented to stepping off and walking over any obstacle larger than a small pebble.

I'd planned to ride the fun Peaks Trail to Breckenridge, but the climbing rapport between me and the Trek 4500 was so poor that after five miles I was looking for good places to abandon the bike and continue on foot. I came to the Miner's Creek Trail and decided to veer off the planned route, knowing that while the Peaks Trail had the key properties for a fun ride (gentle grades key among them), it would likely make for a boring hike. I rode Trek 4500 about three quarters of a mile up the trail until I came to a creek crossing, and shortly after that, a trail marker for the Colorado Trail. "This is the Colorado Trail?" I thought. "I definitely don't want to try to ride a rickety bike up this."

The trail was chunky and steep, but not so much so that I couldn't try to push the pace a little. I'm adjusting to the altitude, somewhat, and thought I could handle some running. Because of my shin splints, it's the first time in three weeks that I've attempted a running stride. It almost seems like the thin air is aiding in healing as well, because despite the hard hikes over the weekend and rather abrupt return to jogging, I experienced minimal soreness today.

The trail crested a saddle and launched into a long traverse at 12,000 feet — scenic, warm, blissfully runnable. My lungs were on fire at times, but the motion of free running felt so good that I chose to ignore painful breathing and just fly. Of course I wasn't actually flying — I wasn't even running fast. But the simple freedom from pain can feel liberating, as can releasing myself from the annoying complications of a machine ... even one I love, like a bike.

I will concede that this singletrack traverse would make for a blissful ride as well, but the 2,000 vertical feet of steep chunk to reach it ... not so much. This basically supports the opinion I'd formed about the Colorado Trail before I even saw an inch of it. Riding the whole trail would likely be a fine blend of Heaven and Hell, with very little in between. Honestly, I need that in between to sustain my sanity during a good tour. I need the ability to zone out. I'm not a strong technical rider (understatement), and even if I continue working on that (I am), I don't think I would enjoy sustaining the focus required for hours and hours, every single day.

I had *a lot* of fun descending Peaks Trail, even on the Trek 4500. But that's mountain biking. As a tourist, I suspect I would love the Colorado Trail in pieces, and resent it as a whole. I've long wanted to tour the Colorado Trail, but I'm reaching the conclusion that if I ever do try, it's going to be on foot. Backpacking. Or fastpacking, really. Because it could be a lot of fun to occasionally run, from what I've seen. 
Monday, July 09, 2012

The fourteener circuit

Photogenic mountain goat. Photo by Beat
We didn't come to Colorado to bag a bunch of 14er's. Personally, I waver between thinking the whole concept to be a little silly, and wanting to see the tops of all 53 Colorado high points myself. I thought the weather would chase us lower today, but we awoke to partly sunny skies and a diminishing chance of afternoon thunderstorms. Daniel was interested in doing some "speed work" and invited Beat and I to saunter along at hiking pace somewhere well behind him. Only later did we find out that Daniel was after an unofficial speed record — on the circuit that connects Mount Democrat, Mount Lincoln, and Mount Bross. 

 After my hypoxic episode yesterday, I committed to not exerting myself as hard today. I love steep climbs on foot, and it's mentally difficult to feel like my legs aren't even getting a workout while my lungs threaten to explode. But as much as I kinda enjoyed the short-lived glimpse into the rapture, I did not want to actually black out, nor did I love the reality of killing a bunch of brain cells or the remote possibility of stroke. So I didn't push my pace ... too much. Because of this, we had a decidedly less eventful hike than Quandary, so this is mainly a photo post.

 View from Mount Democrat, elevation 14,148

 View from Mount Cameron, elevation 14,239. Mount Cameron doesn't have enough topographic prominence to be considered a real peak.

 Beat at the top of Mount Lincoln, elevation 14,286. As I staggered toward the top, still gasping for air, Beat said "A Democrat and a Republican in the same day. Who says you can't be bipartisan?"

 To prove we were there? Because no one made a nice laminated sign with the date for any of these peaks.

 We were caught in a few short rain squalls, but the weather was substantially better on Sunday than Saturday. After spending a couple of hours near or above 14,000 feet, I came down with much less fun mountain sickness in the form of nausea. Even though I know better by now, I couldn't force myself to eat anything the entire time, and only managed a few sips of water. I think acclimation is coming along, although we did force it the hard way. For his part, Beat is doing much better with the altitude. He has been using a breathing device for the past several weeks, as well as taking Diamox to help with acclimation. But of course altitude tolerance is highly individual. Even when I was living at higher elevations, I usually felt okay until I topped my personal ceiling, which seems to be around 12,000 feet. I've always struggled beyond that.

We rolled over Mount Bross, elevation 14,172, after two hours and 45 minutes. I was at that point deeply nauseated and didn't want to aggravate my shin, so I inched down the talus slope. Here, the route loses 2,000 feet elevation in just over a mile. It was brutal. We met Daniel hiking back up the trail. He told us he succeeded in "tumbling" down Mount Bross in 16 minutes (two thousand vertical feet!), wrapping up the circuit in 1:49 — which, according to a Web site that tracks such things, bested the fastest known time by six minutes. Wow, Daniel. As for me, it took damn near an hour to stumble down the whole descent, and we finished at a comfortable 3:39. I wouldn't mind descents like that if I could at least climb well. Ah, well. In good time. All in good time.

My sore shin doesn't like descending. But the condition hasn't deteriorated at all in the past two days. Now we're entering our work week, in which Beat is going to taper for Hardrock and we're all going to try to be productive even with these mountains taunting us from every angle (Frisco is a scenic town.) I think I may find a bike to borrow and take at least a day off my feet, but I'm more optimistic about injury recovery.  
Saturday, July 07, 2012

Straight up to 14

When our friend Daniel asked us what we wanted to do with our first day in Colorado, we said "something easy." Beat is still trying to figure out his lower back injury, I'm still trying to figure out my shin splints, and we were both sleeping at sea level until last night. Daniel said, "I know a good 14'er. It's an easy 14'er." 

We started hiking toward Quandary Peak around 11:15 a.m. Not your typical Colorado 14'er early start, but widespread rain showers had already trumped the usual chance of afternoon thunderstorms. We decided to gauge the weather on the fly, and move fast when we could.

Similar to my experience on Mount Whitney two weeks ago, above 12,500 feet I began to feel like I was breathing through a straw. Beat tried to show me pressure breathing, but the action left me light-headed, so I decided I would just increase my air intake by breathing hard and fast. To the dozens of hikers who passed me descending the mountain, I must have sounded like I was in labor.

Less than two hundred yards from the summit, my vision went black. Without deciding to, I could feel myself dropping to a squatting position and lulling my head around. My vision came back in flickers as I stood up, staggering drunkenly while Beat waved his arms from the summit. "Give ... me ... a ... minute," I called out. The words emptied my lungs and I took a deep breath to retaliate. As oxygen returned to my head, a sudden, intense sensation of euphoria washed over me. For a few short seconds the whole mountain was vibrating, the sky was singing, and I stood frozen in astonishment at the incredible power of all things. And then it faded. I have to say, there's no high like that of cerebral hypoxia. Not that I would promote such things but ... wow ... And strangely, I felt quite a bit better after that short episode. My lungs felt less constricted, my brain less panicked. It did help that I didn't have anything left to climb.

We could see dark clouds on the next ridge over and began the descent just five minutes later. From there, the sky rapidly grew darker. In less than fifteen minutes, no thunder turned to distant thunder, then turned to flashes of lightning and thunder right on top of us. Rain fell in sheets, followed by stinging hail. I jogged as quickly as I could muster down the wet, slippery rocks while shielding my face with my arms. We passed several groups still descending, including a huddle of boy scouts. Lightning flashed as I passed and they counted one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three ... BOOM!, followed by the curdling screams of six ten-year-old boys. I was scared, too. Hail fell harder, hurting my back and stinging my hands. Directly behind me came a bright burst of light followed by no Mississippis, not even a one. Flash and BOOM, deafening and instant. There were no boulders large enough to cower behind. "Just keep going down," I chanted to myself. "Keep going down."

When we finally descended to tree line, I was so relieved that I could feel another Rocky Mountain high coursing through my veins. I didn't have a moment to think about my shin splints, but I wore my new brace and they're not bothering me much tonight, so that's encouraging. In all, we spent three hours and ten minutes on Quandary mountain. It was one of my more eventful seven-mile hikes, ever.

Into July

It is unfathomable to me how it became mid-summer (yes, in my opinion, the Bay area summer begins in April and trickles to an noncommittal type of close in October. We have summer the way Alaska has winter.) It's a cliche thing for adults to say, but it's already July, really? Where does the time go? Leah and I got out for a mountain bike ride on July 4 at Skeggs, the local favorite singletrack maze. We relished in the relative ease and freedom of unloaded bikes. I even pulled my full-suspension Element off the wall for the first time in weeks. Despite it being a near-perfect seventy degrees on the fourth of July, we only saw four other mountain bikers, two who were Leah's friends (every time we go riding it seems Leah runs into people she knows, which would seem less weird to me if this wasn't a population center of 7 million people. I guess the bike community is tight-knit no matter where you go.)

And today, July 6, I'm in Frisco, Colorado. Beat snagged a rare spot the near-impossible lottery for the Hardrock 100, so we are staying here with a friend for a week while he attempts to acclimate for that grueling race. I tagged along in hopes of getting some solid UTMB training, but I admit I'm still worried about my shin. Ah, at least I don't have to run the Hardrock in any capacity. That's a load off my shoulders. (Poor Beat. He is also still struggling with a lower back injury and isn't thrilled about his odds, but the impossibility of the lottery means he couldn't pass up this chance by backing out.) We arrived just in time for what I've heard is the first major rainstorm in weeks, with liquid sheets pummeling I-70 as we drove out of Denver beside rocky slopes shrouded in clouds. I had great nostalgic moments while traveling through this small section of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, pointing out the reservoir bike path where I became nearly hopelessly turned around and riding in circles, and the Silverthorne Wendy's where the late-night drive-through employees refused to serve me because I didn't have a car, until I pulled my best puppy dog face ever and said, "Please? Please? I'm so hungry."

I'm so excited to be in Colorado. The air is so thin here at 9,000 feet that even climbing a few flights of stairs leaves me winded. And yet I want to tell my shin to just harden up buttercup for a week so I can run free through these mountains. If that's not to be, then I'll rent a mountain bike. I know it's a charmed life, I know, which is why time is unravelling so quickly right now. 
Thursday, July 05, 2012

Riding among giants

We knew we could easily wrap up the rest of our route in a day. After all, it was only about 75 miles, practically flat compared to the first 162, and all paved. But the whole reason we came to Humboldt County was to pedal beneath ancient trees, and we weren't about to rush through Humboldt Redwoods State Park. That's it — we're taking back the leisure tour. We devised a plan to return home a day later and ride two half-days to Ferndale, with either hiking or unloaded mountain biking in the state park, depending on where we could find camping. 

We made a not-so-quick resupply stop in Garberville, going all out on the luxury items. Leah purchased little bottles of wine and cherries. I bought a half pound of smoked ahi tuna and a croissant. We still bought instant noodles for dinner because we didn't have that much fuel, but I chose two courses — spicy Japanese noodles for an appetizer followed by an entree of chicken (MSG)-flavored Cup Noodles, which had somehow become my favorite food ever.

As we loaded up our bags, I overhead two cops lecturing a teenager who I assumed had been nabbed for shoplifting. "Consider yourself lucky," the cop said. "Anywhere else you'd be in jail, but this is Humboldt County. You could probably murder someone and only get probation."

"But remember that you can't step foot into Ray's for a year," the other cop said. "You look like a kid that likes to get out, go down to the river. Pretty much all the stores around here are Ray's affiliated, so life's probably going to be harder for you for a while. Don't even think about going inside, either. They have cameras; they'll catch you."

For whatever reason, this lecture struck me as funny. It sounded like two cops who were frustrated with their liberal county's justice system were trying to play up a grocery store ban as some kind of horrible sentence.

From Garberville we connected with the Avenue of the Giants, a truly awe-inspiring route. The highway cuts through the heart of one of the only old-growth Coast Redwood forests left in the state, thanks to a forward-thinking conservation group that bought the land from a logging corporation back in 1917. Humboldt Redwoods remains home to most of the 300-foot trees left in the world, and it's intriguing to glimpse what this region used to look like before settlers arrived (Coast Redwoods once reigned the Pacific Coast from southern Oregon all the way down to Santa Cruz, including the largely deforested Marin Headlands.) There's a timeless silence in those dark groves, a reverence that is difficult to describe.


We made our best effort to be leisurely — long lunch break, stops at nearly every roadside pull-out so we could stand with our heads pressed against the back of our necks, mouths agape at the sheer abundance of biomass. Still, we covered the 35 miles to the visitor's center in what felt like no time. Even Leah was surprised we rode those miles so fast. "It actually feels nice to go a normal speed for once," she said. "I was starting to think it was just us."

"No, it's all about the terrain," I agreed. While we were riding through the park that day, several people stopped to ask how far we'd traveled. Every single one of them looked disappointed when we told them we were riding a loop that started at a town only forty miles away. And they didn't ask us any further questions. That's not surprising, I guess. I think a lot of people tend to focus on speed and distance at the expense of substance. I know I'm guilty of that myself. We're all guilty of looking for the easiest or fastest way between point A and B, or to a goal we want to reach, without considering what exactly we hope to discover along the way. On our Humboldt tour, we had no destination, no plan for a certain number of miles, no speed ambitions. We just rode our bikes. And while I do enjoy the challenge of setting tangible goals, sometimes my most satisfying moments come unexpectedly, while standing in the moist shade of tree that's been alive for 1,000 years, thinking, "I rode my bike here."

We had hoped to camp up on Mattole Road, but it was a Friday night in the height of tourism season, and even the hiker-biker sites throughout the park were filled by mid-afternoon. We snagged a site at the large campground next to the visitor center, wedged between RVs and the main road. It wasn't our first choice by far, and it meant the mountain bike trails were too far away to ride and return before dark. But we were close to a bridge across the Eel River, where we could access River Trail. We debated just laying around in the sun on the shoreline of the river for the rest of the day, but decided to go for an evening hike.

It was a pleasant walk. Ambitiously I wanted to aim for Grasshopper Peak, neglecting to take into account the three miles of River Trail we had to walk to access the five-mile climb to the peak. I'm not sure either of us had a sixteen-mile hike in mind for our leisure day, but I ended up being the one to cut it short 4.5 miles from the bridge. Even after 200 miles of pedaling with no problems, that was all it took to aggravate my shin splints to the point of frustration. Ah, well. I grabbed a walking stick off the ground and hobbled down, then spent a half hour soaking my legs in the river.

On the fifth day we just had to wrap up the loop, finishing up the Avenue of the Giants and wending back toward Ferndale on quiet farm roads. We caught our first rainstorm less than five miles from town, and even without an early start, made it back to the car by noon. Our final stats for the trip:

Miles: 235
Elevation gain: 26,640
Average moving speed: 9.3 mph
Max speed: 39.5 mph

On the drive home, "Yellow Light" by Monsters and Men started playing on the stereo and I gave myself a few quiet moments to feel sad about losing the distinction as the women's record holder in the Tour Divide. Actually, several people have asked me about that, so I thought I might as well address it here. I knew that Eszter wrapped up her ride on Thursday in 19 days and change (Leah looked this up on her phone as we drove. It was our first real connection to the outside world in five days.) Eszter's ride was brilliant and inspiring, but admittedly, the result was both expected and discouraging.

I tried not to put any emotional attachment on "the record." First of all, it was never my goal. I knew it wasn't the best on the course (Trish Stevenson's 2005 ride was the border-to-border record until this year.) I knew that 24 days wasn't even the best I could do. Actually, while I was writing "Be Brave, Be Strong," I mapped out my ideal way to ride the course in 21 days. I was convinced it wouldn't be any more difficult, even with similar set-backs — all it took was less diddling around and a few different decisions about eating and camping. But 19 days? Realistically, probably not. It's a matter of horsepower. My average moving speed during the 2009 event was just a hair over nine miles per hour, if I recall correctly. In order to ride the route in 19 days, one needs to average 144 miles per day, which amounts to 16 hours of moving time at that speed. Which means that sleeping, eating, shopping, repairs, emotional crises, quick breaks, peeing, stumbling, and general diddling around (unavoidable) has to be wedged into the eight remaining hours. All things considered, even with better training and nutrition, I doubt I could bump my actual moving speed up all that much. Realistically, I just don't have the appropriate athleticism. And when I thought about our long day on the Humboldt tour — just under nine hours of moving time — could I really double that, every day, for 19 strung-out days? Most people, even the event's small clan of fans, don't really understand what it really takes to put in that kind of effort on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, for almost no reward. Eszter is incredible. And she's posting a well-written, compelling report on her blog, too.

So I had to let that go. It was harder than I expected it to be, although actually still not that hard. "Yellow Light" wrapped up and I was smiling again, already dreaming about incredible summer adventures still in front of me. (Please heal, shin. I took a bunch of rest days after the tour. I hope that helps.) I did come home and ask Beat if he still likes me even though I'm not the Tour Divide record-holder anymore. (Honestly, I think it was a selling point early in our relationship.) He said yes, and that's what matters to me.

Because the theme of this trip report seems to be the fact I'm reading Annie Dillard books right now, I thought I'd end with a final quote:

"There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning — the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.” 
Wednesday, July 04, 2012

Roads less travelled

As much as I objected to its shrill chipping, I heeded my 7 a.m. alarm. Apparently eight solid hours of sleep is not enough for me on a bike tour, and I struggled to fight my way out of smothering grogginess. Leah fired up her stove as I took down the tent, then I sat down to my morning brew of three Starbucks Vias. Instant coffee — in the charred titanium of Beat's snow-melting pot with flecks of fish still stuck to the side — never tasted so wonderful. "It's the little things in life," I mumbled. "The little things."

Usal Road saved the best for last. We skirted a rare sandy beach beside the cliffs and renewed the climb into the sky. Zero to 1,200 feet in less than two miles, with lungs burning as though we were climbing into oxygen-starved mountains instead of coastal cliffs. There wasn't enough air left over for talking, but the fog was moving out, the sun was emerging in a brilliant blue sky, and we were both in good moods — loving this ridiculous road and hoping today's adventures would be just as awesome.

We were just beginning to drop into the woods when I heard a loud rustling of brush and the sound of hooves hitting the dirt. I turned my head to see a flash of cinnamon-colored fur and hind feet — broad, dark brown, distinctive pads. Those weren't hooves, they were paws!

"Bear!" I called out as the animal emerged from the forest, briefly glancing in our direction before it turned and galloped down the road away from us. "Oh wow, that's a big black bear. I wouldn't worry about him. He's definitely seen us and he's retreating. That's a relief." I didn't even slow my pedaling pace. Black bear clearly wanted nothing to do with us and I hoped to catch a few more glimpses before he got away.

"That was my first bear sighting," Leah said after the noise subsided. "Wow, it's cool to see such a large animal in its own environment."

"It's amazing, isn't it?" I agreed. I couldn't even tell you how many bears I've spotted at this point in my life, but they take my breath away every time.

Even though this was just a short tour, Leah and I were already settling into our pace and finding a rhythm. Our lives were more basic than black bear's out here. We ate when we were hungry, slept when we were tired, and moved at our own natural pace across the land. Ever since I discovered bicycle travel in 2002, I've often turned to the idea of it as an emotional escape during tough times. I told myself that if everything else went bad in my life, I'd just get on my bicycle, point it in a random direction, and ride. I wouldn't turn back because I wouldn't need to. I'd become a bicycling hobo. Even though I recognize the impracticalities and real hardships of this fantasy, it's given me a lot of comfort over the years. I think I've even taken a few more risks and made a few more leaps of faith thanks to this irrational dream. The draw of the simple life pulls deep enough that I've been able to convince myself I have less to fear. If everything else falls apart, I'll still have my bike.

It took us an hour and twenty-three minutes to pedal the last five and a half miles of the Usal Road. I didn't share this tidbit with Leah, either. We turned onto Highway 1 and began the 2,000-foot climb to the pass. On pavement, with a luxurious eleven miles to the top, it felt like coasting. Our bags were both getting light on food, and we rolled right by the "World Famous Drive-Thru Redwood Tree" as the promise of the Leggett general store propelled us forward. Once inside we went into another frenzy — no longer sugar-based, but obsessed with fresh fruit and protein. This is another nice perk of California — even in the smallest out-of-the-way convenience stores, you can usually find good fruit.

Leggett was decision-making time. There were 21 mostly-downhill miles north on Highway 101 to a place where we thought we would likely camp that night, Benbow Lake. OR ... we could ride south on 101, connect up with a rugged gravel road that would carry us to the top of a high ridge of unknown length and steepness, drop off a steep spine back to the Eel River Valley, and backtrack on 101 until we reached Benbow. How much time would take to go the direct way? Maybe an hour and a half. And how long on the scenic route? Unknown. Seven hours, at most, was our available daylight. It was 2 p.m. Leah and I didn't even debate the options. We just finished our fruit and turned south.

We were able to skirt the freeway for a few miles on a quiet frontage road above a beautiful gorge, but once we were forced onto 101, it quickly became apparent we were both miserable. The shoulder was only a foot or so wide, with trucks and RVs streaming past at 65 miles per hour, and a few scraped the rumble strips seconds before they passed, setting off the panic alarms in my head. We just put our heads down and pedaled, covering four or so miles in short order and breathing a sigh of relief when we saw the sign indicating "Bell Springs Road." Where the road supposedly started, a grassy hillside rose up like a wall. I could see a car rumbling through a cloud of dust at least 300 feet over our heads. How the car got so high so fast was not immediately apparent.

Right at the base of Bell Springs Road, a woman in a small, rusty pick-up stopped and rolled down her window. She was a classic Humboldt County character — yellow lab riding shotgun, ratty blond dreadlocks draped over her shoulders, and a pungent aroma that Leah could detect even over our own smelly cyclist state. I grinned, expecting a friendly hippy greeting, but instead she glowered at us. "You girls gonna try to ride bikes up this road?" she asked.

"Yeah," Leah nodded.

"I don't think you want to do that," she said. "This road is really steep and narrow. People drive fast, too."

"We've been riding a lot of the back roads around here," I chimed in. "Wilder Ridge, King Peak, Usal Road. Is it steeper than Usal Road?"

"Steeper than Usal Road? Yeah, it's pretty much steeper than anything around here."

"Well, we're going to give it a try," Leah said.

"Yeah," I agreed. "It beats riding on 101."

"Well, good luck," the woman said, and with that rolled up her window and turned onto the highway.

We gained 2,000 feet in the first three miles, and then struggled along steep rollers to a high line at 4,000 feet altitude. The afternoon sky was blazing blue and the air was hot; our skin was coated in sweat and dust carried by a warm breeze. We had already chatted about the possibility of retreat if this road looked too ridiculous, and this road did seem ridiculous. Even after we gained the ridge, we had no idea how steep and long the continuous climbs and descents would be. We couldn't camp up here even if we wanted to, because the area was entirely private property, and in Humboldt County there are enough, um ... independent farmers ... that you don't want to mess around with trespassing. Plus, we were now on the dry side of the coastal range and there was clearly no water up here. But none of these struck us as reasons to retreat. We had returned to our happy place.

Wow, Bell Springs Road. The thin ribbon of gravel often contoured the exact high line of the ridge, a rolling traverse with sweeping views of the King Range and fog-shrouded Pacific Ocean to the west, and the rockier, higher peaks of the Mendocino wilderness to the east. The whole road was nothing but views, on all sides. After the warnings of the woman in the truck, I expected unfriendliness from the likely reclusive locals who lived along this road. But instead, the few vehicles that passed often stopped completely, or at least slowed to avoid kicking up dust. As we mashed pedals up dusty climbs, several even rolled down their windows and cheered.

"You're doing great!" one guy called out.

"Awesome!" shouted another.

"I don't think they're used to seeing too many cyclists up here," Leah said.

I nodded in agreement. "But it's strange if that's true. This is such a cool place, maybe my favorite road yet."


We dropped off the main ridge and ascended toward another, all the while gazing across the region we had traveled, then turning our heads to view the exponentially larger region we had yet to explore. We talked about coming back and riding logging roads and trails in Mendocino. We talked about ways we could prolong our current trip. We climbed until my head pounded with hot blood, and then plummeted until tears streamed along my temples. After a while, we didn't talk much. There just didn't seem to be much to say anymore. Our thoughts were simple here, overshadowed by the absolutes of forward motion and endless space.

The day's effort was, again, stretching beyond leisure mode. Soon I began to feel that oh-so-familiar fatigue, that sensation I both crave and dread, the feeling of being both strung-out and blissfully content. Sometimes it seems that the more physically stressed I am, the more peace I feel. I think that instead of competitive ambition or emotional intensity, it's peace that drives me to experience the world in a physical way. I have a habit of self-examination, and I often wonder if my love of the physical is my own way of coping with the existential. The world is too big to comprehend. Yet the desire to understand gnaws at me, spinning, until I feel bewildered, even fearful, of everything. Maybe I am happiest when I step out of my own head. Maybe I am happiest when I let my body take over. Maybe I am happiest when I'm not asking myself "Where is the world?" but instead, "Where are my candy orange slices?"

I ate some candy orange slices as we took a brief, mostly quiet break at yet another stunning overlook. The simple sugars slid down my throat and trickled into my bloodstream, dulling the more stressful edge of my fatigue and amplifying my contentment. Candy orange slices are magical like that. And somewhere in the background of my simple thoughts, I remembered another Annie Dillard passage that I love, and it made me smile:

“The mind wants to live forever, or to learn a very good reason why not. The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness. The mind's sidekick, however, will settle for two eggs over easy. The dear, stupid body is easily satisfied as a spaniel. And, incredibly, the simple spaniel can lure the brawling mind to its dish. It is everlastingly funny that the proud, metaphysically ambitious mind will hush if you give it an egg.” 

We hit a long descent and thought we were home-free, but Bell Springs Road was not done with us yet. I announced that, based on my GPS map, we had about two miles left to the junction, and then the road shot toward the sky. We were down at 2,000 feet and would have to climb back to 3,200 before all was said and done. I think Leah did not have candy orange slices, and she admitted she was feeling bonky. Her backpack was pressing painfully into her back, and a cold wind was starting to whisk along the ridge. Another thousand-foot climb in two miles was not on our list of favorite things ever.

Still, when we finally reached Alderpoint Road and began descending back to the Eel River Valley, I had this odd desire to prolong the struggle. We passed the intersection of the Dyreville Loop Road, another ridge-top dirt route that we had considered when planning the trip. I pointed it out to Leah, wondering what she'd say. There would be nowhere to camp up there — stealth camping on private property was still out of the question — and it would likely be three to five more hours of hard pedaling before we descended into Humboldt State Park. The sun was definitively setting over the western horizon. The evening wind was cold and we had only crappy headlamps for lights. We were hungry, cracked, and more than ready for Cup Noodles and sleep. It would be madness to continue on the high ridge with nothing to look forward to but more painful climbs and views shrouded by darkness, and yet there was part of me that wondered ... just wondered.

Of course I was relieved when Leah said nothing and we continued coasting the steep descent to Garberville. We ended our day with 71.1 miles and 9,576 feet of climbing, nearly 11 hours on the go with 8:45 in the saddle.
Monday, July 02, 2012

So much for the leisure tour

One of my favorite things about bike touring is its ability to bring out my rare superpowers of sleep. You see, I'm a sometimes insomniac who often dreads crawling into bed at night. And when I'm in endurance mode, whether riding or running, I'm often so strung out that I can't coax my body to shut down at all without the help of powerful sleeping aids. But under the influence of more reasonable activity, I can drop away from consciousness for hours, double-digit hours, without even getting up to pee. I love this. Leah was probably less thrilled when she crawled out of the tent at 6:30 a.m. and waited for me, and waited. Finally when I rolled out after eight, I said, "I forgot to ask you to wake me up in the morning. Tomorrow you should throw water on me or something." I'm my own principle of inertia. When I'm moving, I like to stay moving. And when I'm asleep, I like to stay asleep.

I also have eating superpowers, at least when sugar is involved. In endurance racing, eating is such a distasteful chore. Stuffing even simple carbs into a sour stomach is just about the worst self-punishment there is. But bicycle touring revs up my appetite without cranking it into overdrive, and the result is a wide-eyed appreciation of edibles everywhere — especially calorie-dense sweet edibles. Our first stop of the day was Honeydew, just eight relatively flat miles from breakfast. But when I discovered the general store sold homemade baked goods, I immediately had to try ALL OF THE THINGS! Sugar mania led me to buy up as much stuff as I could fit in my frame bag, but restraint kept me to eating only one Honeydew Hummer before we hit the road.

We turned up Wilder Ridge Road and began the long up-and-down grind through the King Range. Leah had issues with her panniers, in that they wouldn't stay hooked to her rack during the jolting descents. She finally found extra straps to tie them down, but the multiple breaks were a good opportunity for me to stuff more sugar into my mouth. Despite the difficulty of our route, I'm pretty sure I still managed to inhale more calories than I burned. Given how I often feel under my usual activity-induced deficits, this was a welcome indulgence. So much sleep! So much food! Oh, and we rode bikes too.

The King Range surrounds the longest stretch of undeveloped coast in California, often referred to as "the Lost Coast." The mountains themselves are mostly conservation area, where Douglas fir and Redwood forests are vibrantly working to fill in the scars left behind by decades of aggressive logging. After a dozen miles, I found it difficult to believe we were still so close to California's coastline. The region feels very wild and remote, even by the standards I came to appreciate in Alaska and Montana.

The King Range Road dealt our first real lesson in humility, when even I — with all of my snow-biking-Tour-Divide-forged expectations of difficulty — had to accept that we were going to work a lot harder and move a lot slower than we expected. The problem wasn't overall climbing, of which there was plenty, or road surface, which was not bad. No, the problem was excessively steep grades, and the fact that mashing a loaded bike up a twenty-percent grade at 2.5 mph is more rapidly exhausting than, well, most anything else I've tried in my repertoire of activities. Coasting down similar grades also doesn't pay real dividends, either, because we had to apply the brakes considerably just to stay in control. At one point during a climb, I watched my GPS speed display drop below two miles per hour. Yes, I was still turning pedals. Later, when my heart rate dipped below 180 and I caught a bit of breath, I said to Leah, "Guess how slow we've been going?"

"I don't even want to know," Leah answered.

We descended a fun and brief section of pavement on Chemise Mountain Road. Then came the Usal Road, adorned with multiple warning signs such as "Closed to Through Traffic," and "Use at Own Risk." Of course, I was still thinking, "Aw, it's just a dirt road. How bad could it be?" Thanks to a lunch break ("We're touring, right? We're allowed to take lunch breaks!"), we didn't reach the Usal Road until after 3 p.m. Leah noticed a mile marker indicating it was 26 miles to the end of the road, where we anticipated stopping for the night. Leah already suspected our pace was not up to snuff and asked how long that might take. "I'll be honest, we're probably averaging about five miles per hour," I said. "We can probably do it before dark, but we can't dawdle."

So much for the leisure tour.

Here's a little background info about Leah: She's a cyclocross racer, a fast one. She's good at holding the red line and staying competitive in one of the most painful bicycle racing formats yet devised. She's also an enthusiastic mountain biker. I believe she's dabbled in a few endurance events. I don't think, however, that she's spent that much time truly slogging. Slogging is really my specialty. I try not to drag others into my madness because even though I enjoy it, I wouldn't expect anyone else to feel the same. There's really no reason why riding bikes at five miles per hour on dusty, steep, clay-covered roads should be fun. But Leah had a smile on her face the whole time, even when every tiny break invited a swam of mosquitoes, and even when the sun drifted low on the horizon while we were still miles from camp, and even when the coastal fog moved in and dropped the temperature into the low fifties. I wish I could be like that and be fast when I want to be. Leah is awesome.

The Usal Road largely routed through densely forested hillsides — sun-filtering oak trees at higher elevations, and a Jurassic-Park-like density of redwoods and ferns near sea level. Occasionally we broke out into a brilliant view of the Lost Coast, vibrant and blue on a rare clear day. I loved it. Even at five miles per hour.

We hit Usal Beach five miles earlier than we expected, which was lucky, because given the major climb one mile later, there's no way we would have made it to the end of the road before dark. We wrapped up our day at 53.3 miles and 8,535 feet of climbing, with a solid eight hours of time in the saddle and an average moving speed of 6.7 miles per hour. I think Leah would agree it was a tough day. I later found a detailed description of our basic route whose author also acknowledged the difficulty. "If you are used to 100-mile days on a road tour, expect only 30-mile days on the Lost Coast," he wrote. I concur.

We set up camp in the eerie remnants of a closed state park campground, shut down due to budget cuts in California's parks and recreation department. At least it was quiet, save for the antics of some ATV'ers up the road. Back in Honeydew — that place where I wanted to buy ALL OF THE BROWNIES — I also managed to purchase a container of Cup Noodles and a tin of herring for dinner. As I dug in to the styrofoam container of yellow noodles with chucks of gray fish skin floating on the surface, my eyes widened again. "Wow, Cup Noodles are way better than I remember them being," I said.

"Yay for bike touring," Leah replied.

I concur.