Frost immersion

"It's like landing on an alien planet," Beat said as the plane approached Fairbanks. Below us was a swirling pattern of white swamps, black ice, and skinny spruce trees sticking out of the ground like skewers. As the island of artificial light grew closer, a yellow glow illuminated motionless wisps of water vapor. The Alaskan sitting next to us showed us his phone — current temperature, 39 below zero. "But it's a dry cold," he grinned.

Much of my time in Alaska has been spent near the coast, so most of my extreme cold experiences have been accompanied by wind. I stepped outside of the airport expecting a shocking furnace blast of air that was a hundred degrees colder than the place I left eight hours earlier. Instead, the air sat still and lifeless, like a tomb. "It doesn't feel that cold," I thought. Five seconds later, my nostrils froze shut.

We were happy to receive an invite to a cabin in the White Mountains on Sunday, but the short notice required a quick turnover to unpack three large duffels and organize everything we needed to survive a night in the Alaskan wilderness at 40 below. Important necessities included food and fuel, so first thing in the dark morning, I set to the task of starting the truck. Our friend who owns the place where we are staying is out of town, so his truck had been sitting for more than a week. I chipped hard ice off the windshield while his roommate blasted the alternator with a hot air gun. Unplug the engine block heater, jump into the cab, and crank the starter. Rrrr, rrr, rrr. After a minute the engine grumpily fired up, and continued to whine as the truck crept down the snow-packed road. It didn't seem to want to go faster than twenty miles an hour, which was just as well, because the brakes weren't really catching, either. By the time I got to Fred Meyer, my feet were frozen. I walked through the store with tears in my eyes as painful tingling brought them back to life, and passed casually dressed shoppers with a kind of rapt fascination. Day-to-day life seems so hard here. How do they do it?

Our gear was still the better part of a junk show at the Wickersham Dome trailhead, where a fierce wind blew along the ridge and the sun was sinking into the southern horizon at 1:30 p.m. Our group was small but eclectic — Tom was on skis, Jay was on a fatbike, and Beat and I were on foot dragging very large sleds. Beat was taking a nearly full Nome load for practice with the weight and also to test out a bunch of his gear. I took just about the same amount of stuff because I always partially believe I'm going to die out in these frozen expanses. Tom and Jay started down the trail as Beat and I futzed with gear, tying snowshoes on the back of the sleds, pulling gaiters over our feet, and becoming more and more chilled with adjustments we didn't have time to make back in Fairbanks. Finally, just before 2 p.m., we were on our way.

 First winter trip of the year is hard. First winter trip of the year in deeply subzero windchill is a cold shock. We didn't know what to expect so we just picked a system and hoped it was somewhere close to appropriate. A strenuous hike up the dome cranked up the heat quickly, and I believed I was overdressed. But then a wind gust would whip around a corner, and I'd question the comfort of taking off a layer. I opened zippers to vent heat, and zipped them up in quick succession, again and again.

 The wind became constant at the spine of the rolling ridge, and Beat suggested we try running. Every time I become overconfident about my strength as a runner, all I need to do is try to run while dragging a sled to be humbled by the reality that I am not strong. My lungs burned as I pumped my arms and legs like a body builder trying to pull a semi-truck. I felt like I was running hard, but watching Beat gain more distance on me made me aware that I was probably not moving any faster than I had been when I was hiking. The cold wind seemed to be laughing at me, tossing icy powder at my face.

The first few miles were tough, and I think even Beat felt a bit unnerved by the demands of this relatively small distance. But as the last pink light faded into a clear view of the distant Alaska Range, we started to find a groove. Our trail-running-trained bodies adjusted to the slower, softer surface, and well-heated cores finally started to share the warmth with our fingers and faces. By the time we were running, slowly, down the steep face of the Wickersham Wall, I felt alright.

 The long twilight faded almost imperceptibly into bright moonlight. I didn't turn on my headlamp once, even though we were out for three hours after the sun set. The hike by moonlight was beautiful, with an otherworldly silvery glow outlining stark shadows. Despite cramped glutes and tired legs, I wanted to keep walking, and was almost disappointed to see the soft glow of windows in Eleazar's cabin at the top of a long climb, twelve miles and four hours in.

Still, cabin life is great fun. Tom and Jay had the wood stove cranking and melted snow ready to drink. Beat and I made Cup Noodles for dinner while the guys made something much better (I only had about twenty minutes at the store to gather all of our supplies, and the food was picked out randomly as I rushed down the aisles.) But the guys did generously share part of a quart of ice cream that Tom hauled in. We swapped adventure stories late into the evening, hoping to see the Northern Lights come out (the moonlight was too bright to see much, although Tom did spot a weak aurora around 6 a.m.)

Breakfast was bagels and instant coffee, and we were out the door at first light on Christmas Eve, just before 10 a.m. We moved purposefully in an attempt to not be the last  ones back at the trailhead.

 The cold snap was starting to break and the wind had dissipated, but the morning felt colder than the evening before. Temperatures in the low-lying valley were still well into the minus twenties, and the climb back up to the ridge didn't do much to break the chill.

 Still, I was feeling stronger than the day before, finally breaking into my trekking groove. Beat had dressed lighter for the daytime hike out, and was having a hard time staying warm. It kept us moving at a good clip, even though my hammies and glutes protested mightily. The low-angle sun cast orange and pink light throughout the short day, a palette of continuously warm light to contrast the cold hues of the landscape. In my opinion, four hours of light this stunning more than balances out twenty hours of darkness. Even our Alaskan friends thought we were a little nutty for traveling up to this latitude so close to the winter solstice, but I think my friend Ed is right — Christmas really is one of the best times to be a tourist in Fairbanks.

There's just something about this kind of outing that gives me a deep and purposeful sense of joy — although reasons why are difficult to parse with words. As a physical exercise, snow slogging is ridiculously tough; I'm never so tired after four hours of almost anything else. The cold wages a continuing battle, simultaneously burning my face with frozen breathcicles and freezing my thighs as sweat steams up from my core. People eventually figure this stuff out, but it takes time if you're out of practice. Still, I admit I enjoy being out of practice, feeling the cold shock and new discoveries every time. It's a visceral feeling of being alive — moving and breathing and cranking out heat in a place as quiet and cold as a tomb. And it's also a small taste of something beyond life, where breaths dissipate into swirling clouds, and the land is encased in ice, motionless and unmovable.

Jay and Tom caught up to us about three miles from the trailhead, and just like that, our 24-hour cabin adventure was drawing to a close. We had been away from California all of 48 hours, and were already nodding our heads in agreement when the guys said about the projected negative-single-digit temperatures, "it's getting warm out." Beat squeezed in a good session of gear testing, setting up his tent in the wind and melting snow with an Esbit stove. More testing will necessitate more trips as we finish up the year in the Far North.

So long to the sun

Weather reports have been one of my obsessions this week. I've been parsing data from all the major weather sites as a blanket of frigid air sunk over the valleys of Interior Alaska, trying to make sense of whether 62 below zero is even possible (forecasted by Wunderground) or what the recorded 52 below zero would even feel like, even for a few minutes, let alone while wandering the uninhabited wildernesses outside the small enclave of Fairbanks. Beat thinks it's silly I'm so scared. "We're just training. We can do what we want!" But what if I just want to curl up in blankets and drink a jug of hot chocolate? It is Christmas, after all.

The cold snap that settled over the Lower 48 also grazed the Bay Area this week. On Wednesday San Jose reported a record low of 31 degrees. Brrr! The week of Solstice also marks the darkest time of year, with only nine hours and 35 minutes of daylight to work with here in Los Altos. While our winter sun might be lazy, in Fairbanks it is well hungover — heatless and dim, the sun emerges at 11 a.m. and slumps over the horizon for three and a half hours before crashing back into darkness at 2:45. With a wet and windy storm on the forecast for Los Altos, I decided to set out for one last ride in the sun, to say my goodbyes.

Living in a climate without significant temperature fluctuations has bred a lot of complacency into my routines. I donned my usual winter bike outfit — thin tights, long-sleeve shirt, gloves, hat, and a florescent roadie vest — and set out for the long climb up Monte Bello Road. My plan was to ride the singletrack on Black Mountain at sunset, and descend the road after dark. Near the top of the ridge, I started to see frost on the gravel, and then ice in the puddles. Thick ice, with new crystals forming around the edges. I'd felt a bit chilled, but I didn't realize that temperatures were already below freezing. "Hmm, I'm going to really wish I'd brought a jacket," I thought.

But it was my last day in the sun ... I wanted to live it up. A screaming descent down the Bella Vista trail seemed to freeze the sweat layer on top of my skin, and I couldn't even recover the chill on the climb back to the summit. Already shivering at 2,700 feet with ten miles of steep descending in front of me, I tried running back and forth along the trail to recover my body temperature. But it wasn't happening, and the sun was fading, and I needed to get home. "Oh well, it's only ten miles," I thought. "It will probably hurt a little."

The pain. I'd forgotten it. I used to go through this at least once a year as fall transitioned into winter in Alaska, and I was still learning to adjust my layering and effort levels. And, I typically go through it at least once a winter in California when I stupidly don't even bring extra layers on a cold afternoon. A temperature of 30 degrees with a riding speed of 20 mph has a windchill of about 17F, but it drives like a knife directly through the ventilation of bike clothing; might as well be naked.

It's nearly impossible to work up any kind of effort on a winding paved descent, so there's little I can do but sit back and take the cold beating. First my feet, hands, and face go completely numb, then my legs and torso start to sting. I go through a mile or two of shivering and then stop, then I feel a kind of numbness that I can only describe as wearing a hundred pounds of cold meat like a suit around my body. Damn, I was really cold.

Back at my apartment building, I couldn't use my hands to turn the key in the front door, so I had to wait for someone to open it for me. My own apartment door key necessitated a two-minute struggle, and once inside, I struggled to peel off all of my sweaty clothing, and immediately wrapped myself in all of the blankets I could find. Back in Alaska, I learned better than to jump in a hot shower right away. Yes, it does still hurt to transition from numbness to violent shivering, and finally to cold calm while wrapped in a blanket cocoon. But it hurts a lot more to go from half frozen to a hundred degrees in five seconds. You may have heard of the term "screaming barfies?" It's that pins-and-needles circulation pain that hurts to the point of dizziness and nausea. Either way, rewarming is seriously unfun. If only I did not have to learn this lesson every single year, even here in sunny California.

But it's probably a good thing I got this out of the way before venturing into the danger cold. Bay area hypothermia just hurts; in the same amount of time, Interior Alaska hypothermia can kill. I'm taking my hard-earned annual lesson to heart as we head to Fairbanks on Saturday. Happy Solstice, sun. I will miss you.

2012 in races

Moment of awe during the Susitna 100

December is a cathartic month, because it's the time of year most of us reflect on our experiences and accomplishments during the past twelve months. Although racing is certainly not the only satisfying thing I've done in 2012, I did do a lot of it. With my last race of 2012 behind me, it's fun to look back on all of the events in a rather full year. People have different ways of ranking their race experiences. Rather than time or performance, I value races for how much they push me out of my comfort zone, force me to dig deep into my reserves, and reward me with renewed perspective and a better understanding of myself and the world around me. So, in that light, here are my 2012 race experiences, from the toughest on down.

1. Stagecoach 400 | self-supported bikepacking | Southern California | April 27 to 30 

It was my first moment of clarity in a mind-numbingly tough day — while lingering over a cold chicken sandwich at the Subway in the town of Alpine, I finally glanced at a clock. "9:15 p.m.? That can't be right." But as hard reality set in, it made sense. It had been dark for an hour. With the exception of an hourlong breakfast, I had been riding, pushing, and struggling nearly nonstop since 4:45 that morning. This meant it had taken me sixteen hours to travel seventy miles. Sixteen hours! I pushed away the sandwich I had no appetite for, and called Beat.

"What are you still doing in Alpine?" he asked me. "How much farther are you going to ride tonight?"

Trying to remember how to spell my name on the Stagecoach 400
finisher sheet at Hub Cyclery in Idyllwild. It was midnight, I was
shattered, and I genuinely didn't remember. Photo by Matt Slater.

I didn't know what to say. What could I say? That I was completely shattered by less than two hundred miles of mountain biking during what was supposed to be a semi-relaxed tour? That I was pretty sure I was going to get a hotel room in Alpine, call my sister in Huntington Beach, and end this punishment? That in just 36 hours, the Stagecoach 400 had caused me to question everything about my mental toughness and physical capabilities? That earlier that morning, I had to wedge my knee between two boulders just to keep myself from tumbling down a near-vertical sandy slope while I waited for my heart rate to calm down? That I was pretty sure I was going to have to take two months off to recover my apparently demolished fitness?

"I don't know, maybe twenty more miles," I replied with a resigned sigh. Few distances have ever felt so far.

Now, eight months later, I still can't determine exactly why I struggled so much during my three days and 13 hours on the Stagecoach route. It was a perfect storm of reaching a low point of recovery after the winter season, binging too heavily on riding thanks to new-bike love (I still love you, Moots), expecting the route to be much less strenuous and technical than it was, and not adequately preparing. The race was free (and really, a great contribution on the part of Brendan and Mary Collier), and I certainly got my money's worth of suffering. Not since the 2009 Tour Divide have I experienced the same levels of psychic entropy, personal uncertainty, and even despair. I know ... weird. It's taken me a while to admit these feelings to myself, as the Stagecoach really was supposed to be a fun diversion before I started training for UTMB. I value these negative emotions for the strengths they helped me sharpen, but I won't be back to the Stagecoach 400 route (and really, it's a beautiful, fun bike route.) But it was a dark place for me, one I'm not rushing to relive. Race report part one, part two, part three, part four, part five (wow, I know.)

2. Sustina 100 | winter running | Point McKenzie, Alaska | February 18 to 19

Susitna feet, well-done

The Susitna 100 was possibly my most well-executed race yet — and it was still really hard. I set out with a plan for a 36-hour race that set a specific goal for the first checkpoint, a limit on the time I would spend at each checkpoint thereafter, and a consistent moving pace at or above 3 mph. I know, the pace sounds slow, but anyone who has dragged a sled across soft snow for a hundred miles understands the relative difficulty of winter trekking to everyday trail running — it's like a hundred miles of moderate climbing, with a huge weight hanging off your hips. I was well ahead of my schedule until mile 80, when I had a slow meltdown. On top of an energy bonk I incurred even though I had consumed more than 6,000 calories, I had also managed to steam-cook my feet inside my vapor barrier socks. Yes, in temperatures as low as 5 below zero, I actually boiled my feet in their own juices. The pins-and-needles pain was tear-inducing, but those tears may also have been a result of sleepy fatigue. Yes, there were tears. The last fifteen miles were slow and grueling, and I took any excuse I could find to stop and rest, but I still finished under my goal in 35:42. And now I wish I could go back because I'm convinced I could shave another three-plus hours off that, and would be excited to try. Alas, no Susitna 100 in 2013. Maybe the following year. Race report part one, part two, part three, part four.

3. White Mountains 100 | snow biking | Fairbanks, Alaska | March 26

Nearing the cracking point, Cache Mountain Divide

Like the Stagecoach 400, the White Mountains became a long slog-fest due to my own complacency. I spent so much of the winter focused on preparing for the Susitna 100, that the White Mountains 100 was more of an afterthought. What I thought was that I could just pound out a hundred miles on a fat bike with no specific training. Easy peasy. The day before the race, several inches of new snow fell on the Whites, and the result was a strenuous bike-wrestling match for anyone unlucky enough to end up behind the lead pack after they tore up the trail. I had my meltdown in a blizzard on top of Cache Mountain Divide, only fifty miles in, and had to dig deep and deeper from that point on. The truth is, I don't remember much about the back half; I was in survival mode, just trying to put one pedal in front of the other. Looking back, this was the start of an energy deficit that spiraled into a rough spring for my body. Race report part one, part two, part three

4. Bear 100 | mountain running | Logan, Utah | September 28 to 29

Most hated descent. Photo by the awesome Danni Coffman.

It seems ridiculous to place a hundred-mile-long mountain run with 23,000 feet of climbing below a fun snow bike race. But after back-and-forth consideration, I decided that the Bear 100 was, in many ways, less tough for me than the WM100. Much of that relative ease should be credited to my friend Danni, who came out to Utah and paced me for the last fifty miles, turning the "back-half suffer-fest" into a fun sleepover party. Besides a minor mid-race bonk, a few blisters, and the fact that I'm a timid and grumpy downhill runner, the Bear 100 couldn't have gone much better for me. I ate well, my feet didn't hurt all the much, and my legs felt strong for the distance. It's all relative, of course; I was in a decent amount of pain on the final downhill, but overall I was happy with my experience. I played it conservative because my overarching goal was to finish, which I did in 33:28. Someday I'd like to go back and push that under thirty hours. Someday. Race report part one, part two, part three.

5. UTMB | mountain running | Chamonix, France | August 31 to September 1

The elusive Mont Blanc as seen at the start of UTMB

I had a grand vision for UTMB — 46 hours of running, hiking, and crawling over the rocky trails of the Alps in the shadow of Mont Blanc. There would be snowstorms, wind, rain, blisters, tears, sunrises, breathtaking vistas, redemption, and enlightenment. It was set to be my toughest single-stage endurance challenge yet. Seven hours before the race start, the rug was yanked underneath my dream. Truly dangerous weather forced a significant reroute, and the course was shortened to 110 kilometers with 20,000 feet of climbing instead of the original 168 kilometers with 31,000 feet of climbing. Still a tough challenge, but without the high mountain passes and clean loop that created a true journey around Mont Blanc, I could never recapture my excitement or motivation for UTMB. I came very close to registering a DNS, but once I started, I worked hard to finish. The true beast of 2012 UTMB was the mud, which made for treacherous footing and slip-sliding struggles on the consistently steep terrain.  I finished in 22:57. Race report part one, part two.

6. Laurel Highlands 70 miles | trail running | Laurel Highlands, Pennsylvania | June 9

70.5 miles of wooded singletrack

Beat and I raced the Laurel Highlands 70.5 because Beat's Iditarod mentor, Tim Hewitt, is one of the race directors. He invited us to visit his favorite trails in Pennsylvania, and the timing was also perfect for a "shakedown ultra." (Beat pointed out that if I didn't finish the Laurel Highlands, I didn't have much of a chance at UTMB.) I was finally getting my mojo back after a depleted spring, and had a great race at Laurel Highlands. Again, I experienced a mid-race bonk because I clearly haven't yet figured out how to manage nutrition during any run longer than fifty kilometers. So I spent miles 49 to 56 with low energy, stomach pain, and some vomiting. But a cup of ramen at mile 56 boosted me back to life, and I ran strong for the last 14.5 miles. I finished in 19:01. Race report.

7. 25 Hours of Frog Hollow | mountain biking | Hurricane, Utah | November 3 to 4

Photo by Crawling Spider Photography. I am planning to
buy a photo package soon, but haven't yet.

How entrenched am I in endurance racing that a 25-hour solo mountain bike race is this far down on my list of tough ultras? But as it has been for the past three years, Frog Hollow is a late-season, awesome race that Beat and I like to ride for fun. I didn't have any big struggles at Frog Hollow this year, but the experience did help me realize how timid I'm becoming on technical singletrack. The toughest aspect of the race for me was the crowds — being continuously passed by team racers started to wear on my nerves. I'd still go back, though. Frog Hollow brings together an awesome community, the course is gorgeous and surprisingly doesn't get old, and having it on the calendar would give me motivation to work harder on my technical riding. I finished in fourth place with thirteen laps, 169 miles. Race report.

8. 50Ks! | trail running | Bay area, California | All year

"Crazy endurance eyes" — I love a tough 50K

I ran eleven fifty-kilometer trail races this year. Since there are so many of them and I generally treat 50Ks as training runs, I'll just list them quickly here, in order of toughness.

1. Mount Tam 50K, November 11, 7:18 — I was overtired and decided to race two women for thirteen miles. I still finished behind them but I truly left it all out there on the trail.

2. Steep Ravine 50K (winter), January 28, 7:16 — here's the part where I have to admit that Steep Ravine course is nearly identical to Mount Tam, only run by a different organizer. What can I say? These are tough trails. The January race was hard because it came after a peak week of training for the Susitna 100.

3. Ohlone 50K, May 20, 6:59 — This was my "breakout race" that finally lifted me out of my spring slump. The course has 8,000 feet of climbing, and the trails are exposed to the harsh sun and hot, just hot. I finished 14th out of 67 women.

4. Diablo Marathon, June 2, 6:58 — Not technically a 50K, still with nearly 8,000 feet of climbing, and I took a wrong turn and logged an extra 2.5 miles at the end. Temperatures were in excess of 90 degrees. Looking back, 2012 was my breakout year for running in the heat. I'm actually not that bad at it.

5. Coyote Ridge 50K, December 8, 7:09 — The bad luck race. I ran off course for three miles, and took a hard fall five miles from the finish. Miles 29 to 34 were a painful limp on the steepest section of the course.

6. Horseshoe Lake 50K, October 13, 6:32 — I was overtired so soon after my UTMB/Bear 100/Grand Canyon stretch, and then I was stung by a wasp at mile four. This race took place on my backyard trails, but it turned out to be a bit of a slog.

7. Steep Ravine 50K (summer), August 5, 7:05 — I completely forgot I raced this course in the summer. Wow, that's three times in one year. It must have not been too bad because I don't remember specifics of any struggles. It was the beginning of my peak week of UTMB training.

8. Crystal Springs 50K (summer), August 11, 5:55 — Temperatures reached 95 degrees on Skyline Ridge that afternoon, and I was running my second 50K in a week to sandwich long days of running and mountain biking during the big heat wave of the summer. I was quite pleased with the 5:55 finish.

9. Brooks Falls 50K, January 22, 6:26 — A Susitna 100 training run in the wind and rain on the hills above Pacifica.

10. Woodside Ramble 50K, December 15, 6:08 — A fun run in the cold rain. A sore hip made for some tough miles in the middle, but for the most part I felt great.

11. Crystal Springs 50K (winter), January 7, 5:51 — My first race of the year, and also my 50K PR. It seems strange to put it all the way at the bottom of this list, but the reason I logged my best time is because I had a fairly flawless race. This is one of the reasons I think I could put in a decent time if I specifically focused on racing a trail 50K, but I have yet to commit to that. We'll see what 2013 brings. 

Adding power to the furnace — Woodside 50K

On the Skyline Trail, near mile 24 of the Woodside Ramble 50K. Photo by Sam Hsu.

Beat and I ran another 50K trail race on Saturday. A friend asked me what I was training for.

 "Beat is training to walk a thousand miles to Nome in February," I replied.

"Right. But what are you training for?"

"Well, I'm training to survive Beat's Iditarod training."

It's true. You have to be pretty fit just to stay warm and alive while exerting yourself all day in subzero temperatures. I was reminded of this last year during our New Year's trip to Shell Lake, when the simple act of walking 25 to 35 miles a day in temperatures down to 30 below left me feeling absolutely shattered at the end of every day. That kind cold-forged exhaustion makes any 50K I've run feel like an easy stroll in comparison. I keep reminding myself that Beat has to do just that and more every day for a thousand miles. I can't comprehend it, honestly, because the big picture isn't imaginable. I only know that it's possible when dissected into achievable goals, one mile at a time. I learned this back in 2008 when I (and thinking back to my endurance and experience level then, rather inexplicably) took a bicycle 350 miles to McGrath. But here, five years later, I still feel deeply intimidated at the prospect of going for long walks or rides in extreme cold. And this is exactly what we plan to do over the holidays in Fairbanks, Alaska, where we'll spend a week-plus testing Beat's Iditarod gear, hiking, and camping. Brrr. I need to make sure my inner furnace is well-powered.

The Woodside Ramble 50K in Huddart Park. As I mentioned last week, Beat and I really enjoy these organized trail runs. It's true we could go out and run thirty miles on our own, but the race structure always prompts me to push myself more than I would otherwise, whether I'm having a good day or a bad one. Plus, you can't beat the catering (Christmas Oreos and Clif Shot Bloks were my choice for this run) and the frequent friendly faces are also part of the fun (In this race, the volunteers dressed up like elves and hung Christmas lights around the aid station canopies.) We were able to meet up with our friend Steve before the race. Steve is also training for the Iditarod Trail Invitational, the 350-mile version. It was 37 degrees in town just before the start. Beat is making this face because it's "cold." (And note that most of the California runners in the background are still wearing shorts.)

Photo by Scott Dunlap

"Double self-portrait" with local runner/blogger extraordinaire, Scott Dunlap. Scott is well known for taking a ton of photos during his races, while still running fast and finishing near the top of the standings. The only reason he was behind us is because he was fifteen minutes late to the start. It took him about three miles to catch me. The simul-selfie was his idea. I posted his photo because my photo came out blurry. (My camera was stuck on a slow-shutter mode, and the wet air combined with a touch screen nearly prompted me to chuck it off a cliff while trying to change the settings. Touch screens on sport cameras are a terrible idea. Thanks, Sony.)

I had a good race. The one little issue was my right hip, where a persistent soreness lingers in my pelvis (it feels like a bruised bone. I'm not sure if that's the case, or if it's just a deeper tissue bruise.) I believed this injury was just "nagging" and thus easy to ignore, but by the first extended downhill, I was unhappy and running with a pronounced lope. So I slowed my pace and took a bunch of Advil (too many Advil. I need to pre-emptively limit my intake by only bringing two or three pills to these half-day races.) After that, strangely, walking uphill hurt the most. It all but forced me into a marginally faster running stride, and I eventually caught up to Beat and Steve during a long climb.

A rainstorm settled in after mile twenty. Temperatures were in the forties and there was a brisk wind up on Skyline Ridge, but running cranks out a surprising amount of heat. I put on a beanie and that was enough to feel toasty — definitely a different experience for me than being on a bike in those temperatures. The Advil overdose kicked in and I felt happy and strong through the rest of the race, and finished just a couple of minutes behind Beat and Steve in 6:08.

I've been analyzing the Woodside Ramble 50K as far as where I stand in regard to running fitness. For starters, I'm pleased that I can run 31 miles without feeling beat up  (as long as I don't fall on my face. I didn't in Woodside.) I'm becoming a little better at running downhill, although it's hard to gauge with a sore hip causing me to change my stride (soft-stepping with my right foot to minimize impact.) It's also interesting to gauge my perceived effort level. If you asked me about my effort level right after the race, I would have said "moderate." I mean, it's a six-hour 50K. I was just having fun out there. However, I recently started wearing a heart-rate monitor again, out of curiosity. In the Woodside Ramble I consistently ran between 160 and 180 beats per minute, with only a few dips below 160 and several spikes up to 180. Most calculation formulas put my maximum heart rate between 182 and 189, which means I was running at 80-90 percent of capacity for six hours. This isn't to say I don't think I could ever be faster, but apparently I work pretty damn hard for my 50K times. (And yes, I realize that a little upper-level training can go a long way.) GPS data and heart rate graph here.

But for now, faster is not the goal. Survival is. I'm feeling pretty good about our trip to Fairbanks next week, where it is currently 80 degrees colder than our fun run in 40-degree rain.

In other news, I did not get into Hardrock during Sunday's lottery (no surprises there.) I wrote a  column for Half Past Done a few days ago about the indignities of race lotteries. Truthfully I'd rather stay away from them, but so many intriguing events have lotteries in place (no surprises there.) Unless one more lottery somehow goes my way, 2013 might just be a summer of self-supported adventures. Yay!

On fear

It's December now, and Leah's and my evening rides no longer begin in the daylight. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge as sunset's last gasp of crimson sank into the horizon. The low-angle light gave the ocean surface a startling depth of texture, with white caps and indigo shadows etched into every tiny wave. There was a clear frost to the air as we climbed over the Coastal Trail and dropped into the encompassing darkness of Rodeo Valley. The thousand-foot hills of the Headlands loomed overhead like black summits.

"It's pretty cool how you can ride bikes from the city, and twenty minutes later end up somewhere so dark and quiet," I said.

"The Marin Headlands are magical," Leah agreed.

We climbed over the ridge into the next valley, which was even frostier than Rodeo. I was trying to get the hang of my clipless pedals, which I put on my full-suspension Element precisely so I would get more used to clipless pedals. It felt awkward and uncomfortable as I navigated these now-unfamiliar trails, reduced to intimidating contours and shadows by the white beam of my headlight. I hesitated often and crept over tiny ruts as though I were maneuvering a steep rock garden. Mountain biking these days ... what's wrong with me?

The night was clear and stunning; every time we climbed over the ridge, we could see sparkling detail in the sea of city lights across the Bay. The the west, there was only the Pacific, black and infinite. I loved being out there, but continued to fight with my bike, wrenching it over rocks and once tipping over while I was still clipped in, unable to free my left foot from the pedal. Argh, clipless. But there was a deeper, more pervasive feeling than my clipless frustrations — something I've wrestled with every time I've ventured onto trails with my bike since late last year. Fear.

I caught up to Leah, who had unclipped at a tight turn where she crashed the last time we rode. "I can't believe I stopped here," she said. "Ever since I crashed ..."

"I'm the same way," I replied. "This is why I only get worse at mountain biking, not better."

It's difficult for me to deny anymore. I am afraid on a mountain bike, genuinely. And it's not that I believe this fear is something I can't or don't overcome, but I do need to acknowledge it's there. This fear rose to the surface after I crashed in Steven's Creek Canyon in August 2011. The resulting injuries were not serious, but thanks to exposed nerve endings deep in my elbow, did develop into the most physically painful experience I've been through yet. It left an impression. One I'm not proud of, but I have to be honest. Trail riding hasn't been the same since. And I find myself avoiding challenging terrain, becoming rustier and more timid by the week. Friends like Leah are encouraging, but I'm not sure what to tell her. Yes, I need to practice more. But what should I do about an activity that doesn't bring me the same level of joy that it used to, largely because I'm afraid? It a difficult, but genuine question.

I was going to write more about this today, my fear and how I can overcome it, but like most of the rest of the nation, I feel somber and sad after the Friday morning school shootings in Connecticut. It's not a day to dwell on bike fear. As we reflect on tragedy, there are a lot of voices demanding solutions, each one trying to be louder than the next. I suspect it's not a question that can be answered, but rather a symptom of an infected culture — one that's been fearful for far too long. 

Trail running as a contact sport

Ah, to be slightly injured. Most endurance athletes develop nagging muscle pains or tendon issues that slowly build into an overuse injury. I actually haven't had one of those in a while. But minor blunt force trauma, that's something I know all to well. I'm appalled by all of the scars I've accumulated since I moved to California — both elbows, both knees, upper right leg, left forearm. A woman in her thirties with no involvement in contact sports should not be wracking up this many scars. I was out of commission for several weeks last year after a mountain bike crash ripped open my right elbow, but most of the rest are from running crashes, simple tripping and falling. Just so horribly clumsy. I know what I'm doing wrong but still make mistakes, and sometimes these falls happen for no apparent reason at all. It's funny, and yet, I'm getting to the point where I'm not laughing about it anymore. My clumsiness wasn't nearly as visible when I lived in the land of moss and snow; everything was slow and soft. Year-round dirt is apparently a hazard for someone like me.

Leg bruising. I couldn't include
the bruise on my hip in a photo
without venturing outside
of PG-rated territory.

The day after the Coyote Ridge 50K, I had to miss out on a fun bike ride with friends, and I somehow woke up even more sore the next day. My right leg is bruised but the main concentration of pain was in my right pinkie finger and wrist, and my right hip. The specific pain is in the part of my pelvis that juts out. There's a cut that maybe I ignored after Neosporin application number one, that got infected. There's a bruise, and below that, pain that feels like it's in the bone somehow. It's not severe pain, but noticeable. Beat and I have another long run planned on Saturday, so today I set out on a trail run to test out the pain threshold. The uphill section didn't feel that bad, so I continued for four miles, but the subsequent four miles downhill were grating. Ah, injuries. The hand is feeling better, so that's encouraging.

I've received some great feedback about Half Past Done this week, and I appreciate everyone who weighed in. I've been working on fleshing out the site with more content so new readers have a sense of what it's all about, and then I'll delve deeper into the structure. There are also a couple of writers who have expressed interest in contributing, which is exciting. Here's the articles up since I posted here last:

Enduring gear: A column about the unique origins and lasting usefulness of our favorite pieces of gear. 

A look at some of the gear Eric Larsen is taking to Antarctica.

Going for broke: A spotlight on Nolan's 14 and the three mountain runners who conquered this Colorado mountain challenge this year, the first "finishes" in a decade. Nolan's 14 could be described as Hardrock on steroids, certainly the toughest established 100-mile run in the Rockies.

Again, feedback and suggestions are appreciated. For "Jill Outside," I've been working on some year-in-review stuff. Then, later this month, Beat and I have cold and dark trip to Fairbanks, Alaska, scheduled for Christmas break that should generate some funny frosty face pictures. Just in case you were worried I'm slowly abandoning this site with whining about bruises and link-backs to my other blog. Thanks for reading.

Coyote Ridge 55K

Today Beat and I headed out to Muir Beach for the Coyote Ridge 50K, to run for fun. Because this is what we like to do for fun — gather with a few hundred of our (maybe not quite) best friends and take a whole day to run in beautiful locales and savor endorphin buzzes and little paper cups of defizzed Coke. Fifty kilometers is a great distance — long enough to be a challenge, but short enough that I feel relatively strong the whole time and it never has to devolve into a slog.

The Coyote Ridge 50K was actually my tenth of 2012 (I am counting the Diablo Marathon in this list because that race was as hard as any 50K I've run this year, but technically only 28.5 miles.) Add the seven I ran from December 2010 to December 2011, and that's seventeen 50Ks in my ~two years of being a runner. You'd think I had this distance figured out by now, but it seems like there's always something to trip me up (usually literally; it is trail running after all.) Someday I'll fully race a 50K and perhaps everything will go perfectly. Until then, I do have fun.

Coyote Ridge is a tough one, with 7,200 feet of climbing racked up during hands-on-knees-worthy grades, with a few flat sections. My plan was to keep a moderate pace and just enjoy the day — not kill myself like I did at Mount Tam last month. As it turned out, this was not my day for luck, per say, but it was a fantastic day for taking photos:

Beat look uncharacteristically intense at the chilly starting line — with dabs of sunscreen on his face.

Over-the-shoulder candid shot of the excitement of mile one.

It seems you can't pull a camera out and spend thirty seconds shooting from the side of a trail without someone asking you if they can take your photo ... at least where I fall in the pack.

Ah, I do enjoy a good sun flare.

Descending into Tennessee Valley.

Climbing out of Tennessee Valley. There's actually a lot more singletrack on this course than these pictures make it appear. Whenever we were on singletrack, I was usually too busy negotiating rocks, mud, wet leaves, steps, or a combination of all four, to pull out my camera.

The mist on the ridge had an ethereal effect.

An enchanted eucalyptus forest.

View of the big city.

And then the ocean. This photo was taken a good ten miles after the last one. My camera didn't come out for a while again because, as I was descending the Coastal Trail into Rodeo Valley, I started chatting with a woman from Sacramento who was in the race, and two guys who probably weren't (in other words, just out for a run.) We crossed onto the pavement and kept running west on the road until we reached Rodeo Lagoon. At that point I knew we missed the turnoff and went too far, because the aid station was up on the ridge and the Lagoon was on the other side of a three-mile section we hadn't seen. I called out to the woman, who by that point was about thirty feet ahead, but I don't think she heard me (or perhaps pretended not to.) No matter. If I turned around and ran back the way we came, I'd eventually see the pink ribbons of the trail cut-off. I ran a mile and a half back up the road with no sign of ribbons, and started to feel deeply confused. I make the worse kind of lost person, because I tend to get slightly panicked and lose much of my capacity for sense and reason. I *should* have just backtracked to the point of the trail where I last saw ribbons, but instead I became convinced of a parallel reality where all the ribbons are gone and how will I ever find the right way that is the only way for me to make it back to Muir Beach alive? I wasn't really that panicked, but I definitely didn't want to log my first-ever 50K DNF on account of getting lost. So I turned around again and jogged back to the Coastal Trail, where I found a veritable Christmas tree of pink ribbons pointing to a turn up another trail that never even touched the road. Whoops.

The volunteers at the next aid station confirmed I had run three bonus miles. Oh well. That just meant I had longer to stay out enjoying this beautiful day. The next seven miles were rough as the course followed a steep series of rolling trails and I developed a harsh case of IT band tightness. I slowed my pace because I figured if I already added 35-45 minutes to my finishing time while running aimlessly back and forth across Rodeo Valley, there was no need to kill myself.

And I nearly kept that promise. I took this self portrait at mile 29, I was the homestretch, IT bands unlocked, running fine, feeling strong, and then, less than two minutes later, this happened:

Full header. Yeah, maybe my feet were dragging a bit, and maybe I was looking around at the scenery rather than at the ground. I didn't even feel my foot catch that rock, and I was halfway to the dirt before I realized what was happening. Those few inches weren't enough to catch the fall, so the whole right side of my body hit the hard rocky trail, including my face. I jammed my right pinkie finger into a rock and thought I dislocated the middle knuckle (I didn't, but it hurts a lot.) Scraped and bruised my leg, hip, and shoulder, and ripped my shirt. Angry. I was also holding my camera in my right hand. That's probably why I jammed my finger so hard, because I was gripping the camera until the last millisecond and let go too late to save my hand. I didn't even realize the power was on, but it must have been, because it took this photo sometime during the tumble. I spent several minutes tonight trying to figure out what this could possibly be. I can't find these numbers on any of the clothing I was wearing. It's almost as though the camera took a picture of itself, in a fifth-dimensional Twilight Zone way, as I was falling to the ground. Although I wish I'd brought my good camera for this run, it's best I didn't. The Sony CyberShot DSC may have its (many) limitations, but it can take a beating.

A minute later, some of the blood trickling from my forehead was getting into my eye, so I decided to wipe my face with a Wet Wipe. Sting. I grabbed another photo where I stopped, and it turned out to be my favorite of the day, because the sky is so dramatic and the light is rich (it was, after all, sorta late in the afternoon by this point.) Also, the disheveled appearance and new dirt on my shoulder strap tell a story of a day well spent.

Alas, two miles later, all the endorphins wore off, and my punishment was to spend the "bonus" miles of 31 to 34 in pain, mostly in my hand, but also in my bruised leg whenever the trail trended downhill. Blah. But if you cut out the last 5K, and really I should to make it an even 50K, Coyote Ridge was great fun.


**I also wrote a new post for Half Past Done about the Bryce 100, a new 100-mile run near Bryce Canyon National Park in Utah, slated for next May.