Optimism

The knee issue was puzzling. When it comes to injury therapy, I can be skeptic. I don't believe in miracle cures. But there was no denying that I'd been struggling with limited mobility for three weeks; then I took an accidental and painful fall, and suddenly everything felt a whole lot better. I wasn't sure what to think; I called my doctor to possibly schedule an appointment, but he is out of the office until July 20. Because of lingering concern about stability, I went for a run on Monday to test things out. The joint felt markedly more stable than pervious weeks. There was no pain when I tried the higher kicks that are typical of a full run (rather than the ultra shuffle that I admittedly prefer.) With this new boost of confidence, I even increased my pace on the descent. Nothing. No pain, no wobbliness.

Today I went to see a massage therapist in Los Altos that Beat and I really like, Angelo, who works with a system of orthopedic therapy called the Hendrickson method. As much as I don't believe in miracle cures, he's helped me work out some nagging pains I've had in the past. Angelo worked around my joint and said he could detect thickened tissue that would indicate scarring on the side of the knee cap. I explained the fall I took on Twin Peak — my right foot slid out but my left foot remained anchored against a rock, resulting in considerable pressure on my left knee as it was forced into a hard bend. Angelo explained that similar motions are common therapy for breaking up scar tissue — a physical therapist applies torque to manually range the knee. He speculated that my limited range of motion was likely a result of scar tissue, which tightens up as it develops. Feelings of instability can be a symptom of a medial collateral ligament tear — which can result from a direct blow to the knee.

I am still considering consulting my doctor, but I can't say I even have any complaints to relay to him. Angelo said he couldn't detect any inflammation, and I don't have any points of pain. Even the superficial soreness has diminished. Although I resolved to take it easy for a few more days, I couldn't resist an urge to go for another run on Tuesday, just to relish in this new freedom of motion. Eight miles went flawlessly — it felt like my best run of the summer.

I could still have issues with this knee. If there is scar tissue as Angelo speculated, that means there was some initial tearing, which can be easy to re-injure, especially if I take another jarring fall. I plan to get re-acquainted with a more aggressively supportive (even if chafing and ouchy) knee brace for my long hauls.

But for now, I am embracing an optimistic outlook. Which means I can finally start looking to my two big summer events as though they're not going to be complete disasters. Finally, the scale between stress and excitement is tipping in the right direction.

In early August, we leave for Reykjavik to participate in Racing the Planet Iceland. This is a semi-supported stage race on foot, traveling 250 kilometers over six stages in seven days. The race organization supplies water drops, hot water at camp, and group tents. We're required to carry everything else we want over those seven days, including food. I like to look at it as a fun group backpacking trek in a beautiful northern region that I have wanted to visit for most of my life — with the added bonus of big miles. I love big miles. There are two 25-mile stages, two 28-mile stages, one 42-mile stage, and a final six-mile easy day. If I'm feeling good and my knee is strong, I want to put a good effort into this race — meaning I do plan to run within reason. But it is possible to be deathly ill and hike it out and still finish. That's effectively what I did during the 2011 Racing the Planet event in Nepal, when I came down with the worst stomach bug I've ever had during the night before stage one. I couldn't keep any calories down for the first two days, ate minimally for the remaining five, and still eked out a mid-pack finish. I suspect it will take a lot for me to feel worse in Iceland than I did in Nepal.

The weather in Iceland is likely to be ... Juneau-like. It could be beautiful, or it could rain non-stop for the entire week. Temperatures in the daytime will probably range from 45 to 65 degrees, with nighttime temperatures near freezing. Snow is possible. Sleet, likely. Rain — seven straight days without rain in that region is almost unfathomable. We are preparing to be cold and wet. I used to be really good at these conditions, but I am woefully out of practice.

Beat and I are both using Go-Lite Jam 50-liter packs. The capacity will sound enormous to most stage-race enthusiasts, but what can I say? We wanted our packs to be fully versatile for non-racing backpacking, and we also don't like to tightly condense our stuff. Our packs look big but they're not *that* heavy. Part of the required gear is a 35-liter drybag for clothing and sleeping gear.

Without going into too boring of a gear list, some of the notable things I'm packing are a RAB Quantum Endurance 25-degree down bag, RidgeRest, synthetic puffy pull-over, fuzzy fleece hat and mittens, mitten shells, extra shirt and tights (dry layer for camp), extra Drymax socks, warm wool socks, and Frogg Toggs rain jacket and pants. Why Frogg Toggs? They're cheap (given the nature of this race — running with large packs in wet and muddy conditions — our outer layers are likely to be semi-destroyed by the end). They're light. And they provide excellent rain and wind protection even if they don't breathe. (When it comes to rain gear, hard efforts, and long hours in heavy precipitation, I do not believe in waterproof breathable. I think it's better to bolster wind protection and accept that sweat will happen. There are several manifestoes about this in my blog archives from my days in Juneau.) I will have a spare down coat for camp.

I plan to wear a long-sleeve synthetic shirt, wind-proof tights, Drymax socks, hiking gaiters, a buff, and my beloved Hoka Mafate shoes. Actually my "new" pair is about as worn out as the pair I replaced in January, so it will be a challenge to squeeze 155 more miles out of them. But I plan to do so because I have a feeling this race is going to a shoe destroyer, and I don't want to take a brand new pair (which I'll need for bigger and badder terrain at the end of August.) To save my "race" Hokas, I've actually been training with my old shoes (which I made fun of back in January) since mid-June.

And I can't forget the Black Diamond Ultra-Distance Z-Poles. Effectively my favorite piece of long-distance trekking gear. I would probably give up Hokas before I gave up these poles. I've gotten pretty good at running at a good clip while using them. They help me manage my balance and footing on technical downhills, and help me "pull" on the climbs. Call them crutches, I need them. As a runner I secretly wish I was a four-legged animal, and these are as close as I'll ever get.

Food we're keeping fairly simple. Each night is a bland but filling Mountain House dehydrated meal and a hot chocolate, with packets of Lipton soup as appetizers. After Nepal, I wasn't even able to look at any form of dehydrated meals for about a year, but I've come around on about three or four varieties — the more bland the better. I like Chicken and Noodles, Chicken and Rice, Mac and Cheese, and if I'm feeling zesty, the Veggie Lasagna. Breakfast is coffee with creamer, a granola bar, and peanut butter. Daytime is a variety of granola bars, energy bars, trail mix, and gummy candy. After Nepal, I learned that trail food really is the most versatile form of calories to have during endurance events — bars or candy are the one thing I can usually force down even if I'm feeling considerably crappy. One week is not enough time to become woefully malnourished from lack of fresh foods. The calories will probably amount to about 2,600 a day. (The spreadsheet adds up to 18,500 calories. But we will not need many for the final day, so it's actually more along the lines of 2,850 a day.) It seems minimal for the effort we'll be expending, but I've learned that I'm unlikely to eat more. I do expect the cold weather to demand additional energy. We'll have to see how it goes. We'll be hungry. It will kind of suck, but I really don't want to overpack food. Again, I carried at least 5 pounds of food that I never ate in Nepal. I probably managed an average of about 1,200 calories a day. My digestive system was so angry, but beyond that, I was fine. My performance did suffer. ;-)

The packs with two liters of water will probably be in the range of 25 pounds. I might pack it up this weekend and actually weigh it, and I'll post if I do.

Ventana Wilderness: Cures for what ails you

I've had a "mid-July backpacking trip" on my mental calendar for months. I believed the timing would be good for a necessary shakedown for my big trips in August, for gear testing and to see where my conditioning stood. Since I hurt my knee, the scratch marks over these plans grew thicker with each passing week. Recovery just wasn't happened at the rate I thought it should. There were two main problems — range of motion, and stability. I couldn't bend my knee to a 90-degree angle or higher without pain, and I couldn't put much weight or force on the joint without feeling wobbly. These two problems aren't great for anything, but they're workable. After three weeks of no activity to low-impact activity, I began to wonder if the fix might require some long-term downtime. Maybe to get through the summer, I was just going to have to learn how to work with it — or at least, learn whether I could work with it. Perhaps a shakedown trip was needed to figure out just what my knee could and couldn't do.

But more than dubious self-prescribed physical therapy, I admit I needed a mental reset. Beat and I decided to embark on an overnight backpacking trip in the Ventana Wilderness, in the coastal mountains of Big Sur. We pored over the maps and found an intriguing spot at the southern end of the range — Cone Peak, a craggy marble summit that climbs from the sea to 5,155 feet in less than three miles as the gull flies. There's a questionably passable but direct route appropriately called "Sea to Sky," but we decided to take a more meandering route in and out of several drainages, starting at the Vicente Flat trailhead. If we made it to the peak, our route would likely be 15 to 16 miles with well over 6,000 feet of climbing one way. We decided we'd hike as far as we felt like, camp, and turn around to retrace our steps the following day. No big commitments.

At the trailhead, Beat and I hoisted our 25-pound packs and let out a harmonic "oof." I'm not much of an ultralight packer. I just don't like to fuss with meticulous planning and don't necessarily mind the carrying part (actually, "muling" is something I consider one of my strengths.) But there's no getting around the fact that weight makes everything harder and slower, especially on what was effectively our first loaded trip of the summer. The bulk of what we were carrying was water, because it's the height of summer and there are few guaranteed sources in these thirsty mountains.

The first steps were a struggle, but after a half mile I hit my stride and felt as light and free as I had in weeks. An unknown wilderness loomed in front of us and a thick layer of fog added an air of mystery and excitement. The pursuit of new experiences — adventure — creates such a depth of satisfaction for me that simply embarking on a wilderness hike can wipe away weeks' worth of angst that occasionally accumulates like grime on my psyche.

Yes, I was stoked to be out there. So much so that I forgot all about my wobbly knee, only to occasionally be reminded when we had to climb around deadfall or descend into a rocky drainage. Above the marine layer, the temperature rapidly increased and the sun beat down with startling intensity for our low elevation. But the canyons were deep and cool, sheltered with towering redwoods but surprisingly, at Vicente Flats at least, without water. Not even a trickle.

We walked another two miles, up and over another ridge, and descended the steep sideslope of a drainage that had water. A bow hunter was sitting in the creek with his shoes off. When we told him we planned to continue beyond that point, he warned us that "these mountains are as dry as I've ever seen them" and we weren't likely to find any water at higher elevations. We decided to fill up our carrying capacity — between us, eight liters — which we thought would be more than enough until evening. I'd pumped about a half liter when I handed my filter to Beat, who then accidentally broke the handle off the pump. Shoot. We had chlorine tablets as well, but those take four hours to purify. Still, we had about four liters of "good" water, and filled four more with water that would become okay to drink at 5:30 p.m. "Good luck," the hunter said as we started climbing out of the creek. "I doubt anyone else is headed that way. You'll be all alone up there."

After another mile we reached the intersection with the direct "Sea to Sky" ridge route and — what can I say? I am a sucker for a brutally steep climb. Beat asked if I wanted to try the "shortcut" and I didn't even hesitate. Yes! The bow hunter also told us we'd be nuts to try the ridge — "It goes straight up" — and this made it all the more enticing. Anyway, we could probably connect with the main trail for the descent, avoiding an equally steep descent that might trigger knee problems.

The ridge route was indeed brutal. It had all the steepness I expected, with the added challenge of bushwhacking through spiky brush and extremely loose dirt underfoot. Gaining 1,500 feet per mile was the easy part. In the grassy sections where there was no brush to grab, it was often difficult to gain enough purchase to take a single step. The soil would just crumble away beneath my feet, taking clumps of dry grass with it. The spiky brush tore up our arms and burrs stuck in our fingers. The heat was downright astonishing. At 4,000 feet we were now above the upper reaches of the marine layer, and the region had a different climatic feel, as though we were suddenly deep in the interior and it was a hundred degrees. I was probably not actually 100 degrees (it was likely 90) but it felt extremely hot, and both Beat and I were sucking down large amounts of heated water as we hacked our way up the ridge.

By the time we reached the summit of Twin Peak — a close neighbor to Cone Peak and just below 5,000 feet itself — we had 6 ounces of good water between us. It would be another hour before we could drink the chlorinated stream water.

The route to Cone Peak looked precarious at best — big cliffs blocked the summit and from our position, it wasn't obvious where we could skirt around, or if it was even possible. We didn't have enough spare water to go on an exploratory mission, so we decided to head down the nearest drainage to a water source — knowing we'd have to drop a few thousand feet to find it. Still, we hadn't given up on Cone Peak just yet. We could return in the morning on the known trail if we were feeling energetic.

The backside of Twin Peak had a few major problems that we were not aware of before we started our descent. A major wildfire tore up this slope in 2009, bringing down several massive redwoods and scouring the surface, leaving a layer of very loose dirt and crumbling rock. We had to leave the ridge to pick our way around the deadfall, only to find a steep surface that was so extremely loose that gaining purchase was nearly impossible. We'd take a step down and slide until enough dirt built up to stop us, and do it again. I was certain if I lost my balance, I'd start sliding and keep sliding, getting torn to shreds and probably smack into something before I stopped. The dirt had as much integrity as rotten snow, and when we tried to climb onto rocks, they broke off in our hands. At one point I slipped onto my butt and slid a foot or so, stopping shy of a really steep pitch that went right into a huge fallen tree trunk. When I tried to scramble back up, I just started sliding again. I panicked for a few minutes and Beat had to come talk me through it.

Life didn't get much easier when we regained the ridge. We still had to hack through brush and struggle down loose dirt. While trying to work our way around a wall of boulders, I lost my footing and slammed onto my butt, but my left foot remained anchored and wrenched my bad knee violently as my butt slammed into my heel. An electric flash of pain blocked out my vision and stole my breath, then washed over in a wave of nausea. It was so much more painful than the initial bashing that spurred the injury. As soon as I could collect my awareness from the white swirl of pain, my first thought was, "How am I going to get off this mountain?" Not "Oh, there goes another three weeks of training." Not, "Shoot, I just wrecked the rest of my summer plans." No, my first concern was whether or not I'd even get out of there without major intervention. It felt like I tore something clean in half.

In my initial panic to not let Beat know how frightened I was, I stood up quickly and mumbled something about being fine. Surprisingly, I was actually able to put weight on my leg. I stood still for another minute or so, absorbing the pain, until Beat climbed back to check on me. "I fell on my knee," I admitted. "It really hurts. But I think I can use it."

Stumbling down the mountain, I was surprised I could bend it, but it was still sore. Then I fell again. Owwww! I cried, but it actually came out as more of a whimper. I was still so scared. There was no way of knowing what I had done. But with pain like that, it couldn't be good.

It took us more than an hour to descend 1,500 feet. During this time, we cracked into our stream water and drank most of it. We were so dehydrated and exhausted that the two of us plowed through the better part of a gallon within the next hour. We hit the trail and I decided to stop peg-legging and see how bad it felt to bend my knee. The soreness was still there, but it was different than I expected — almost the kind of soreness you feel when you rip a bandaid away. Superficial soreness. The joint itself felt surprisingly loose, and dare I say ... strong? I was so confused, but I didn't complain.

We dropped into another narrow canyon and found a cool, flowing creek at 2,500 feet elevation, next to a beautiful camp site overlooking the sea. My knee felt ... not just not bad, but almost great in comparison to how it had felt in recent weeks. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have strength in both knees. It was inexplicable, but Beat speculated that perhaps I had a bunch of scar tissue from the initial injury that finally broke apart in this second blow. Or maybe some band of tissue had been out of place, and then snapped back into place. Since I never knew exactly what was wrong, I have no sense of what might have fixed it. But I felt like the sitcom character who throws out her back, only to have some unknowing friend give her a big bear hug and snap it back into place. Like accidental Rolfing for the knee. A double negative somehow makes a positive.

We'd already decided after my painful fall that we wouldn't try to return to Cone Peak, but we still had a 12-mile hike out. I did some stretches before bed and even got myself into a full squatting position, something I also haven't been able to do since I injured my knee. We drank a bunch of water, ate Mountain House meals, and the next morning I woke up completely refreshed and pain-free.

I didn't want to let optimism get the better of me just to discover something horrible had happened after all, but I couldn't help it. The stoke took over and I felt weightless the whole way back. I realize I made some questionable decisions and perhaps just got incredibly lucky, but what if my knee was actually fixed? Could a person really receive so much goodness from one simple weekend hike? Beat enjoyed the outing too, except for being terrorized by hundreds of tiny burrs that stuck to everything. I actually opted for nylon pants and hiking gaiters (which I lent to Beat for the second day) instead of running clothes, which proved to be the better choice. Boots would have been better than running shoes for a lot of this terrain. I forget that hiking is not just "slow running." Hiking can be a whole other harsh animal in the wilderness.

The fog moved away, offering us a glimpse of the Big Blue on the return. Twenty-four hours later and survival needs abated, my knee is still-pain free. Fluke that it might be, I feel indebted to the Ventana Wilderness — steep, brutal, and stunning.

Moving through the world

Sometimes Beat complains when I go too many days without updating my blog. I tell him I just want to avoid writing anything that sounds too defeatist or whiny. It's just been one of those weeks. Or months, I guess. Even at age 33 I find myself thinking things like, "I don't like July 2013. How many days until July is over?" As though the simple flip of a calendar page can turn everything around.

Not that I should complain. Work is going well — both Alaska newspapers and collaborative book projects (my own projects, sigh ... they need a boost. But it's hard to motivate toward creative projects when I'm feeling blue.) Beat is on fire at his job, and he's pumped about that. We have great adventures planned ... all the more reasons to count down the days in July. But I've been feeling frustrated about my physical state. My left knee continues to improve daily on an incremental basis, but the fact that it isn't 100 percent yet seems worrisome. I wonder if the bashing three weeks ago triggered some underlying overuse stuff. It feels a bit like chondromalacia, which gripped my right knee for years but strangely doesn't seem to crop up anymore. Maybe it's left knee's turn? I wonder.

Careful (perhaps arguably over careful) handling of this minor injury has limited what I can do outside, which also makes me feel a bit blue. I fight it, though. Motivation slips with my mood, but I get myself out there anyway even if I have to run easy, just so I can look at the world. Even when it's hot again and running feels like the last thing I want to do, I do it anyway. Inevitably, the simple act of going outside lifts me up. Yesterday I had to take my car in for service, and spent the two hours it took wandering the neighborhood — in the outskirts of San Jose. Pawn shops, car dealerships, and an outdoor mall. But the simple act of just walking around and observing the traffic of life had a positive effect on my mood; I was happier and more fired up for Beat's and my planned run in the evening. Staying on the move, looking at the world — that I think is my base motivation for nearly everything I do. I am just not wired to sit happily in one spot.

Our Wednesday run was relatively difficult (relative, that is, to my current abilities and perceived fitness, which is a disconcerting realization in itself.) So I decided to go for an easy road ride today, just up to the top of Steven's Creek Canyon and back. As I was pedaling up the canyon, a black truck with tape across one of the taillights buzzed me close, pulled into a pullout directly ahead, and turned around. I didn't think much of it until about a minute later, when the same truck buzzed me again, this time even closer. I could feel a whisk of forced air against my shoulder, and then I saw the driver waving his middle finger out the window. About a hundred meters ahead, he flipped another U-turn. At this point, I was frightened and wondering, "What's wrong with this guy that he's so angry at me?" I was just a solo cyclist, pedaling on the right edge of winding dead-end canyon road with a posted speed limit of 25 mph. And the next thought, "Well, here it is, the incident that's going to turn me off to road biking for another year. Who knows what he'll do when he turns around again?" And then, "What is he going to do? Why does he have to be so ragey? Why the hell do people hate cyclists so much? We cost them seconds of time and they respond with acts of terror."

After several more minutes he had not returned, but I was still frightened. Maybe he was waiting for me in a darker corner near the bottom of the canyon. I had no desire to turn around and find out, so even though I planned an easy out-and-back ride, I veered onto a spur road called Redwood Gulch, which climbs 1,000 feet in less than two miles. Some of the switchbacks are way too steep for my tender knee, but I figured a little knee pain was better than being assaulted.

The climb was strenuous and instead of feeling better at the top of Redwood Gulch, I just felt more upset about the incident, so I kept climbing. I pedaled a little bit harder to try to push out some of the anger. The knee pinched a bit but really, it's probably in better shape than I give it credit for. I climbed to the crest and turned onto Skyline Drive. There was still this irrational fear that this guy was back there somewhere, and I was not keen on turning around. I passed the Long Ridge trailhead, and even though it rightfully annoys Beat when I ride his nice carbon road bike on dirt, I decided I could use a brief off-pavement venture to relax at the overlook, away from cars.

Funny, but plowing those skinny tires through a thick layer of summer moondust on singletrack did wonders for my foul mood. It was kind of silly, kind of exciting, and required enough concentration to funnel my thoughts into the moment. Fifteen minutes later at the overlook, with the marine haze shrouding the golden hills, I was smiling again. I pedaled down Page Mill and turned a one-hour ride into something closer to three, but it was worth it.

It doesn't need to be much. I just like to get out there. At the base of my outdoor, endurance-focused lifestyle, that's really all it's about. 

Summertime blues

I have a mild case of summer-onset seasonal affective disorder, more commonly referred to as the "summertime blues." I've always been susceptible to this — overly sensitive to sun, allergic to lots of green things and bugs, find heat oppressive and too easily lapse into lethargy. "Most people are summer people but some of us genuinely are winter people," I try to explain, but am more often then not met with confused stares, especially now that I live in the Golden State. "Who doesn't like summer?"

I don't not like summer. I just struggle when it's 90 or 100 degrees and my favorite activity, going outside, becomes a chore. Outside isn't as much of a sanctuary for me in the depth of summer; it burns my skin, blisters my lips, dries out my throat, wears me down. I slow down and feel unreasonably stale. I spend days working indoors with beads of sweat clinging to my arms and legs, looking grimly out the open patio door at the white-washed sky and dreading whatever short outdoor activity I have planned for the afternoon. Because of my knee injury, I haven't run in two weeks. Occasionally I force myself out the door to ride my bike because low-impact movement really is therapeutic; it helps keep the joint loose and seemingly pushes out some of the inflammation or whatever tightness is causing pain — in other words, I feel worse after a long day of sitting and better after riding. But the rides are pretty sad; they just have no power, no heart. Truth is, if I didn't think light exercise was helping my knee, I might not even bother. Yeah, might as well curl up on my couch in a pool of my own sweat with a tub of ice cream and a spoon. It's that time of year.

But, I'm not despondent. I recognize this for what it is, a bit of SAD, not at all anchored in reality. I have awesome adventures coming up. I don't even really care if I'm a tub of melted goo because just being there will be an amazing experience. Anyway, past experience has shown that my fitness doesn't fluctuate all that much, and perhaps doesn't even matter when it comes to multi-day adventures. After about twelve hours of continuous activity, I'm the same tub of goo no matter how much ass I kicked in the months leading up to the grand adventure. It's all maintenance after that. Endurance I have.

Not having much power in my left knee means I've avoided riding my mountain bike, which really is more of a task-master than the gentle spin of the road bike. Beat had to work over the holiday weekend so I had some solo time and potential for quiet trails that I didn't want to waste, so I resolved to set out on Thursday.

Because the high that day was 98 degrees, I waited until as late as I possibly could and still squeeze in a three-hour ride before dark. Problem is, that time was 6 p.m., which is usually around the time we eat dinner. Creatures of habit sometimes forget their emergency trail snacks. A surprisingly flexible knee spurred me to climb hard, relishing in that searing sensation coursing through my legs for the first time in what feels like weeks. Of course, by 7:15 p.m. at the top of Monte Bello, I hit the bonk wall. Meaning, I actually felt reasonably light-headed. Temperatures were still in the high 80s; I'd been shedding so much sweat that my top tube was soaked, and this was hard work. I did not have a snack. But, like SAD, I know that bonking is largely an emotional response — especially at my lower wattage capabilities — and it's usually more satisfying to keep powering through.

I climbed over Black Mountain with the saturated light of late afternoon, as dry grass swayed in a gentle breeze that finally wicked the sticky layer of sweat from my skin. Without extra energy I couldn't concentrate on much besides the spinning pedals, the crackle of tires on loose dirt, the warm breeze on my cheeks. Living in the present. Curtains of marine fog poured over the mountains, sucked inland by a high-pressure vacuum of heat. Normally in my SAD state of mind I would think, "Wow, I live so close to the coast. Why don't I just go there? I could just lay on the beach until I start shivering. But it's like two hours of driving. If it wasn't for these dumb mountains blocking the way." But on this afternoon, reduced by low blood sugar to a simpler, more animal state of mind, I simply thought, "Wow."

I launched into the singletrack descent, dried by weeks of no rain and churned into a slippery, gravelly chunder. Normally I fret about these conditions and actually dislike mountain biking during the depths of summer in California, as summer is when I experience my worst slip-out crashes. But on this day, I just flew, flowing with the loose trail, leaning into curves without losing my traction and grinning with the flickering golden sunlight. Time no longer registered, only moments — trees in varying shades of green, deer loping through the tall golden grass, long shadows stretching across the hillside. "Sometimes," I thought later, "I just need to get out of my head." Most times? At least outside, in motion, I operate so much better in the present.

Living in the present — not anchored in time, not imprisoned in a season, just experiencing the world one moment at a time. I needed that.

From the sidelines of Western States

One question I am occasionally asked when I tell people I like this distance-running thing is whether or not I've seen the movie "Unbreakable." The answer is no, I haven't — and while one of the reasons for this is probably obvious to some, another reason was that I never mustered much enthusiasm for the mythology surrounding the Western States 100. Yes, I do understand why it's become its own legend — after all, it's the first. Back in 1974, Tevas Cup competitor Gordy Ainsleigh decided to try his own chances against the horses on foot. He finished the course in just under 24 hours and effectively invented the 100-mile ultramarathon. The Western States Endurance Run became official in 1977 and has since grown into most prestigious 100-miler in North America, attracting a deep field of ultrarunning talent and a lottery that brings in thousands of entries for less than 300 free spots. But — and I only admit this in the interest of honesty — I couldn't get past my prejudice that Western States was just a basic, somewhat bland California course with a corporate sheen. People only want to run it because all the fast guys are there and because it's the first, I thought. Nothing wrong with that at all, but it wasn't for me.

Still, the journalist in me wants to be where the action is, and there was admittedly a flickering desire to check out the scene. Earlier this year, I was chatting about cameras with an acquaintance, Amy Sproston, when I mentioned off-handily that I'd be happy for a chance to come out to the race if she needed any help on her crew. I think we both forgot about it until a few weeks ago, when she e-mailed me to ask if I still wanted to crew for her at the race. Amy is part of Team Montrail and the 2012 100K World Champion. She'd be gunning for a top finish at Western States against a lot of strong women, I knew it would be a fun race to spectate from the front lines.

I may have not harbored a ton of enthusiasm for Western States itself, but like anyone, I love a good hero story. For better or worse, Western States is where this small sport makes its heroes, and race-day speculations are fine entertainment. Who will come out victorious? The hot young talent who has been enjoying a killer year? The seasoned veteran who comes from behind late in the race to prove that experience can trump youth? The local favorite? The dark horse who no one expected? Watching these stories unfold is like watching a great sports movie without the formulaic dialogue or pandering sentimentality. It's a true story happening in real time, over many hours, through the sweat-drenched heat and fatigued night. The sidelines are a great place to witness the sides of the stories that few bother to tell. And because my own running journey has been a bit of a disaster recently, I didn't think it would hurt to venture to the grand stage to search for inspiration.

My job was to join Amy's sister Lisa at half of the crewed aid stations. Lisa comes out from Wisconsin every year for some sisterly bonding, but she often handles the bulk of the crewing herself and it can be stressful. Amy actually had an entire entourage this year, with two friends, Jason and Dillon, from her home state (Oregon) to help with crewing, and a pacer in her friend Robyn, a fast road marathoner who had never participated in a trail race or ultramarathon. It's true that we all had some outside interest in being there, and also that Amy probably didn't need any of us (with the exception of her sister.) She's pretty efficient and self-contained. But Amy was gracious in letting us all be a part of her Western States experience, and for that I'm grateful.

2013 will be remembered as "The hot year." It was officially just the second hottest Western States in history, but I have a difficult time imagining anything hotter. I saw 110 degrees in Sacramento the day before the race. It barely dipped below 70 overnight in Squaw Valley at 6,200 feet, and the heat-trapping canyons along the American River easily saw ambient temperatures in the 110s with brutal sun exposure and no breeze. My car thermometer repeatedly showed 100-degrees-plus while driving along the Foresthill Road. I slathered my skin in sunscreen and vied for the tiniest slivers of shade along the course. Lisa and I carried camp chairs and coolers up and down steep paved approaches to the aid stations; it was actually the first time I had done much walking in the week since my knee injury, and it was tough. We had our share of mishaps — leaving the cooler with all of Amy's cold drinks in Squaw Valley, miscommunication with the guys as we shuttled between aid stations, frantic rushes when the schedule got tight. All of this time, Amy was running steady, hitting her splits from 2012 almost exactly despite the extreme heat, and coming into the aid stations quiet but collected.

Meanwhile, the story that was unfolding in the women's race was an exciting one. Amy's U.S. teammate Pam Smith, who hadn't been on anyone's list of race favorites after struggling to a 29-hour finish in last year's Western States, surged ahead before the halfway point and continued to build her lead. Because of our aid station schedule, we didn't see what was happening at the front of the men's race, but we did see a lot of the faster chasers come through, wild-eyed and determined to keep up a strong pace in the hot hot heat. It was exciting and fun, with the added bonus of frantic, wild scrambling for two minutes every three hours. We tried to do anything we could for Amy, who was methodically chipping away at the miles — nauseated, pale-faced, and suffering just like everyone else, but moving strong.

What these men and women do at the front of these races is baffling. I know — hard work, smart training, decent genetics, blah blah blah. It's still the human element that intrigues me the most — the "whys" of every runner, not the "hows." Western States is a prizeless race in a fairly esoteric sport. Yes, you get a belt buckle if you finish, but I think belt buckles are terrible prizes. There, I admitted that too. I'd rather have a coaster. You have to admire the grit and raw energy these people give to a decidedly unglamorous endeavor.

We had an interesting mishap with Amy's pacer, Robyn, that became perhaps my favorite story of the day. Robyn was set to pace Amy from mile 62 to the American River crossing at mile 78. Amy actually prefers to run without pacers, but Robyn is her speedy training partner who Amy wanted to entice into the world of trail running by showing her the ropes at Western States. Robyn has run a marathon in three hours flat, but never anything longer and never a race on trails. Throughout the day she was visibly nervous about the prospect of pacing Amy for sixteen miles, and asked a lot of questions about trail racing customs and strategies.

Lisa and I were waiting for Amy at the final crewed aid station, mile 93, when the guys surprised us by arriving there as well — without Robyn. When we asked what happened to her, they admitted they "lost her." "We were climbing up the hill when we looked down at the river and saw Robyn crossing," they said. "We yelled and screamed as much as we could, but they couldn't hear us. I don't think Amy knew she was back there. We're not sure if she's still out there or not."

Um ... really? Robyn didn't have a headlamp or even trail shoes. She'd never run anything longer than a marathon. Was she really out there running an unplanned 50K, possibly in a condition where she'd need assistance from Amy, who was supposed to be racing? I felt a pit of dread in my stomach, and I could see all the color flushed from Lisa's face. "We lost Robyn."

They arrived at mile 93 and Amy took off almost immediately, as she was in close proximity to second position runner Nikki Kimball and fourth Meghan Arboghast. Lisa went with her, as it's their tradition for Lisa to pace her sister in the final seven miles. Robyn was excited and flustered, explaining that she didn't realize she wasn't supposed to cross the river, and when Amy noticed her at the other side, it was too late to turn around. With the rope and other runners crossing, a backward crossing would have caused an obstruction. Robyn asked people around her if she could borrow a headlamp and actually obtained one, and then spent the next fifteen miles doing everything in her power to follow Amy's lead as they climbed hills, danced over rocks, and ran through the forest in the fading light. We congratulated Robyn on running her first ultra, and she was visibly glowing and openly emotional about the experience she'd had.

Amy arrived at the Placer High School track without Lisa, as she'd surged so much that she actually dropped her sister. She ran a steady race and finished in 19:25, in third place behind Pam and Nikki. I thought she looked strong at the finish line, but just a few minutes later all the color drained from her skin and she ended up in a fetal position on the grass, and then in the medical tent. Ultimately she was okay, but you could tell that she'd left a lot of herself out there, strewn across the sun-baked dirt of the Western States course.

Generally, once the podium is filled, the journalists go home and the race carries out its quiet conclusion. Western States encourages lingering with a big awards ceremony after the 30-hour time limit has been reached, so we had a chance to spend another half-day in the hot hot heat watching the final finishers. Although I appreciate the talent and determination at the front of the race, as an individual I identify more with the back-of-packers — their quiet determination and internal rewards.

One guy finished just one minute past thirty hours, which drew a standing ovation from the entire crowd — although that guy ran every inch of a hundred miles, he would not be officially recognized as a finisher under race rules. Then nearly everyone turned and started filing away, and five minutes later, another guy crossed onto the track. A few photographers jumped back into finish line, and a few people turned to clap, but this last finisher's arrival went largely unnoticed. I admit I started tearing up as he and his pacer passed with their arms clasped. It's so hard to chase cutoffs. Those at the back of any race are there for a reason — they're having a particularly tough day, or experienced unexpected setbacks. And once you fall behind, you have to fight and you can't stop fighting. This guy fought so hard, but in the end he only just lost the battle. In the end, sometimes you fight just for the sake of fighting. I bet this guy is proud of what he accomplished.

Amy, of course, has much to be proud of herself. I have a lot more respect for Western States now, as an event and as a journey. It's a great race, and it's the people involved who make it so. 

Authentic experience

I'm working on getting my knee back, and I believe motion is important for this. Swelling went down, but the joint remains partially frozen. Bending hurts. It improves every day, which keeps me optimistic, but progress seems slow for a bashed knee. On Tuesday I successfully coaxed it to spin rotations on Beat's bike trainer, and on Wednesday I went out for a relatively flat road ride. Today I decided to climb a hill — my benchmark, Montebello Road — and I was taken aback by how tough it was. I didn't realize how much I was compensating for my sore left knee by putting all of the power into my right leg. Also, I couldn't stand out of the saddle. Any time I shifted pressure to the left, I got a shot of sharp pain.

So I effectively one-leg climbed in the saddle, and the effect left me feeling like I hadn't ridden a bike up a hill in a year. Like all of my strength had drained away, all of that hard-won fitness smothered by a minor and easily obtained injury.

Fitness, for me at least, is an illusion, I decided. The quickness and frequency with which my body's physical abilities can be dramatically cut back is, if not surprising, at least humbling. As I mashed the right pedal and weaved drunken switchbacks up a pitch my friends call "The Mitt Romney," a little smile cracked through the grimace. "This is the body that's supposed to get you through PTL in two months," I thought. "RTP even sooner. I'm going to need crutches. Why do I continue to fool myself into this ridiculous farce?"

Edward Abbey called the motivation "some sort of authentic experience" when he asked these questions of himself. I tend to think of authenticity in terms of sharpness — an experience that cuts deep enough to withstand the scouring effects of time. Memory is my greatest asset, because memory is the filter that gathers and preserves these pieces of my life amid the chaos. But when I am comfortable, I am forgetful. The realization hits whenever I click back through my blog and learn how much I've forgotten. I think this is one of the tragedies of life — that so much of what we experience is lost while we’re still alive.

When I let my mind settle — by which I mean let go of the act of deliberately thinking — I often sink into the reel of memories that is forever playing through the background of my consciousness. What I find there is often surprising. The big life events — first kiss, first car, college graduation — are all but gone now, little more than vague flickers of images that may or may not even belong to me. But there are many seemingly innocuous and meaningless moments that I remember with sharp clarity — pedaling my bicycle after dark in a drizzling rain near the end of the Glacier Highway of Juneau, or swimming across a lake in West Texas as the whole sky turned a bright shade of crimson. These kinds of images are the first to emerge when my mind goes quiet. 

Often, the intensity of emotion surrounding these memories kicks my conscious mind back into gear. “Why then?” my mind asks. “And why now?” My rational mind longs to find a correlation between these long-ago experiences and the present. Otherwise, why do they haunt me?

Perhaps it’s because I’m grinding out a pavement ride beneath the glaring sunshine and it’s 90 degrees; I’m missing cold and rain. Indeed, I can still feel the chill trickling down my shoulders, the numb fingers, the yawning black void beyond the dim beam of my headlight. My knee is stiff and it hurts to push these pedals; I miss the absolute freedom of movement I felt in that Texas lake, gliding across the surface of the glass-still water. 

But there's something else about those experiences that keeps them sharp, an authenticity that preserves them over the dozens of rainy rides I did in Juneau, the entire cross-country road trip surrounding that sunset swim. What was it? What did they mean? When I chip away at the surface, the first thought that comes to me is "uncertainty." On that particular bike ride, I was headed out the road to camp in an effort to practice setting up and staying in a winter bivy after after a long ride. I thought it would snow but it rained instead, and I was intensely afraid of being so wet and facing a night out in near-freezing conditions. Everything surrounding me came alive with malice and awe — the eerie blue light of the moon filtered by high clouds, the fog-shrouded channel, the ominous bend of towering spruce trees. I remember them in a way that's viscerally real, all of these years later. 

My memories of Texas surround the return swim, after I overzealously nearly crossed the small lake and suddenly wasn't sure whether I could make it back to shore. My arms were burning and my legs felt like cement blocks. The sky resembled a wildfire, with streaks of blaze-red light framing mountains of dark clouds. I was scared, and yet I felt calm, deeply — almost meditatively — calm. I knew I could swim all the way back because, well, I had to. For those minutes, it was my one responsibility in the world; that flowing movement was everything. It was beautiful in its necessity, freeing in its stark simplicity. 

Is risk necessary for an authentic experience? Do we need to approach the edge and gaze out into the abyss to jolt the sensations of being alive? Clearly I'm drawn to experiences such as PTL because such a vast curtain of uncertainty surrounds them, as well as a level of life-affirming risk. There's also not a small amount of wide-eyed disbelief surrounding the whole endeavor. "I am gimpy and weak. Could I really cross mountain after mountain after mountain for days on end?" I would never believe it if I hadn't tried, and succeeded, at similar endeavors before. But I've never tried anything exactly like this. Therein lies the intrigue — reaching out to the unknown. 

And, also, connecting the foundation of our our awareness with the building blocks of our lives — our memories.

"Why do I do this? (My feet hurt.) Why? Well, it's the need, I guess, for some sort of authentic experience. (My hip joint hurts.) As opposed to the merely synthetic experience of books, movies, TV, regular urban living. (My neck hurts.) To meet my God, my Maker, once again, face to face, beneath my feet, beyond my arms, above my head. (Will there be water at Cabeza Tank?)" — Edward Abbey, "Beyond the Wall"

Limpy-K

I avoided my blog for a few days out of embarrassment, or maybe just to avoid starting a post with the phrase, "You know, maybe some of us just weren't born to run." I thought once the pain subsided, I might feel better about my chances at PTL in two months. But no, no ... I still feel like a gimpy little deer who wandered into a tunnel only to see the lights of a fast-approaching freight train.

On Saturday, Beat and I headed out to Santa Cruz for the San Lorenzo River 50K. Beat had been sick all week and nearly stayed home, but I was feeling better than I had in a while. My training runs were going well again after a few weeks of somewhat mystifying respiratory and nausea issues, and I was feeling particularly strong during bike rides. Confidence levels were still low, but I was getting there. At least I felt confident that I had the strength to bust out 31 miles.

But at mile 2.5, I went down. There was a brief distraction from a group of six or seven who were  passing on a short climb, and before I even realized that I had hooked my foot on a rock, I was face down in the dirt. This happens to me a lot. Why? Because I don't lift my feet high enough, I guess. Beat calls it "slurring your feet." He tells me I need to work on my technique. I frequently focus on correcting bad habits, but fatigue and distraction seem to unravel any and all re-education efforts. It seems my natural (bad) inclinations will always overrule my better intentions.

A woman stopped to help me up and I took off at top speed up the trail as blood streamed from my right elbow and knee. It was a slow-moving crash, but it ended in a jumble of rocks that punched a number of impressive bruises into my body. And even though my right side slapped the rocks like a dead fish, my left knee was particularly painful. A large goose egg lump formed over the inside end of the femur, and swelling built around the knee cap. I could feel the joint stiffening up and knew if I stopped moving it would probably freeze entirely. I needed to at least wait for the initial impact fade before I let that happen, so I kept running.

The trail crossed the thigh-deep San Lorenzo river, and I took advantage of the crossing to wash the dirt and blood off my limbs. The cold water felt fantastic, but as soon as we started climbing out of the river, I could feel endorphins fading, replaced by blunt pain. It seemed to be simple soft-tissue bruising rather than something more serious, and I couldn't decide what to do. Call it an education in pain management and continue running? Walk out the first leg of the race and stop at 30 kilometers? Turn around right there, DNF another race, and risk a full-blown crisis of confidence? I suspected that my knee could handle this little setback just fine, but my morale was more fragile.

It's funny that I didn't want to face a DNF. I never wanted to one of those types of runners, gutting out a race with an injury just to say I finished the thing. Deep down, I didn't really care. But I also didn't believe I was seriously injured — at least not enough to convince myself that continuing would do more harm. I was already banged up, so what did it matter if I ran or stopped? One thing I knew, however, was that I was in a moderate amount of pain, and it was getting worse, not better.

Beat, nice guy that he is, decided to stick with me during another race in which I fell apart less than 10 percent of the way in, even though he wasn't feeling well himself. I thought that continuing to jog and walk gently would help "unfreeze" my joint, but the goose egg hardened and the joint became more stiff, until I could no longer bend it more than a few measly degrees. I marched in place at aid stations to stave off full rigor mortis. "This is really kind of dumb," I thought. "I'm just dragging my leg along for a limpy jog and I'm not even getting much of a workout." I begged Beat for painkillers but he would only give me one more pill (wisely, of course, as I'd already taken the maximum dosage for the amount of time I'd be out there. Luckily I'd forgotten my own stash of Advil, as I am prone to caving into temptation.) He did encourage me to bail if I thought I was damaging my knee, and also cautioned that running with a limp risked damaging something else. Still, I felt justified in this latest experiment. After all, I'm pretty damn clumsy. If I want to continue propelling myself over rugged mountains, I'm going to have to learn to cope with a few bruises.

Beat joked about making up a phrase for the act of stubbornly ignoring gravity-induced injuries — "Pulling a Homer." "To the uninitiated, most would think that means sitting on the couch and eating a donut," he said. "But those who know the Homer family know that it means replacing grace with toughness." Heh heh.

After mile twelve my knee still wasn't willing to bend, so I made up my mind to drop at 30K point, reasoning that "running" this out was kind of pointless. But once I'd limped into the start/finish, I'd developed renewed resolve to see this thing through. Beat grabbed a bandage to tightly wrap my knee, and the compression did help me feel more stable. He then took off to run the last 20K at his own pace. As I suspected, the brief stop locked up the joint almost completely. Any bending at all caused a shock of pain. I peg-legged it up the climb and felt like an idiot encountering those who were finishing up the 30K, marathon, and 50K distances, because I was clearly going the wrong direction for a runner who was visibly limping. One of the 30K runners actually stopped and told me he would go back to an aid station about a mile away to get help. "Oh, I'll be fine, no problem, heh heh."

Surely enough, motion did eventually loosen up my knee. But the pain never went away, not even for a minute. I distracted myself with iPod songs that I put on repeat just to block out the passage of time. One of them was this kitschy death metal song, "Army of the Damned" by LoneWolf, which has been my go-to angry song for Alaska winter racing: "We run straight into a frozen hell; defeated by snow, blizzard and ice." It's silly but comforting background noise when I want to feel sorry for myself but need to keep in check that this self-imposed ridiculousness is my decision, and my responsibility. "Trapped in this white and cold cemetery; I can still walk; God seems to like me."

Still, I was openly angry when I arrived at the finish after a painful downhill stretch. I got a bit snippy with a medic who offered to help clean up my elbow and retrieve an ice pack for my knee. She was very nice and I'm grateful she offered to help (which I finally did accept), but I was in once of those embarrassed "don't look at me" moods. They were already cleaning up because I came in with 8:20 on the clock and these races have a nine-hour cutoff.

It was a beautiful course. The redwood forests are peaceful, the sandy hills are challenging, and the San Lorenzo River crossings are a lot of fun. I can't say I enjoyed myself much. I'm still contemplating what I was trying to do out there. On some level, I think I was trying to prove to myself again that I'm more than my fragile and awkward body, that determination can get me through some tough hours, and that pain does eventually get better (it did, on some level. I was running better in the final five miles than I had since I fell. Until the last downhill mile, that is, which was actually quite painful.)

Still, this series of bad races has trampled my mojo. I'm all for unknown challenges, but I prefer to have a little more faith in my known abilities. Part of my continuation strategy on Saturday involved promises to myself that in 2014 I would skip the ultramarathon circuit entirely and go back to my bike touring roots. Perhaps I'll still do that. But I have a lot of 2013 to get through yet.

I'm slowly gaining mobility back in my knee. I've been working on my range of motion and the swelling is going down, but I probably have a few more days at least before I'll be able to run, ride a bike, or walk normally. Still, I remain convinced that this was probably going to be the case whether I stopped at mile three or mile 31. Even mild knee contusions can be quite painful despite relatively shallow damage. But, alas, crisis of confidence. I finished the race, and it crept in anyway.