I move slow and steady

My favorite places are all stark and windswept, expanses of uninterrupted space where my eyes are free to wander over the farthest, often unreachable horizons. I appreciate a great many variations of natural beauty, but my daydreams tend to wander into the deserts and tundra, the high mountains and rugged shorelines ... places where tiny flowers and tufts of moss emerge from the rocks ... places where scraggly spruce trees twist out of the snow ... where hardy plants and animals cling to the outer edges of life, that razor point between existence and the void. Beyond their subtle colors and surreal beauties, the places I love most are those where life is hard, because they demonstrate why life is worth living. And because of my life experiences so far, this love always draws me back to the North.

This draw toward starkness and solitude is juxtaposed by a desire to also experience the loudness of life — to immerse myself in cultures, observe and connect with people, experiment with physical abilities and sensations, and play games. The admittedly strange niche of endurance racing fulfills many of my competing desires in ways that are both organic and satisfying. I am alone but I am in the company of like-minded people. I am independent but I am part of a culture. I am at the limit of my perceived abilities and yet I am comfortable and strong. I am treading the edge of livability and yet I am wholly alive.

Racing the Planet Iceland was a great opportunity to seek this spectrum of experience — to visit the stark northern landscapes of Iceland, to meet other endurance junkies from all over the world, to test a level of self-sustainability over long distances, and to inject at least one high-mileage week into my lackluster summer of PTL training. Stage racing, although not necessarily something that caters to my strengths, is a fun game nonetheless. Can I keep up a consistent pace over the course of the week? Can I bring a good mix of gear and food to stay warm and fed without slowing myself down too much? Can I manage six nights crammed into a canvas tent with seven other people without lapsing into insomnia-fueled insanity?

Pre-race necessities including an extensive gear check and scoldings about the rules were sufficiently exhausting. It was a relief to finally board a crowded bus and travel into the highlands between the Vatnajokull and Langjokull glaciers. During the Middle Ages, Iceland was covered in extensive forests, but a combination of human-caused deforestation and erosion, as well as a shift in the Gulf Stream that cooled Iceland's climate, has left the island mostly barren. Less than one percent of Iceland is forested today, and these tree stands are so sparse and straggly that Icelanders have a saying: "If you ever get lost in the forest, just stand up." As hours passed, we traveled deeper into a moonscape covered in soft moss, patches of grass, and the occasional huddle of hardy sheep.

We did make one stop at a roadside geyser. As I rushed out of the bus to try to catch "Geysir" before it erupted, Beat lingered by the gift shop/cafeteria. "Do you think we should buy some more food?" he asked. The reality of seven days of limited calories was setting in, and we went on a hoarding spree of snacks we planned to cram in our stomachs that night before the diet began — chips, cookies, and ice cream. If we'd thought it through earlier, we could have brought fresh vegetables and pizza, but at least tonight we wouldn't go to bed hungry.

Racing the Planet seems to make a habit of cramming lots of people into small and inadequate tents — probably in the interest of bonding, although I tend to think of this living situation as a more difficult challenge than the running part. We were part of tent Fjallfoss, which means mountain falls, and it was immediately apparent that ours was a fun tent. What we lacked in serious racers, we made up for in quirkiness. Our tent included the "Vikings," two friends from New Jersey who purchased souvenir viking hats earlier in the day and vowed to wear them for the remainder of the race. Paul was at least six-foot-four and 250 pounds. Jakes, an equally tall hedge fund manager, brought an entire shelf's worth of small wine bottles and beer, complete with a plastic wine glass that he actually used for the remainder of the race. We also had Raj, a former special forces fighter with India's military, and another Raj from Bangalore. There was Karley, a diminutive air traffic controller from Australia, and Chloe, an Olympic-distance triathlete from New York. We asked Chole if she'd run a trail ultramarathon before. "No," she admitted. "My longest run ever was about fifteen miles." She'd come to Iceland to run more than 150 miles in what amounted to five days, almost entirely on dirt, through all kinds of weather and rough terrain, "to see if I can." I liked Chloe's style.

The weather at camp one was ... invigorating. It was just a few degrees above freezing with drizzling rain and wind blasting down a narrow canyon to a degree where one couldn't stand sideways with their backpack without getting blown over. I'll be the first to admit it was harsh, but I was disappointed when I learned they completely rerouted stage one to keep the field of 270 racers off the higher ridges and away from a waist-deep river crossing. Instead, we'd be running thirty miles back on the dirt track we'd traveled by bus the day before. I understand the organization's liabilities and desire to keep people happy and safe, but they had a required gear list a mile long precisely to ensure everyone was prepared for this type of weather. I had a similar reaction of disappointment and exasperation that I felt when UTMB was rerouted due to weather last year: "These organized races are too tame. I didn't come all the way to Iceland to run on a road; I'd rather be on a touring bike if that's the case." The reroute took the wind out of my sails, so to speak, and I had almost no energy launching into the chilly morning.

Beat and I stuck close together for the first ten or so miles, but we'd already decided we were going to run our own races in Iceleand, and I began to fall behind on the runnable road. With the previous shin and knee injuries, and also hard races and recoveries this summer, my actual running mileage — as in not walking — has been fairly limited. This showed in my stage one performance. The 30-pound backpack hung off my shoulders in a way that felt like a boat anchor whenever I tried to pick up my pace. I could have been dragging an anvil through the dirt for the way it made me feel. Walking was fine; I hardly noticed the extra weight. But running made made my legs throb and lungs sear, and it was difficult to tell whether I was gaining any ground by doing so. People jogging in front of me weren't getting any closer, but when I started walking, they weren't exactly pulling ahead either. This goes back to my sled-dragging dilemma: I can walk almost as fast as I can run, and yet running is at least 50 percent harder. How does it get any easier? Or faster? Specific training, I suppose.

As disappointed as I'd been about the road running, the scenery was pretty spectacular. Eventually I decided just to jog a steady pace and not worry about walking the uphills or trying to make up time on the downhills, and I found a nice flow. I dug out my iPod shuffle that I'd filled with Icelandic bands like Sigur Ros and Of Monsters and Men, and went into my happy zone.

One notable aspect of stage one was that I felt continuously hungry, the entire time. I stuck to my planned rations that amounted to about 150 calories an hour, but there was this primal urge to continue devouring everything in my pack. Later in the race, on the same rations after several days of cold weather and calorie depletion, I felt much more satisfied with my intake. It was really just days one and two, while settling into the demands of the race, that my appetite was so out of control. This makes me wonder if it would be possible to go for weeks on similar rations. I ate like a horse during the Tour Divide and still lost nearly 15 pounds, but still I wonder. This trip was much more even despite what felt like massive energy output. It seems the body finds ways to adjust.

I didn't have a watch so I'm not sure how long it took me to reach camp two, but I did have a Garmin eTrex that indicated it was 29 miles. My legs felt surprisingly fresh for all of those loaded miles, so Beat and I decided to explore a small ridge next to the camp in the evening.

This hour-long side excursion made up for any lingering disappointments about the stage one reroute. The clouds had cleared and it was gorgeous up there, with panoramic views of nearby volcanoes and glaciers, and an oh-so-soft moss that I could have easily fallen asleep in had it not been for the biting cold and 40-mile-per-hour winds.

I went to bed excited for stage two, knowing that at the very least, we would still be in this beautiful place when we woke up in the morning. Life out here is hard, and good. 

Back from RTP Iceland

Beat and I just returned to Reykjavik after a week of fun and scenic running across the highlands and along the southern coast of Iceland during the 2013 Racing the Planet Iceland event. With the exception of extremely crowded tents and resulting sleep deprivation, I loved every part of it and had a great experience. I plan to hammer out a race report with photos for my blog, but I thought I'd drop in a few gear and event notes before we return to California.

• The course was about 154 miles overall according to my measurements. Day one was 29 miles, day two 28, day three 27, day four 25, day five 39, and day six 0 (rest day) and day seven was 6 miles.

• My pace was surprisingly consistent, averaging right around 4 miles per hour every day. Running with the pack was tough and I felt I was wasting a lot of energy at anything higher than a 12-minute-mile, but I could walk efficiently and comfortably at 3.5 miles per hour. I tended to vary my movement between this and a 4.5-mile-per-hour shuffle. Speed was usually determined by the technicality of the terrain. There were relatively few long climbs and these always felt like rest breaks, because I walked them. Even downhill running was strenuous and challenging, which made it fun.

• Final results aren't in yet, but of the 270 starters, about 228 finished all six stages. About 80 women started the race and about 64 finished. After stage five I was in 75th position overall and 13th woman. It's better than I expected to end up in this field, actually. It was a highly runnable course with plenty of fast runners. The "hikers" had no advantages, except for perhaps our consistent speed over long distances. I don't know my positions in each stage but I'm fairly certain my best showing was during the "Long March" 39-mile stage.

• The weather was almost exactly what I expected, but the race officials kept commenting about how unseasonably bad it was. We had one day of sunshine and six days of clouds, four of those with varying levels of precipitation. Every day was windy, some with gusts I would estimate to be over 50 miles per hour. I was knocked off my feet once and pushed out of balance countless times. Temperatures ranged from 21 degrees overnight to daytime highs in the mid-50s. Windchills usually kept the air feeling quite brisk, and I'd say the "feels like" temperature was rarely above 40.

• My favorite piece of gear was my DriDucks "astronaut suit," named as such by a fellow competitor from Cleveland because it was billowing and light gray with U.S.A. flag patches on the shoulders. The FroggToggs brand is cheap and ugly and amazingly effective at keeping wind and rain from driving in that bone-chilling cold that I remember all too well from my Juneau days. The material never feels wet, and its lack of breathability holds in a nice warm microclimate of body heat. The one drawback is that this clothing is not durable. My jacket and pants are pretty tattered from the wind and lava rocks, and I don't think they'll be leaving Iceland. But I would certainly buy another set in the future.

• My daily meals were bland and monotonous. Breakfast was always two packets of coffee, one serving of peanut butter, and one granola bar. Mid-day calories were two candy bars, one granola bar, and one five-ounce package of gummy candy. Post-run was a single serving of Pringles and a bullion cube dissolved in hot water, and dinner was one freeze-dried meal and one hot chocolate. I thought it was going to be awful to eat this way but it wasn't that bad. I was always grateful for whatever I put in my mouth when my "ration" time came around, and I didn't crave fresh fruits and vegetables as much as I thought I would.

• I consumed 2,700 calories per day. This was slightly supplemented so it was probably a bit higher. Foods I picked up from fellow competitors during the race included one freeze-dried meal, one Honey Stinger waffle, two pieces of bread, two pieces of flat bread, and a chocolate bar. I gave away two servings of peanut butter, two granola bars, and finished the race with two candy bars and two granola bars.

• This food intake was surprisingly adequate to stay warm, energetic, and happy for 6.5 days. Ever since my four-day-long bonk during the 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational, I have been terrified of the prospect of being underfed in cold-weather endurance efforts. There was no way I was going into this event with its 2,000-calorie-per-day minimum. I thought 2,700 would be a sacrifice, but in this carb-loaded, quick-energy format with a hot meal to end the day, it remained effective and satisfying over the course of the race, even while running for seven-plus hours each day. This makes me think I eat too much in my day-to-day life.

• Before the race started, my pack weighed in at 12 kilograms (26.5 pounds) without my RidgeRest sleeping pad and without any water (but with the clothes I wore on my body at the start of the race.) Still, ouch. But after asking around I found out this number was fairly comparable to others with much smaller packs.

• Our 50-liter GoLite Jam backpacks were among the largest in the field. The large majority of the group had 30-liter packs and the fast runners usually cram minimal stuff into 20-liter packs. I'm not swayed by minimalism for the sake of minimalism, and I was actually really happy with my pack. I watched my tentmates struggle to cram their stuff into their packs each morning while Beat and I could pack up in under five minutes flat. I had one spot of chaffing on my lower back after the single "warm" day, and only slight collar bone soreness. Except for suddenly gaining 30 pounds, it was as comfortable as wearing a small hydration pack. And it was fairly effective at holding off the elements, including rain, graupel, and sharp volcanic sand.

• Iceland is so cool. I am a northerner at heart at felt at home in this stark, gloomy landscape. I'd love to return for a more intimate exploratory backpacking trip, with the solitude I feel this landscape merits. Someday.

Okay, this is going long. Race report soon. 

Jill loves the Northlands

We arrived in Reykjavik on Friday afternoon, and are in the midst of a whirlwind of last-minute preparations before we leave for our weeklong trek on Saturday afternoon. I sadly don't even have a new photo yet to add to this post, but I wanted to post a quick update of my whereabouts, mostly for my mom, who I may or may not have time to call tomorrow. 

This week we'll be participating in Racing the Planet Iceland, which can be tracked over the week with photos and news updates at this link. The course is 250 kilometers over six stages, mostly self supported (the race organization provides water and group tents.) The course (as yet unrevealed. We don't find out the route until the pre-race meeting on Saturday) seems to follow relatively flat terrain (I think the highest we'll be is about 3,500 feet, and this is the elevation we start at.) Still, I expect a fair amount of highly technical terrain, over tundra and boulder fields of volcanic rocks, so the whole "running" thing is going to be iffy, especially with a 27-pound pack. 

Gear is always a huge focus for folks in these events, and there's definite bragging rights for managing the lightest pack with all the mandatory gear. I care far more about avoiding hypothermia than I do about a few extra pounds, so my pack is equipped with the question, "If I were backpacking self-supported for a week in Juneau in September, what would I bring?" The forecast for the highlands, where we're starting the race on Sunday, is 6 degrees C for a high, 0 for a low. Add any sort of precip, and I'm mentally preparing for hours of low-level hypothermia even with all the gear I brought. 

 The only concession I made in my big pack is probably not enough calories, which is actually often not a psychological disadvantage for me personally during an endurance event. I have enough fuel to get through the day, although at a deficit, but I feel hopeful that it's enough to get by without feeling emotional distress about hunger. I ended up not changing much about my food rations; it's ~2,700 calories per day with one freeze-dried meal, and probably 70 or even 75 percent carbs. My body has never been efficient at burning fat as an energy fuel; I'm convinced that body fat works almost as well as dietary fat, for me at least. But I need carbs in order to not feel too bonky/hangry. I hope. For the record, 2,700 calories is probably fewer than I eat on a normal day without running 30 miles through near-freezing cold and wind and rain. But I do want to experiment with fuel efficiency and this kind of event is a good, safe environment in which to try. 

As for my conditioning, I feel undertrained. The rough early-summer races and knee injury seemed to prevent me from ever getting my endurance training off the ground. This will be another case of "let's see what I can do with what I have." Of course, Iceland is just a warm-up for PTL. If it goes badly, I will likely have to reassess my chances with a more realistic outlook. As it is, I have serious doubts about PTL, so in my imagination I am doing everything in my power to make sure Iceland goes well.

But beyond all that silly race stuff, I am so happy to be here. As I write at 10:27 Reykjavik time (12:27 a.m. in Zurich, 3:27 p.m. in California), the sun hasn't yet set. It's 11 degrees Celsius on a warm summer evening and the low-angle sun is casting a thick, rich light over the city. Behind these buildings seems to be nothing but stark mountains and boulder-strewn green valleys, and ahead, the coastal cliffs and north Pacific. Iceland feels close to home, and I'm really looking forward to a week of trekking in the Interior highlands and along the rugged coast. 

Zurich

 We're packing up to leave for Iceland early Friday morning, so I'm making a vacationy photo-dump blog post for the sake of continuity (which is something I value highly in my nearly-eight-year-old journal/blog.) Our visit to Zurich was pretty awesome. I could see myself living here, even if the Swiss do adhere to a lot of rules that my unrefined American manners occasionally stumble over, and even if you can't find an iced drink to save your life, and even if they seem a bit stingy with the coffee ... Switzerland is a beautiful and remarkably clean region, and these incredible mountains are right at their fingertips.

 For workouts, Beat and I went for a couple of runs from our hotel to the Uetliberg, a small 2,850-foot peak with a panoramic viewing tower at the top. On Monday it was cool and rainy, and I'd been so busy traipsing around the city that I neglected to eat lunch or even snack before our 5 p.m. run. I was thinking it would be this short, after-work thing, but it was still 8 miles with 2,000 feet of climbing on some steep terrain. I bonked early and hard, to the point where I was weaving a bit on the switchbacks, and wavering more dramatically on the slippery staircase up the wind-blasted tower. It was a tough run for me, and of course Beat was full of energy and laughing at me the whole way up. Deserved.

 We went back to the Uetliberg on Wednesday evening, and it was another hot, sweaty day. Just before our run, I met with a friend, Gabi, for afternoon drinks (more ApfelSchorle for me. No ice, sigh.) Gabi is a mountain runner that I met through Beat at the Tor des Geants. She's also the only person I know in Zurich, and I just happened to see her on the street when I was walking to the train station on Tuesday morning. During our visit, I started to tell Gabi the story of how Beat and I met at the Swan Crest 100 in Montana when I realized it was July 31, and this was the day Beat and I acknowledge as our anniversary. Later, and Beat and I were running up the steep side of the Uetliberg, the realization popped into my head again. "Hey, Love, guess what? It's our third anniversary!"

 So, after the run, we celebrated with a visit to the Thermalbad in our hotel building, which is apparently a famous spa in Zurich. The lower level is built into centuries-old stone vaults with hypnotic lighting effects and various saunas and jet pools. Then there's a roof pool with panoramic views of the city. We visited this pool right at sunset, with clear air, rich light, and alpenglow on the snowy peaks in the distance after the sun went down. Unfortunately I did not bring my camera. This picture is from the following afternoon, when went back for a lunchtime soak on our 24-hour access pass.

 August 1 is a national holiday in Switzerland. It's just like the Fourth of July in the United States; our morning pastries were adorned with little Swiss flags on toothpicks. Because it's a holiday, the Google office was empty and Beat finished up his work and took the afternoon to meet his uncle for a hike in Baden. It was yet another extremely hot day, in the mid-90s, and my body temperature was already jacked up from the mid-day spa visit. Beat's uncle guided us up this extremely narrow ridge that had some decent exposure to sheer drops. I felt severely overheated, to a level where I was concerned about heat stroke. But I poured the rest of Beat's sparkling water over my neck and this seemed to take my temperature down a few degrees — at least until we ran out of water about two hours into the hike. Beat's uncle walks even faster than Beat does, something I didn't think was possible, and we just kept marching along this breezeless, hot ridge. I was pretty grumpy. It's funny, because of all of the runs I did this week, the only one that didn't put me deep into the pain cave was the big mountain I time-trialed in Lungern. All the easy runs were hard; the hard run was easy. I guess life works out that way sometimes.

 There were good views along the three-hour ridge walk, which of course ended in a restaurant where Beat and his uncle ordered cider and I begged for water. My experiences in Europe have largely shown me that restaurants are pretty stingy with fluid in general, but this worker was very nice and filled up my bladder for me.

Our walk ended in Dielsdorf, adorned with yet another castle tower that has been standing since the 13th century. "The only buildings this old in the United States are Anasazi ruins," I said to Beat, but of course old stuff here is just not a big deal. We took the train back to Zurich and caught the fireworks over the lake in the evening. Fun holiday. The Zurich leg of this trip was really just supposed to be a business-related stop for Beat. I of course am pretty happy with how it worked out.

I'm going to keep all of these memories close to the surface when I'm cold and hungry in Iceland next week. The hot hot heat and the lap of luxury ... these things are good to experience sometimes, too. 

Dot on the map

Between his family reunion and our trip to Iceland, Beat needed to put in a heavy week of work at the Google office in Zurich. I had a few deadlines to keep myself, but beyond that I had some free time to spend exploring. On Monday it rained heavily for most of the day. I had to complete a few chores such as taking the rental car back to the airport, buying a phone card, and figuring out the train network — somewhat time-consuming tasks in a foreign city. I've never been great with public transportation; I prefer to be independently mobile, even if it means walking for an hour or riding a bike dozens of miles. But Switzerland has an extensive train network, and it seemed worth utilizing while I'm here.

Still, any trip that looked to be less than three kilometers merited walking. I got myself hopelessly lost several times, wandering around wet streets with an orange umbrella pressed against my chin and clutching a waterlogged map in both hands. I went to a museum that was closed on Mondays and a lakeside path that was still closed after Ironman Switzerland. Shut down on several accounts with sore feet from padding the pavement, I considered taking a trip out of the city on Tuesday.

Trouble is, I had no idea where to go or how to get there. A hotel employee recommended Luzern, but Beat warned me that the town was large and touristy, and he wasn't sure how much hiking I'd find in walking distance from the train station. I opened Google maps and traced the train line south as it worked its way through a series of towns next to lakes. At Lungern, the highway veered into a tunnel, which indicated the town was pressed against a steep mountain with no room for a larger road. Knowing little more than that, I walked to the main Zurich train station on Tuesday morning to purchase a ticket.

The train moved for an hour and stopped in Luzern, announcing the end of the line. My ticket was entirely in German and I didn't realize I needed to catch a connection, so I darted out of the train and wove through thick crowds until I saw a sign for Interlaken, which was in the same general direction I needed to go. I stepped on the train, which lurched forward before I even sat down. My layover must have been shorter than five minutes. Eek, I hope I'm on the right train.

I didn't know for sure until an employee checked my ticket and didn't say anything, so I figured I was not in the wrong. At nearly every stop I stepped up to the door, just in case the platform said Lungern. A few stops looked particularly nice and I almost considered getting off early, but decided to wait. The train rounded a narrow valley and began wrapping around impossibly blue lake; it was a color I'd never seen before, a kind of electric cerulean. It was so enthralling that I decided this would be my stop regardless, but when we arrived at the train station, it turned out to be Lungern.

I stepped off the train and looked toward the mountainside, an abrupt slope that climbed into vertical walls. It didn't even look walkable from the valley, but I've learned enough about hiking in Europe to know I'd probably find a trail up this mountain. Sure enough, on the other side of the train platform were those tell-tale yellow signs with destinations listed in hours instead of distances. I've learned enough about hiking in Europe to know that when fresh and determined, I can usually halve the estimated climbing times. My downhill times usually come out pretty close to estimates, unless I make an effort to run the sections that I'm capable of running. I had about four hours before I needed to catch the train back, and "Huttstett," listed at 3 hours and 45 minutes one-way, seemed like a good goal.

 The storm had cleared out and it was another warm day. Climbing was strenuous, gaining at a rate of about 1,200 feet per mile, mainly on open grassy slopes exposed to the hot sun. But the views were consistently nice, at least when took a break to catch my breath and turned around.

Huttstett was a narrow col at 5,450 feet elevation, just over 3,000 feet above the valley floor. It had only taken me an hour and a half to get there, so I had at least another half hour to climb. The main route seemed to drop back into the valley, but if I hopped over a cattle fence, there was an option to keep tracing the contour of the ridge.

I remember doing this countless times back when I used to hike solo in Juneau, marching toward a mountain peak with a tight timeline looming behind me, and somehow justifying, "Just a little bit farther. Just a little bit farther."

There was a distinct high point in the distance and I just wanted to see what was on the other side. The grade was less steep on the ridge and I made an attempt to run until the sideslope steepened to the point where falling would have been considerably costly. There were rocky cliff bands on both sides and only a narrow trail to hold my clumsy self to the mountain.

 Eek, don't look down.

 I marched up to the peak, called "Gibel" at 2,035 meters (6,676 feet.) A gravel road came up from the other side of the valley, and there were a dozen sightseers milling about. This is hiking in the Swiss Alps — you can rip your lungs apart marching up a steep and rocky trail, skitter over a narrow ridge with heart-stopping drops on both sides, crawl over a peak drenched in sweat, and arrive at a vehicle-accessible vista crowded with people. I dropped down the backside of the peak and found a bench overlooking an incredible vista of sharp, high mountains and glaciers. Wispy clouds streamed over the ridge and sometimes obscured the view altogether, so I sidled up to a bench to await an opening in the fog. An older couple was sitting there, quietly enjoying the vast views. The woman motioned at me and pointed to the sky, which I noticed for the first time was filled with para-gliders.

Now I had 2:32 on my watch. Eek, I really only had 90 minutes to make it back to Lungern before 4 p.m., in order to catch the 4:10 train. It wasn't the end of the world if I missed the train, but I did promise Beat I'd be back by 6:30. It was only five miles but more than 4,000 feet vertical descent away. When it comes to steep and rocky slopes, I find descending fast to be more difficult than climbing. I can't really call any of this "running," but it's at least if not more strenuous than any running I do, even for 40-minute miles. Still, descending is something I do need to practice, within reason. I think I startled a couple of families with children as I clomped down the trail, catapulting rocks with my trekking poles.

In a rare display of relative grace, I arrived at the bottom unscathed with 3:47 on my watch, meaning I managed to descend five miles and 4,300 vertical feet in an hour and fifteen minutes. Where did that come from? Relative to my usual descending abilities, that was a massive leap of faith, sometimes literally. Now if I can just manage all of this over and over, twenty times in a row, I'll be set for PTL next month. But, at least for this day, I made my train schedule with enough time left over buy an Apfelschorle and crackers from a vending machine. The perfect way to wrap up a serendipitously wonderful visit to the Swiss village of Lungern. 

Switzerland

Beat and I flew to Zurich on Friday to attend a large family gathering for his brother's and sister-in-law's 25th wedding anniversary. The past 36 hours have been fun but exhausting, a whirlwind combination of jet lag, meeting uncles and cousins and Beat's father for the first time, excessive heat that we could not escape, and language barriers. People asked me how my German was and I'd reply, in English, "I can count." I can also sing a few songs and recite a personal introduction that I learned in eighth grade. Beat's sister-in-law actually held me to counting and we made it to funf (5) together before she accidentally skipped over to sieben (7), which is just as well, because I can never remember the German word for 11.

The heat here has extended beyond family meetings and being on the hot seat for my sad lack of language diversity. When we arrived in Zurich on Friday afternoon the temperature was 38 C — 100 degrees, with much higher humidity than I'm accustomed to. I get the sense that most buildings in Switzerland do not have air conditioning, and this included our third-floor hotel room in Langenthal. After marinating for a few hours we decided it's better to sweat on the move and went out for a 90-minute run through the woods and farm fields near our hotel. I thought I was heat acclimated, but it's impressive how strenuous a run can feel in humid triple digits. The draining effect of the run on top of sleep deprivation (I never sleep on planes) and jet lag left me feeling almost drunk with fatigue by the time the party began in the late afternoon. I guess I'm lucky there was a language barrier because intelligent conversations became challenging. The party was a beautiful and elaborate affair, with an organ concert in a cathedral and a delicious four-course Swiss meal in a ballroom. It remained so hot that I had to stand with my knees together to prevent visible droplets of sweat from running down my legs. But it was an enjoyable gathering, even if social events in stagnant heat leave me feeling more drained than long runs.

We woke up "early" (still feels like 10 p.m. California time) on Sunday to join Beat's uncle for a hike in the Jura Mountains, a sub-Alpine range that divides the Rhine and Rhone river valleys. As we approached his uncle's flat near the Aar River, we passed an enormous castle perched on the cliffs above the village. No one mentioned this castle to me before; I supposed in Switzerland these things are no big deal, but it's really not every day you pass a 300-year-old castle on your way to your Sunday morning stroll (I did not take a picture of the castle, unfortunately.)

We climbed a narrow gravel road that had been hammered into the rocky slopes by the Swiss military in 1915 to fortify a barrier against German invasion from the north. Each unit that worked on the road carved their coat of arms into the rock. Although the Alpine regions lack in wilderness, the depth of history is fascinating and the extensive infrastructure is useful. A network of trails across these ranges make it possible to hike from Spain to Germany on an established mountain route, with regular stops at trailside cafes if you so desire.

After brunch, a large thunderstorm with heavy rain and hail moved in, and we decided to run our same dirt route in Langenthal in the afternoon. The effort was markedly easier in the warm drenching shower than it had been in the hot drenching heat. We ran fast (for me), cranking out 10 kilometers with 703 feet of climbing (like how I mash up imperial and metric measurements?) in 55 minutes. Although we did an extra 2K spur during the run yesterday, it really did take nearly a half hour longer. Interesting how oppressive heat can be. I'm going to remind myself of this experience next week in Iceland, when it's 5C and raining and I can't stop shivering. 

Anticipation

Beat and I spent several hours on Sunday finally putting all of our Iceland stuff together: Locating our flag-adorned T-shirts, rain gear and five *required* pairs of socks; compiling med kits and a surprising abundance of required odds and ends (including but not limited to an emergency bivy, two Ace bandages and a mirror);  and packaging little daily "lunch" baggies to discourage overeating of supplies in the early stages of RTP Iceland. The final verdict for my pack with all gear, seven days worth of food, and 1.5 liters of water: 27.3 pounds. Beat's pack was similar in weight. We'll probably have two of the largest packs out there, but I bet most of the participants — save for the most competitive runners —will have starting weights ranging from 23-30 pounds. Given we packed similar stuff for every day, I can already envision what each day will be like:

Sunrise: Wake up. Spend ten minutes mulling how I can avoid climbing out of my toasty sleeping bag. Inch my way out and pull on my down coat (so glad I brought that!) Put on a fresh pair of socks and underwear (figured if I was required to bring five pairs of socks, I might as well have an equal number of underwear.) Ah. Put on same clammy shirt and tights I wore all day yesterday. Ugh.

Breakfast: Two cups of Trader Joe's coffee (100 calories), one granola bar (190 calories) and one serving peanut butter (250 calories.) Wish I could mow through all of my Snickers Bars instead of trying to subsist on this meager breakfast.

Stage begins: Looking at another 25-plus-mile day. Hopefully it's not that 42-mile day. If it is, I probably have a pit in the bottom of my (growling) stomach.

Follow the course markings into the vast open expanses of Iceland. Hopefully the weather will be gorgeous and we'll be able to see for dozens of miles in all directions. Odds are the weather is cloudy and drizzly, with the potential for low-lying clouds and heavy rain. Either way, I anticipate much soaking in of ethereal beauty as we shiver in our cheap rain gear and puffy insulation layers (so, so glad I brought that!)

As the miles grind on, we'll find ourselves among familiar faces who share our general pace. We'll chat with our new friends from Hong Kong and Singapore and Scotland. One of the coolest benefits of an organized event like Racing the Planet is meeting like-minded people from all over the world. As fatigue sets in, I'll retreat into my introspective zone. And I'll probably have Sigur Ros playing on my iPod shuffle (so glad I brought three of those!)

Lunch: Actually just a small assortment of junk food eaten on the go: Two candy bars (500 calories), one granola bar (190 calories) and one bag of happiness courtesy of Haribo (500 calories.) Really, 1,200 calories of carbs? That seemed like so much on my spreadsheet. I'm hungry. But at least I feel awesome. Yay sugar!

Stage wraps up. My knees are getting pretty achy and my feet — I don't like to think about my feet. Pretending they don't exist is really the best course of action. But at least the pack gets lighter every day. I crack into my treat — a can of Pringles — that I hoped would last the week, but by day three it's already gone. (200 calories.)

Pre-dinner: Hang wet shirts, socks and tights inside the tent with all of our tent mates' gear. It smells fantastic in there. Put on our camp slippers (so glad we brought those!) Give ourselves sponge baths with tablet towels and attempt to treat our increasingly mangled feet. If it's still raining, I'll put on my Tyvek suit and go for a walk because the tent makes me claustrophobic. If it's not raining, we'll hang around the camp fire with folks telling adventure stories.

Dinner: One Mountain House Meal (600 to 800 calories) and one hot chocolate (150 calories.) If I had a good day, I'll probably rip apart the packaging of my meal and lick it clean. If I'm deathly ill like I was in Nepal, I'll try to pawn it off on a local boy who will take a sniff, crinkle his nose, and hand it back to me. (Actually, in Iceland, we're not likely to see many people not associated with the race. So make that a sheep. I'll try to give my food to a sheep.)

Sleepy time: Spooning with eight of my closest friends.

Beat and I took our properly loaded packs on a trip up Black Mountain with our friend Martina this afternoon — ten miles round trip with 3,000 feet of climbing. I forget what a burden thirty extra pounds can be — temps were in the high 70s and we were drenched in sweat. I couldn't muster much of a run on the climb, but we put in a hard effort on the descent and ran nearly all of the five miles back. I could feel each footfall heavily in my knees — more so in my right knee, which has been my good knee for the past few weeks and is more fatigued from bearing the brunt of my efforts. But the good news is, my left knee feels strong. If it can handle a 3,000-foot descent with a 27-pound pack, well, it must be reasonably solid.

Racing the Planet Nepal doesn't begin until Aug. 4, but it feels like we are in our final days of "training." I can't really say I'm going into a taper now, since I effectively started tapering when I bashed my knee four weeks ago. But there's much to do before we leave for Switzerland later this week (for Beat's brother's anniversary party and work obligations at the Google office in Zurich.) So I suppose the taper has begun. With luck, I'll be able to escape on a train into the Swiss Alps for one final "shakedown."