Shut down

Nearly every autumn since 2004, my dad and I have traveled to the Grand Canyon to hike from rim to rim. Traveling from Idaho or Alaska or Montana or California, rain or snow or 110 degrees at the Colorado River, south to north or north to south, hiking with a big group or a few friends or just my dad and me — I love our annual R2R. It is my favorite tradition. We always plan the trip a year in advance, and 2013 was to be a first for me — a Rim to Rim to Rim, over two days, spending a relaxing night with my mom on the South Rim before turning around and heading north again. But it was not to be. The federal government shutdown cut access to the Grand Canyon, and Arizona's deal to reopen it wasn't reached in time to save the trip. I already had nonrefundable tickets to Salt Lake City, so I decided to travel out for the weekend anyway, and salvage some of the tradition by spending time with my dad in the Wasatch Mountains.

Of course, I had to hit the double jackpot of bad timing when my trip coincided perfectly with a winter storm that hammered the mountains. In the two weeks prior, my dad had climbed a couple of favorite mountains and enjoyed warm weather and good conditions. But this storm was likely the one that will close off the Wasatch high country to anyone who isn't a serious backcountry skier or mountaineer for the rest of the season. I had traveled out to Utah with Grand Canyon gear — ever the optimist — and wasn't well equipped for winter conditions in the mountains. But I had rain gear so we set out on Thursday for a peaceful and sleety hike to Desolation Lake in Big Cottonwood Canyon. I enjoyed the brisk weather and time with my dad. 

By Friday we were feeling ambitious and decided to check out the conditions on Mount Timpanogos, starting from Aspen Grove near Sundance Ski Resort. We should have known better, given we tried this route last year around Thanksgiving and discovered that it's not doable under snow cover given the steepness of this aspect. But I was hopeful that the recent snow was just a dusting and we'd be able to follow the summer trail. 

Starting out around 8:15 a.m., temperatures were in the low 30s and it looked like it would be a fabulous bluebird day. 

A low fog moved in but the sun continued to needle through, highlighting a fading but diverse pallet of fall colors. 

The snow cover quickly became deeper as we gained elevation, and was already windblown enough that drifts frequently buried the trail. Soon the steep switchbacks were entirely hidden underneath a smooth, powdery snow slope, climbing at 35- to 45-degree angles, sometimes steeper. The powder snow didn't consolidate underneath our feet and we had a lot of difficulty gaining traction as we crawled up the slope on our hands and knees. Of course it didn't take long to lose the route. And from this aspect of Timpanogos, you really have to stick to the route because everything else is a cliff. We ended up right back where we were last year, somewhere around 9,500 feet altitude, staring up at the cliffs in bewilderment and declaring a dead end. 

I've never hiked to Timpanogos from Aspen Grove, even in the summer, so I didn't know where the route was. But after observing the rim earlier, I had a sense that it was likely cut into a more open drainage to the right, and I was determined to find a way over there, "just to look and see." I punched a trench up this near-vertical gully and then picked my way along the base of an imposing cliff band. Although I told my dad I'd return after my scouting trip, he followed my tracks along the meandering and sometimes precarious route. Later, we would look up at this spot from below and be flabbergasted at how we managed to pick our way through that section; it all looked like cliffs. But I never sensed it was too dangerous (not enough snow cover for avalanches), and sure enough we did find our way back to the discernible outline of a switchbacking trail. 

 Of course, even trail travel wasn't easy, with shin-deep snow drifted to thigh-deep in sections. We crested the rim of the cliffs and reached the Emerald Lake basin, where the trail was still nearly impossible to follow. So we just punched tracks over hidden boulders and stumbled frequently.

Meanwhile, snow was ripping off the Timpanogos summit at an alarming rate. When I lived in Juneau, I learned how to gauge summit wind speeds by observing the movement of clouds streaming off the ridge. I'm rusty on this skill, but based on past experience I'd say it was easily blowing 50 to 60 miles per hour up there. And it was not warm. My Camelback valve and hose froze outside my coat, indicating temperatures below freezing at that elevation. Even in the relative protection of the basin, the wind blew 20 to 30 miles per hour, and windchills cut through to the core. 

I'd just spent the past month doing nightly sauna training and biking in 80-degree heat just so I'd be well acclimated in case it was a hot year in the Grand Canyon. All of that preparation did me exactly no good here in the Wasatch. These were full winter conditions, complete with fierce wind and sugary snow. My gear was not great — Hoka trail-running shoes and a single pair of Drymax socks on my feet, a single pair of fleece gloves that was neither water nor windproof on my hands, and an old rain coat instead of a real winter shell. But I had a great new Patagonia primaloft puffy that I'd recently acquired for Alaska, and I was very grateful to have that piece. Because my torso was toasty warm, my extremities managed to stay relatively comfortable. My dad struggled a bit more with his hands and feet, and had to break out the handwarmers. 

We climbed above Emerald Lake Basin to the edge of the cliffs over the Timpooneke basin, 500 feet below. The first 200 feet are a sheer drop, and the mountain tumbles steeply into them. In the summer there's a good trail carved into this rim, but it was entirely obscured by wind-loaded powder. Sometimes we be flailing around in waist-deep drifts, only to have the next step be onto slippery, ice-coated rocks covered in about an inch of polished snow crust. Meanwhile, the sideslope became steeper, the cliffs grew closer, and both my dad and I were nervous. At this point the saddle wasn't far, and we were nearly as high in altitude, but I had strong doubts we'd want to continue to the summit. "The windchill is going to be zero degrees or lower up there," I reasoned, "and the wind is probably so strong that we'll feel like we're getting blown off the mountain." Continuing this sketchy traverse where any slip on hidden ice would likely mean a 500-foot death plunge, just to reach a saddle where we'd turn around right away, did not seem worth it. My dad asked if I was disappointed that we missed a summit yet again. Hell no. "I've had enough terror hiking this summer," I told him.

We ate a quick and uncomfortable lunch in the little hut above Emerald Lake. The back wall, the one facing the wind, was half blown off and the shelter provided little protection from the brutal windchill. "Just think," I said to my dad. "Right about now we'd be at Phantom Ranch, sitting in the shade in 80-degree sunshine and sipping on fresh lemonade. But the Grand Canyon shut down so instead we're here!" I'm not sure he found this as humorous as I did. He didn't laugh. 

Luckily, we found the real trail to follow downhill, so the descent was uneventful. The cold wind only picked up in strength as we lost elevation, making me feel grateful we didn't attempt to climb higher. 

It is gorgeous, this mountain and its surrounding valleys. 

Oh, Timpanogos. You win again.

Timpanogos was the first mountain I ever climbed, back in the summer of 1995. I haven't been back to the top since 2000. But I will return someday. Dad says I should try visiting during a proper summer month, the time of year when one can run to the top on a nice, smooth trail. But I do enjoy the challenges of the shoulder seasons, even if they shut me down time and time again. 

Day touring the Diablo Range

You know what I really love? Bike touring!

Sure, purists will argue that unless a cyclist has camping gear strapped to their frame, or at least plans to spend one whole night away from their own bed, their ride is not a tour. But the way I look at it, bicycles are the ideal exploration vehicle, and any ride conducted with exploration in mind takes on the best characteristics of a bike tour: gawking at scenery, connecting geographic puzzles, snacking on potato chips and purple Gatorade on a weathered picnic table in front of some tiny backroad bar. "Day touring" is also a great way to cover some new ground relatively close to home, that one might overlook if planning a longer trip.

Just a few weeks after his double 200-milers in Europe, Beat was already jonesing for a long trail run, so he signed up for the Diablo 50K on Saturday. I was emphatically not interested in running 50 kilometers so soon after being severely ground down by my own Alpine adventures. However, I saw an opportunity to embark on a ride I've wanted to try for more than a year now — linking up the two most prominent mountains in the East Bay — Mount Diablo (3,864 feet) and Mount Hamilton (4,196 feet.) It's difficult to do this without riding at least 100 miles, so I took advantage of the one-way opportunity. With little prior experience in most of that area, I solicited the help of Strava Route Builder to design a route. In a matter of minutes and just a few clicks, I had a map linking "Strava preferred" popular cycling segments, as well as the total distance, elevation profile, and even the estimated moving time based on my own past cycling stats, along with a .gpx track to load onto my Garmin eTrex. The ease and usefulness of this tool is impressive. I have been a Strava skeptic in the past, but with this tool I am fully on board. Well done, Strava.

Several friends were also running the Diablo 50K, including Jochen who was visiting with his wife and baby after moving to Shanghai a couple of years ago. Beat and I headed out the night before to visit our friend Steve and spent the night at his mom's house in Concord to avoid the long drive first thing in the morning. There were several other familiar faces at the race start — quite the early-morning social gathering. Once there, I was filled with FOMO about not running this race —perhaps a good sign that I'm turning around on my resolve to quit trail running and maybe even endurance racing altogether. (Ha ha, not really. Mostly.)

But once I got on the road, regret about skipping the race dissolved into stoke about the flow and ease of two wheels rolling on pavement. I had a lot of new ground to cover and was excited about the possibilities.

There was a big wildfire on Diablo one month ago, and the scars across the hillsides were still fresh. I caught up with several runners at road crossings, including Steve, but just missed seeing Beat. The summit museum was closed for construction, and vehicle traffic was almost nonexistent. Just a solid climbing grade, a blood-pumping effort, and sweeping views. Pure bikey bliss.

As expected, the daytime heat started cranking around 10 a.m. The weather forecast called for temperatures in the mid- to high-80s in the valley, and the air often feels at least 10 degrees warmer in the breezeless oven of these Diablo Range canyons. Beads of sweat formed on my skin even at reasonable biking speeds, and I started to feel grumpy about the prospect of cooking in the sun all day long. However, for nontechnical bike tours I have become fairly good at willfully ignoring minor physical discomforts — thanks to a well-tuned autopilot mode. By the time I descended from yellow rolling hills and farmland of south Diablo into the town of Livermore, I was "in the zone" deep enough that a red traffic light was a jarring sight.

Beyond Livermore was the big unknown — fifty miles of two relatively remote backroads through the heart of this small mountain range. I expected typical California secondary road construction — steep grades, narrow sweepers, hairpin curves, and no shoulder. This road was exactly that, but with the noticeable and almost complete absence of vehicular traffic. There's really just nothing out there for people to drive to — a few ranches, and that's about it. On a Saturday afternoon, I saw about ten cyclists — all in the first five miles — and more motorcycles, perhaps two dozen. Maybe five cars and trucks? In fifty miles of pavement located in close proximity to a metropolis of 7 million people. The road climbed to about 2,000 feet elevation and snaked through a narrow canyon for miles of rolling climbs and descents, swooping curves, and more empty vistas. Road cycling has its pros and cons, but pedaling a winding, open stretch of pavement at full throttle is as close to the sensation of flying as I've experienced. Pure bikey bliss.

The little discomforts did start to stack up, though. My senses were now fully engaged in the excitement of "discovery mode" and thus sharp enough to highlight nagging pains. I left Livermore with three liters of water, but started rationing early when I drank half of my supply before I even hit the top of the ridge. I had some beta that there was a small bar at a road junction leading out to the Central Valley, about 35 miles from Livermore, but had no idea if it was open and didn't feel comfortable relying on it. The air was stiflingly still at climbing speeds, the heat burned straight into my core, and the little sips of tepid water did almost nothing to quench my thirst. Also, I just haven't put in much time in the saddle this summer, and my out-of-shape lower back muscles were sore and spasming. Happily, a little bar called "The Junction" — probably the only service establishment in a 30-mile radius — was open with a few items for sale. The rehydration break did wonders for my deteriorating mood.

But my back soreness was only getting worse, to the point where I did a bicycle version of "downward dog" anytime I had a chance to coast for a while. The legs finally chimed in with "we're tired and done" right when I came to the crux of the whole ride — the climb up East Hamilton. Thanks to a couple of steep rollers it gains nearly 3,000 feet in a scant five miles — a steep lung-buster that would probably be fun with zero-mile legs, but is decidedly crushing on 95-mile legs. A cloud of bickering filled my head. The legs and back said, "We want to walk." I said, "No, this is a road ride. We can't walk." The stomach said, "This is stupid. I want ice cream. And a Slurpee." I couldn't argue with that. But my legs were in near revolt and my lower back was twitching painfully, so I made a deal. "Next bend, we'll walk." Then stomach chimed in. "Walking's too slow. It will take too long. I want a cold drink. And ice cream. Don't be such a pansy." I couldn't argue with that. The legs and back continued to mount protests any time I rounded another bend and didn't stop, but I didn't stop.

The trip odometer clicked over to 100 miles right when I crested 4,200 feet and caught sight of the big white domes of the observatory. Victory! I had conquered Mount Hamilton! The summit came in a rush of relief and satisfaction because I had nearly crushed myself to get there — dizzy, aching, hungry, thirsty, but immensely happy. I often don't dig that deep even when I'm racing, but it felt especially rewarding in this context — a meaningless little victory, but it mattered to me.

I had to resort to stiff, brake-throttling coasting down the first miles of the descent just to recover from the shattering climb, all while stuffing my face with jelly beans because I had really let my blood sugar crash. But once my legs came back around I felt surprisingly strong — proof yet again that the feeling of being broken is usually a wrong assumption pushed by the mind in moments of weakness. The 18 miles down into the Santa Clara Valley followed by 18 "commuter" miles across San Jose passed in what felt like a few minutes. Strava even took me on a pleasant route through the city, following quiet neighborhood streets and connector roads with wide bike lanes. Thanks Strava! Final stats were 135 miles with 11,159 feet of climbing, and 10:16 moving time (Strava estimated 10:09 — impressive accuracy.)

Beat finished his 50K, which had 8,000 feet of climbing and was just as hot, in 6:50. He was fifth overall. And felt good. Of course. He seems to have discovered the secret to near-endless endurance, which I'm still trying to crack.

Now that I've discovered this route building tool, I'm excited about the prospect of designing more new-to-me bike tours and local link-ups. Next up, I'm thinking "A hundred miles of Santa Cruz Mountains" mountain bike tour. Oh, the possibilities. 

I see stars and go weak

Autumn isn't the prettiest season in the Bay Area. The hot, cloudless days of summer have given way to parched hills, crackling brush and dusty trails that mimic a sheet of Teflon coated in corn starch. The leaves of oak trees turn a sickly shade of green; maples might change yellow in November if the leaves don't dry up and fall off first. Even the poison oak, which turns a stunning shade of crimson in the late summer, has started to drop singed leaves that will soon disintegrate to itchy dust. Grass has withered, creeks have dried up, and even the redwoods seem to sag with a certain weariness. Thirst. Autumn is a thirsty season. We're all just waiting for the winter rains to revitalize the trees, green up the hills, and add some tack to these slippery chunder trails.

Revitalization. It feels far away, yet inevitable, like the waning daylight and winter clouds. In September my spirit felt withered; sometimes I'd go to quiet places and ponder the reasons why. The motions were there but the zest for the activities I love was missing. "I'm still recovering," I'd tell myself, but I knew it cut deeper than that. "I met demons out there, in the shadows of those beautiful Alps. They were heartless and cruel, they showed me the worst sides of myself, the apathy and hopelessness and unfocused fear. They brought out the worst in me and I did not vanquish them. No, they won."

So I went through the motions. I did some work. I did some writing. I did some oblivious staring off into space. I'd get out when I could. Some nights when I woke up at odd hours, I'd walk out on the deck, lean over the railing and gaze at stars. Maybe you recall when I wrote a few weeks ago about seeing a shooting star in France and believing that it was a person who had fallen off the mountain? That memory still haunts me. Even though I know it wasn't real. The mind is strange like that.

In the afternoons, I'd embark on my daily exercise — mellow rides or runs. I didn't feel great, and I didn't push it, but I had a strong sense that couch sitting was not going to aid in my recovery. After all, most of the damage was not in my body, but my mind. Going outside for at least a short time every day was the best course of action. So I cranked out some heavy-legged rides, and plodded through the most basic newbie running pains, like IT band soreness and side stitches. The weekend came, and Beat installed a blingy new drivetrain on the Fatback, so of course I had to go for a fat-bike ride. Beat and I rode four and a half hours over the parched hills, churning up dust and tentatively reintroducing ourselves to loose descents. I cranked Fatback's new teeny-tiny granny gear up a steep hill until I felt dizzy and pukey and had to get off and hike. I made it a little farther than Beat did on his medium-geared singlespeed ... but not much.

"I'm out of shape," I'd shrug. "I'll get it back."

"2013," I remarked to Beat, "has not been my best year for racing." I'd think about this year's races and wonder where they'd left me. I'd chat with friends about training rides and remark that I sometimes regretted having such a thorough record of my routine activities. "All of my best times are more than two years old," I'd lament. "I really was a better cyclist back in 2011, and not that much worse of a runner." What's happening? Age? Too much racing? Or am I just losing heart?

Today after a productive but mentally exhausting morning of writing, I decided to head out an hour early on the road bike. With about three hours to burn, I opted to pedal a favorite loop, from home up Highway 9, along Skyline Drive to Page Mill and back. The ride is about 34 miles with 3,700 feet of climbing. It's a climby loop with bone-shaking chipseal and a hairpin descent, and consistently beautiful even amid the bland hues of autumn. I used to ride this route frequently when I first moved to California in 2011, but it's become more of a once-a-month-or-less outing these days. As I spun along Foothill Boulevard, I noticed my legs felt peppy today. Maybe peppy is not the right word, but they felt a bit less like chunks of cement. I rolled along the shoreline of what was once Stevens Creek Reservoir but is now a stagnant puddle amid a cracked mudflat, and reflected on memories of the route. "Back in 2011 I use to ride in the rain. There was sleet, actual sleet, on Skyline, remember that? Oh, I miss the rain here. It needs to rain."

My best time on the whole loop was something in the low 2:20s. I remembered that, and I wondered how much longer it would take me to ride the route today. But as I spun up the Mount Eden climb, that tiny little voice that I so seldom listen to — I'll call her my competitive spirit — said, "Screw 2011 Jill and her strong cycling legs. We could ride faster if we wanted to."

And that was that. It was on! I had soft-pedaled most of first six miles, so I'd have to make up some time. The Mount Eden descent is mostly broken pavement, but it was as good of a place as any to lay on the throttle. There was one bucking bounce that nearly launched my body skyward, but soon enough I was settling into the 2,500-foot climb to the top of Skyline Drive.

I tried to hit that sweet spot of efficient climbing, where a bit of bile burns in my throat but I don't have to resort to open-mouth breathing. It felt like I reached the crest in no time, and then there was the chipseal to contend with. My wrists won't soon forgive me, and there were two pavement crack bounces that convinced me I'd squeezed all of the air out of my tubeless rear tire (thankfully I did not.) But I ignored the rough surface and throttled that rolling traverse before turning onto Page Mill. Last weekend there was tons of loose gravel on Page Mill, and rangers have told me horror stories about peeling injured and bloody road bikers off the pavement, so I took the descent easy. But back on Foothill it was on again, cranking the big ring past a long line of backed-up rush hour traffic. Back at my home intersection, I hit stop on my watch and looked at it for the first time since I consciously started "racing." 2:17:41!

At home I did some digging in Garmin Connect and concluded that 2:17 is a new PR, possibly my first "frequently ridden cycling route" PR of 2013. Of course I had to go upload my track to Strava to check my status against the geeky Strava'ing subgroup of the Bay Area road cyclist community. Moved up to ninth on the popular Highway 9 climb segment. That's definitely an improvement over 2011 Jill's standing, I'm certain. Yay. Another small victory in the battle of matter over mind. Sometimes all it takes is acting strong to feel strong, which in turn leads to becoming strong.

The wind eventually sweeps the withered remnants of autumn away. Winter is coming. :)

PTL video

La Petite Trotte à Léon — The long way around Mont Blanc from Jill Homer on Vimeo.

Beat carried a GoPro camera during the La Petite Trotte à Léon last month, and filmed a few segments of his race. He definitely took his camera out during some pretty times, and his footage shows just how spectacular this route is. There are hints of the brutality as well. I compiled some of his footage into a quick five-minute video to show to friends at a party tonight. The link to the video is above.

Back in the saddle again

I watched Leah disappear up the Bobcat Trail on another cross-training interval and felt my own spike of determination. "Okay, legs, we can do this!" Middle ring, head down, brow furrowed, mash mash mash. Within seconds every muscle fiber in my legs seemed to be quivering, as though they'd never pedaled a bike before. Lactic acid flushed in and I stood out of the saddle, spinning chunks of gravel into the air. Big effort. No results. Leah floated up the hill and I floundered like a beached walrus. "Remember how I was complaining in August about losing my top end fitness?" I'd told her earlier. "Well, I'm pretty sure I don't even have a middle ring right now."

I still tried to ride hard. Being out of shape is not so bad, especially if you are riding bikes. It was just over a week ago that I ended a long mountain biking drought, and ever since it's been like being a new cyclist again — slow, awkward, and having the time of my life. After a three-hour ride in the Marin Headlands chasing my cyclocross-racing friend Leah and her big-ring fitness, my legs are as sore as if I'd run a 50K, but the smile on my face is sincere. I missed bikes.

For our evening San Francisco/Marin outing, I took my old Surly Karate Monkey out for her first dirt spin in many months. I've felt guilt that my trusty Tour Divide bike now does little more than languish on the porch, but I've been reluctant to get rid of her. My sister mentioned she was interested in getting a bike, and I offered to bring "Kim" out to live with her in Utah — that way she's is still in the family, and if Lisa ever wants to get rid of the bike, I'll just take her back. I just can't part with this bike. Wednesday's ride was a reminder why. While Kim has been through a number of makeovers since she was first built in early 2008, Beat has reclaimed some of her newer parts to build up newer bikes. In his latest effort to bring her back to functioning order, Beat re-installed many of her original parts — the ancient Reba fork that I purchased used and that has been rebuilt three times, the well-used Shimano XT and XTR derailleurs, the good ol' BB7 mechanical disc brakes, the classic WTB Nanoraptor tires that I'm pretty sure you can sell as a collector's item in some circles these days, and that 29-inch wheel set that I purchased before I knew anything about quality bike parts because it was the cheapest wheel set on eBay, and was only $60, and that I rode through the Tour Divide and all the many, many miles before and since, and those wheels still work. Heavy, but solid.

After every floundering climb in the Headlands yesterday, there was a blissful and grin-inducing descent that reminded me all the ways I still love this bike. Kim's steel frame handles like a dream; nimble and smooth, and the geometry fits me like a glove. If I wasn't so in love with my Moots I would probably put her rigid fork back on and turn Kim into a touring bike, but I'm still partial to the Moots even above my love for my rusty old Karate Monkey. Plus, the wheels are like round bricks. Solid, but heavy.

Fitness, at least my own fitness, seems to fall on a bell curve. On one low end is couch-sitting, and on the opposite low end is extreme overtraining or post-race fatigue. The farther I venture over the ideal "peak" of my own curve, the closer I get to possessing the physical prowess of a couch sitter, at least in terms of power (endurance usually remains solid no matter how weak I feel.) Currently, I'm feeling some pressure from what has become one of my favorite fall traditions, the 25 Hours of Frog Hollow in Hurricane, Utah. It's just over a month away now, which means I've pretty much burnt up all of the post-PTL recovery time I can possibly afford and still do any kind of training for a 25-hour mountain bike race.

The problem is I don't feel anywhere near recovered from PTL — mainly on an emotional level. Even my "little ring fitness" is likely more mental than physical, because I feel so averse to any kind of physical suffering right now. It's hard to admit, but I probably don't have the heart for an all-day-all-night bike effort, and I'm not sure whether I'll get that back in a month's time. But I have good friends planning to make the trip to Utah, and Frog Hollow always promises good times, so I'm torn. Do I go to Frog Hollow and just plan to pleasure cruise, probably riding five or six laps before hunkering down next to the bonfire? Or do I keep my sights on my goal, which is to finally put in a consistent effort and ride more than 13 laps? I know I'll be disappointed in myself if I pick the first option, and also if I go with the second option and crap out mid-way because I lost heart. But I certainly don't want to "DNS" Frog Hollow because it's so much fun and I'm looking forward to seeing good friends. It's a bit of a dilemma.

There are some residual physical effects from PTL as well. I do feel day-to-day fatigue and not all of it can be mental. I also continue to have strange and disconcerting problems with my eyes, including light sensitivity and difficulty focusing. I finally visited an optometrist on Monday. He performed a bunch of tests and concluded that I was probably experiencing effects of excessive eye strain, resulting in fatigue and possible damage to the extraocular muscles. My eyes checked out as otherwise healthy, so he prescribed a pair of reading glasses to reduce strain when working on my computer, with the hope that lessening daily strain will help any damage heal on its own. The optometrist was surprised that my vision issues have lasted this long if eye strain during PTL was really the cause, but he did acknowledge that sleep deprivation sometimes has strange effects on the brain, which can extend to brain activity required for eye-muscle coordination and proper focusing.

I will say that one body part I never expected to injure running is my eyes. I pick up the reading glasses on Friday and I hope they help.

But I am happy to be back in California, riding bikes and spending quiet afternoons working on projects again. Travel is amazing, but it's nice to have a comfortable, familiar space to come home to.

Shadowing the Tor des Geants

Ah, the Aosta Valley. An idyllic strand of old-world villages and modern adventure hubs woven together beneath the towering spires of the Italian Alps. What better place could there be to revive tired legs and splintered spirits? As we boarded an early-morning flight from Dusseldorf back to Geneva, I was still feeling broken from PTL. Still, I hoped some good, old-fashioned mountain awesomeness would propel me through a week of intensive race crewing and active sight-seeing.

Then, of course, there's Beat. Crazy, crazy Beat. I used to believe we had similar levels of passion and drive for this sort of stuff, but his crazy is many notches beyond mine. While I was still wondering if I would find the heart and strength to climb to the top of just one col in the Italian Alps, Beat was setting out to march over 25 of them in the 200-mile, 80,000-feet-of-climbing Tor des Geants. It would be his fourth such trip around the highline of the Aosta Valley, and his second PTL/TdG double-header.

The Tor des Geants starts and ends in downtown Courmayeur, an Italian village at the tip of the Aosta Valley and base of Monte Bianco. Courmayeur reminds me of a medium-sized Colorado mountain town (like Telluride) but with old-world flavor: Stone buildings, cobblestone streets, and sheep farmers on the outskirts of town. Every street corner has a restaurant with incredible pizza and/or gelato, and every major street seems to end at the trailhead of some brutally steep and fantastically beautiful trail. I love Courmayeur and was thrilled to spend a whole week there, even under semi-broken circumstances. The TdG was slated to launch at the delightfully civilized hour of 10 a.m. Sunday morning (and didn't actually start until closer to 10:20 a.m. — gotta love the Italians.) About 750 runners started the 330-kilometer journey under light drizzling rain and temperatures in the high 50s.

Our friend from Colorado, Daniel Benhammou, visited Courmayeur over the weekend to hang out and watch the race start on Sunday. Daniel was Beat's PTL partner in last year's race, and was all set to be part of Beat's team this year before a death in his family prevented him from racing. He was in Europe on business and still bummed about missing PTL, so his trip to Courmayeur was filled with what adventure types call "FOMO" (fear of missing out.) It was fun to spend the day with him and absorb some of his stoke about the Tor des Geants. Sadly, I was still full of grump and spent entirely too much time trying to convince Daniel that I had no fun at all at PTL. As we drove up the canyon to La Thuile to meet Beat at the first checkpoint, I gestured toward the high ridge where Ana, Giorgio, and I separated during PTL, and then pointed out Elevaz, the village where I emerged from my psychotic meltdown. Still, Daniel was unconvinced by my assertions that PTL was a terrible experience. "Ah, you loved it," he teased me. "Give it some more time. You'll want to come back next year."

No. No. No.

Daniel and I parked in La Thuile and started wending our way up the canyon trail, which ascended a steep rim beside a series of waterfalls. We thought we'd climb most of the way to the pass before returning to meet Beat, but thanks to a lot of dawdling on both of our parts, Beat caught us before we even left the last village. I thought he was making great time for the first 30 kilometers, but he looked rough and said he wasn't feeling well. A chest cold and accompanying congestion and pain was bothering him quite a bit, and he was generally just run down after PTL. Well, of course. But these kinds of physical setbacks are just par for the course for Beat these days. He felt downtrodden, but not hopeless.

Daniel and I followed Beat on the little 1,200-meter climb to Rifugio Deffeyes (because in TdG, 4,000-foot-plus ascents are also just par for the course.) Thunderstorms battered us with fierce rain and hail. We could see them approaching the way you can in the Rocky Mountains, and Daniel, with all of his Colorado experience, was great at guessing how many minutes away the thunderstorm was, and just how bad the cold deluge would be. Daniel also wore shorts and a T-shirt the entire time, and chatted breezily in French with passing hikers.

As Beat continued higher into the storm, Daniel and I treated ourselves to refreshments at the rifugio. Two wonderful cappuccinos and wild blueberry pastries, served in a hut accessible only by foot and helicopter, cost only eight euros. I love Italy. By the time we left, Daniel was shivering and ready to admit he was actually very cold and wet. We ended up all but running down the steep descent as Daniel pushed to warm up and I pushed to keep up. As we descended, we encountered my PTL partner Ana, who was also nutty enough to start the TdG. She said her blisters were worse than bad, and she was "suffering." I felt a tinge of regret. "Why do we do this to ourselves?" I wondered, mostly about Beat and Ana. But I was nowhere near their position, and I couldn't begin to answer that question for them. I wrapped my arms around Ana and told her about the amazing blueberry pastries and warmth at the rifugio. It was, sadly, all I could do.

That night I stayed out past 2 a.m. to meet Beat at the first life base, Valgrisenche, about fifty kilometers into the TdG. He was still grappling with chest pain, and because of that I was nervous about him marching into what promised to be a cold, rainy, and windy night. While Beat was catching a few hours of sleep at the life base, there was a rescue effort for a Chinese competitor who had been traveling a few hours behind Beat. The man fell and hit his head on the rocks while negotiating a steep descent in the rain. He later died of his injuries — the first fatality in the TdG. The sad accident cast a somber tone over the race. Although I'd overheard the frenzied tone from some of the volunteers at Valgrisenche (in Italian, which I don't understand), I didn't learn about the death until the following morning in Cogne, when another volunteer led me to believe they'd suspended the race (they didn't.)

I drove out to Cogne early because I wanted to embark on the climb to Col Loson, which is my favorite section of TdG (that I've seen.) The trail ascends from 5,000 feet altitude in Cogne all the way up to 11,000 feet at the pass on mostly reasonable grades (with the exception of 1,000 feet of near-vertical hell), and has incredible views the entire way. Thanks to the late night at Valgrisenche, I'd only slept about four hours after becoming accustomed to ten to twelve hours of sleep every day in Germany. The first hour of the climb was especially rough, and it made me ponder how exactly Beat was managing this huge undertaking. When I met him just below the pass he was smiling. And running! He was feeling so much better after that second frigid night on the mountains. I was baffled.

Crewing for a race like TdG can be extremely time consuming, especially if one integrates hiking into the mix. Each life base generally involves a 90- to 120-minute drive along an expensive toll freeway and narrow canyon roads where oncoming trucks pass at terrifying speeds. Then there's waiting for the runner, meeting the runner, helping the runner wind down, waiting for him to sleep one to three hours, helping the runner pack up, and hiking partway out with him. Add the return drive, and each life base stop generally ate up eight or more hours, not including my own hikes. I'd forgotten how crewing a race like TdG actually doesn't leave much time for eating or sleeping, which was especially difficult to cope with PTL fatigue still weighing on my body and psyche. By the time I met Beat at the third life base, in Donnas, I was fading. "But I can't complain, of course," I told him, because relative to what he was doing, well ...

I hiked with Beat for about 90 minutes beyond Donnas before I had to turn around and drive back to Courmayeur so I could work all through Tuesday night on deadline. During this night, I got quite sick — vomiting, sore throat, and what felt like a fever. But, sigh, no complaints. How was Beat managing all of this?

For Wednesday, I'd invited my friend Gabi, who lives in Zurich, to join me on the trip to the fourth life base, Gressoney. Gabi has participated in TdG twice and had to drop both times due to pulmonary congestion. Last year, TdG doctors pulled her out of the race at Gressoney because of concerns about pneumonia. Gabi had never been beyond that point on the course. "Come out to Italy on Wednesday and we'll hike with Beat to Col Pinter," I told her. Yeah, it's only another 5,000-foot climb, and most of that elevation gain is crammed into a measly three miles. I was still sick, but I did talk Gabi into traveling all the way out there. Time to rally.

Beat, for his part, was only becoming stronger as the miles dragged on. I'd finally gotten some lunch down the hatch (pizza, of course) and felt considerably better as we followed him on the five-kilometer river path out of Gressoney. But as soon as the climb began, both Gabi and I had to work hard to keep Beat's pace. He was moving well and passing a fair number of TdG racers. It was 3 p.m. when we left Gressoney, and cold air was beginning to settle in as the sun sank lower on the horizon. Although skies were clear, temperatures hadn't even skimmed 10 degrees Celsius during the day, and were projected to drop to -5C at night with windchills around -13C. The cold remained for the rest of the race, and the weather seemed to take its toll on runners, who often arrived at life bases looking half-frozen. Beat, of course, took it all in stride. We bid goodbye on Col Pinter, elevation 2,776 meters, and then Gabi and I turned around for the long descent.

As we descended, I tried to explain the disparity in the difficulties of PTL versus TdG. "It's not just the navigational aspect," I said. "That's hard. But it's the terrain that really makes PTL tough to finish. Admittedly I wasn't as fit as I should be, but all the fitness in the world isn't going to help you much unless you have a fair amount of mountain scrambling experience and aren't afraid to move fast on sketchy terrain." Since we were working our way down a pass that had nearly 10,000 feet of elevation change in six miles, Gabi wondered how PTL terrain could possibly be harder. I pointed to the trail we were on. "See how we're on this nice trail. It's steep and loose and rocky, but it's defined; it carves a walkable surface. That's TdG." Then I pointed to the avalanche gully directly to our right, a steep rockslide of boulders and loose scree. "If there was no trail and we had to climb straight up and down that, that's PTL. Not all of PTL, of course. But enough to matter. It's the difference between moving 3 to 4 kilometers an hour with medium effort, like we've been doing, and 1 kilometer an hour at strenuous effort for the same distance and elevation."

Darkness fell by the time Gabi and I reached the river. About a half mile from Gressoney, we encountered Ana, who was traveling with a Canadian woman named Claire. Gabi and I accompanied them for four kilometers back to the base of the climb. Claire was chatty but Ana was quiet, understandably, so we didn't learn much about how she was doing. "I'm curious about how Ana is coping with TdG emotionally," I told Gabi later. "Only because I have more knowledge of what her PTL experience was like compared to Beat's, and honestly, I'm still a bit shell-shocked by the whole thing. I wonder if Ana feels similarly about it, and I wonder what it's like to put herself through it all over again. For sure, Ana is tough. I don't think I've ever met another woman who's so mentally tough."

Gabi and I didn't make it back to Gressoney until 10 p.m. We didn't bring much food with us, and next on the agenda was driving straight to Valtornenche to wait for Beat. I was particularly bummed about no dinner, and Gabi suggested we wander deeper into town. Gressoney is a tiny village whose population can't be more than a few hundred, and September is the Aosta Valley's off-season. Still, we came across a small restaurant that was open until 11 and served reasonably priced fresh polenta and gigantic lettuce, carrot, and tomato mixed salads. Fantastic. I love Italy.

My plan was to park the small rental car at the life base and sleep for a few hours in the back, as there wasn't enough time left before Beat's arrival to drive all the way back to Courmayeur. Unfortunately, I didn't have any blankets or really anything more than a spare coat to stay warm, and the temperature dropped to 1 degree Celsius by the time we arrived in Valtornenche. The TdG doesn't provide accommodations for crew — you're not even supposed to wait in the tents — so we were stuck. I was exhausted and slept for about 40 minutes before I shivered myself awake, but poor Gabi was especially miserable. She decided to go wait in the tent while I stubbornly opted to stay in the car (I'm self-conscious about being unwelcome as a non-racer.) After about 20 minutes I woke up again with completely numb hands and feet. It was concerning enough that I went for a run through the streets to bring the circulation back to my limbs. Then I continued to lie in the car and shiver until Beat arrived at about 4 a.m.

Gabi had planned to stay another night, but when I warned her about another frigid overnight wait at the final life base, Ollomont, she booked the first train back to Zurich on Thursday. I don't blame her; it really was miserable, and I had become ill again, so I wasn't optimistic about embarking on any more hikes. We didn't make it back to Courmayeur until 10 a.m. and I was back on the road to Ollomont at 4 p.m. after more vomiting and little sleep. Honestly, it was brutal. But I had done it to myself.

I expected to arrive at the village of Close around the same time as Beat, but when I looked around the checkpoint, I couldn't find him, and also didn't see him as I sat outside to watch racers come in (as it turned out, he was napping inside at the time.) I decided I must have missed him, so I grabbed my pack and started power-hiking up the next pass, Col Brison. I was nauseated and hiking harder than I should in a hopeful effort to catch Beat. Common sense told me to just turn around as it was getting dark and I was too sick to pleasure hike, but I still held on to the attitude that "I'm only in the Aosta Valley for a few more days so I might as well soak up as much as I can. Rest can happen next week." But Col Brison proved to be my unraveling. By the return trip I felt nine-tenths shattered. As it turned out, Beat had been behind me, and I intercepted him on the steepest part of the pass. Although I felt awful at that point, I decided to join him for some of his climb since my whole intention in going to Close was to hike with him. Beat was also very tired and we climbed in silence for about five minutes before he said, "Wait, am I hallucinating you?" After about 25 minutes I had to turn around so there would be enough time to hike down and drive all the way around this huge mountain to meet him in Ollomont.

The Ollomont stop also kept me out until the pre-dawn hours, and when I returned to Courmayeur at 5 a.m. I was quite ill, yet again. The entire time I was in Italy, I felt like I was operating on meager strands of energy reserves that I'd managed to restock through whatever sleep I could grab. But once those reserves were spent, I was fully spent. By Friday morning I was nearly as bad off as I'd been two weeks earlier when I dropped out of PTL. There had been hopeful plans to join Beat on the final big climb of TdG — the stunning 9,600-foot Col Malatra — but there was really no way to make it happen. Honestly, someone could have offered me a check for $5,000 to climb that pass and I would have regretfully turned them down. My body outright refused and then locked me in the bathroom for good measure. It was impossible.

And then there's Beat. Crazy, amazing Beat. His strength only increased as the long miles and sleepless nights dragged on. His chest cold had improved and his throbbing feet went partially numb, and he started running. He texted me on Friday morning from St. Rhemy a full two hours before I expected him to get there. Over the next six hours, he marched swiftly up Col Malatra and then ran most of the way down, a 6,000-foot descent over 11 miles into Courmayeur. In the final 50 kilometers of TdG, he moved up more than 35 positions in the standings, finishing in 140th place out of 750 starters and 383 finishers. His time of 125 hours, 14 minutes and 19 seconds was his fastest yet. Best of all, he maintained his coveted position as a "senatori" — a competitor who's finished every running of the Tor des Geants. The distinction allows him to bypass the lottery for this race, which is becoming more difficult to enter. As a four-time finisher he swore he wouldn't go back, but that assertion didn't even make it as far as the finish line. He loves the TdG.

I've always been impressed with Beat's endurance capabilities, but until this week, I'm not sure I fully appreciated the extent of how far he can take them. I've long held the belief that for most people, endurance possibilities reach much farther than we realize, and most of our limits are in our minds. I still believe this — in many ways, fear and self-doubt were my most limiting factors in PTL — but that experience, followed with my rough "recovery" week during TdG, cut my hubris about mind over matter down a few notches. A PTL-TdG double finish is a remarkable achievement to the few dozen people who care about these sorts of things, and Beat managed this in the same year he walked 1,000 miles to Nome. He does have a life outside all of this marching through the wilds of Alaska and mountains of Europe, but these adventures make him happy. They really do. I can see that now perhaps more than before, even as I grasp for understanding about *how* he can possibly make it happen.

Ana also finished the Tor des Geants, arriving after 143 hours, 8 minutes, and 2 seconds early Saturday morning. She was 19th out of 38 female finishers, and 255th overall. I was really excited for her as well, and I also don't understand how she did it. But the Italian Alps are incredible, and I think both of them agree it was worth it. As do I.