So this is SoCal

On Friday afternoon, I got in my car and headed south for more than seven hours — through the traffic-clogged corridor of the South Bay, into the dusty fields of the Central Valley, over parched hillsides north of Los Angeles, and through the palm tree boulevards of Pasadena. Darkness set in, and my route climbed up and up this narrow highway called "Rim of the World." A thick fog enveloped the sky, ice slicked the road, and suddenly there were several inches of new snow draped over granite boulders and pine trees. Huh? What is this place?

 My friends from the Canadian Rockies — Keith and Leslie — have been in the state for several weeks. Leslie has been hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, and Keith has been vagabonding around southern California, vaguely training for a summer tour on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. His friend Amber was flying out from Montana this weekend, and Keith invited me to join them for a SoCal bikecation. The timing was good, as I'd been meaning to make a trip to Orange County to visit my sister and her baby daughter, my new niece.

"Sure," I said. I wanted to visit Keith, and I like to ride bikes. I proposed Idyllwild, as that's the only place in Southern California with which I have any trail familiarity. Plans shifted when a friend of Keith's offered up his cabin on Big Bear Lake. The resort town in the San Bernardino Mountains is stone's throw from Los Angeles. And 6,800 feet higher.

The snow fell fast and fierce on Friday. But in true Southern California fashion, it had mostly melted by Saturday, giving way to a beautiful, sunny, hero dirt day. This would be the beginning of a bike (and running!) binge weekend that left me gasping for air and reduced me to a wheezy, congested mess in three days — but with a newfound appreciation for this island of quietness surrounded by ten million people.

 We rode some singletrack and climbed to the top of Grey's Peak, at about 8,000 feet elevation. The pace remained mellow, and we took long breaks to take in the scenery and have multiple lunches.

 Amber went over the bars and was grateful for patches of snow to ice her knee.

 Although biking has been my main training focus, I do have the Ohlone 50K on Sunday, and didn't want two weeks of single-digit mileage leading up to the race. So on top of the day rides, I put in evening trail runs. This was a ten-miler up to Grandview Point and back. The altitude was annihilating; for a route that only gains 1,200 feet in five miles, I felt like I was ascending a steep mountain in the Alps. Trying to inject more oxygen in my blood only left my throat raw and my lips parched. By the next day, I'd have a cold, heavy congestion, and a sore throat. Thanks, SoCal.

 On Sunday we connected with a small group ride from Bear Valley Bikes. When the only other people to show up turned out to be three talented racer types, I got a little panicked (those social anxieties and inferiority issues run deep when they're directly connected to my passions.) But they turned out to be genuinely nice folks who were stoked to show three tourists around their local trails, and rode alongside chatting amicably rather than racing ahead and waiting impatiently at all the intersections. We followed them through miles of snow and mud, and then afterward the shop's owner, Derek, invited us over to his place and cooked buffalo tacos with fresh guacamole. Awesome folks. Give them your business if you're ever in Big Bear Lake.

 The Skyline Trail — it's okay I guess.

 Sunday night, I headed out for another run. I was really breathing poorly at this point, and aimed for a lower section of the Pacific Crest Trail to avoid long climbs. This is height of hiker season around Big Bear Lake, and I saw a dozen thru-hikers on my eight-mile jaunt out and back. They were all just babies — fresh-faced kids just out of college if not high school. I suppose that makes sense. Not many 30-somethings are in a place in their lives to take off and go hiking for five months. I like to imagine thru-hiking a long-distance trail as something I'll do when I'm in my 60s or 70s. I'd love to be a solo old lady with unruly gray hair and a trucker cap, chiseled calves and my trusty trekking poles, and maybe a huge pair of pink Hokas if those are still a thing. Dare to dream.

 On Monday the three of us all set out to do our own thing. I wanted to get a long ride in, but I was really feeling rough at this point, with my congestion, the altitude, and maybe just a touch of overdoing it. Amber was joining the bike shop racers for an epic, but my social anxieties got the better of me and I declared myself not fit to chase them all day. Instead, I drew out a rough loop on a map, and hoped it would take me somewhere neat and maybe not too punishing.

My loop featured a spur up to Butler Peak, which I included because it was a high point on the map (8,500 feet.) As it turned out, the track was fenced off and there was this fantastic fire lookout at the top. It just sat there, perched precariously on a boulder, looking as though a single dislodged pebble could send it tumbling 200 feet down the rocky face. 

 Fire lookout view to the southeast.

 Fire lookout view to the northeast. The wind was ripping up here and it was, like all of the spots I visited in Southern California so far, not warm. I ate a quick lunch and scrambled down the rocks to my bike.

 The rest of my route was tough, sandy, and disconcertingly lonely. I wheezed my way up and down and up and down a long ridge of steep rollers, before descending down, down, down into Green Valley Lake. The entire community seemed comprised of second homes, and there was absolutely no one around on this early season Monday afternoon. There weren't any vehicles parked outside homes, no dogs barking, no signs of life. It had a post-apocalyptic feel that didn't improve as I turned onto another steep, rolling climb back into the mountains, churning up a sandy jeep road and seeing not a single other human for hours. Somewhere not far away live ten million people, and this whole place was eerily empty.

The loop ended up registering 54 miles with 6,700 feet of climbing, but admittedly was tougher for me than the stats would indicate. I am going to go ahead and blame altitude, and hope a return to oxygenated air and recovery from my cold leaves me in better shape for the Ohlone 50K on Sunday. Of course I still got out for a quick spin up Pine Knot trail with Keith and Amber before taking off on Tuesday. Because this is what you do in SoCal — you ride bikes in the cold wind and snowy mud until your lungs hurt, and then you ride some more! 

Bikepacking gear considerations

Here I am near Island Park, Idaho, during the 2009 Tour Divide. I laugh when I see photos of the junk show I hauled around back then. Of course, I laugh at all photos I see of all of my gear set-ups, including my most recent winter tour in Alaska, which was less than two months ago. But this photo has some gems. The aero bars (never used them.) The LED headlight that was connected to a battery pack with eight AAs. Pedal cages. The cheap rain gear that I purchased in a panic in Banff, because until two days before the start, I thought I could get away with a thin softshell pullover. I probably had more than 15 pounds in that backpack alone, as I tended to hoard food and water. I had a 24-ounce aluminum water bottle that I filled every morning, threw in the pack next to my three-liter bladder, hauled around all day, then dumped all the water out and re-filled it in the morning. I don't recall ever actually drinking from that bottle. It was my water insurance policy. Oh, I had an 11-ounce filter as well, and it rained nearly every day of the trip. Although there are lots of ways in which I could still go lighter with bikepacking gear, my top goal is to not be quite as water-obsessed as I was back then. 

Mulling a limited list of gear, knowing I will have to live intimately with my choices for one to four weeks, is always a difficult chore. Some people are perfectly content with ripped T-shirts and sleeping in the dirt. I envy these people. They have an ability to go light without an ultralight mentality, which I admittedly lack. (The reason I continued to use my ancient and heavy Thermarest after Cady scratched up the newer one — because it worked. Most gear does work. Why fuss over it?) Luckily, Beat is gear-savvy and does the research, and because of this I still find my way to superior items that actually meet my needs. Otherwise, there's a strong chance that I'd be standing here in 2015 with a rusty 2008 Karate Monkey and a lot of other stuff I'd been forcing through the motions for six-plus years. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) 

My current bike is a Moots Mooto-X YBB 29" titanium softtail. I've been riding it long distances for three years now, and would be perfectly happy to still be riding this frame in 2020 if the fates allow. I love this bike. I'd still say the same about my Karate Monkey, though.

I use bags from Revelate Designs. I was lucky to get a custom frame bag for my Moots before Eric stopped making them. He always includes a few modifications to make them extra "Jill-proof," because I am notoriously hard on my gear. Revelate gear is durable and light. The frame bag is still holding up well after three years of near-continuous use. Can't ask for better than that. My packing habits are basic — sleeping gear in the handlebar bag, clothing and spare tube(s) in the seatpost bag, food in the frame bag, repair items and tools in a small top-tube bag, and water and small items in a backpack. 

Here are a few other items I'm currently considering. (Decisions are still being made in regard to all of this:)

Sleep system:

Mountain Hardwear Phantom 32 sleeping bag— This is the same bag I used in the 2009 Tour Divide, and on many summer camping trips since. It still feels perfectly comfortable in temperatures in the 30s, and I don't have a compelling reason to upgrade.

Outdoor Research Helium Bivy — Something I just ordered, but am pretty sold on. This bivy sack received good reviews for its waterproof/breathable capabilities. It also has the single pole that could vastly increase quality of sleep. I need something I can just throw on the ground and crawl into when I am exhausted, without fussing with a bunch of guylines and stakes (This pretty much applies to every camping trip I go on, not just multiday races.)

Thermarest NeoAir sleeping pad — Finally broke down and got one of these. I've been using some old-generation Thermarest for too many years now (think 2006 or 2007. I actually used a newer one during the 2009 Tour Divide, but my cat destroyed that pad.) The NeoAir is considerably more comfortable and warmer than my old inflatable pad, and quite a bit lighter. I suppose that's not a surprise.

Clothing:

Patagonia Capilene 2 Zip Neck — This shirt has become my go-to top/base layer for just about every long event I've completed in the past three years. It wicks moisture well, and the fabric dries very fast. It has good thermal capacity for cold, but it's also highly breathable, so it's reasonably comfortable in hot weather as well. The zip neck is good for venting, and long sleeves provide the kind of sun protection that I require. Although I'd like to go with short sleeves, my skin seems to absorb light in a way that leaves me feeling fried at the end of the day no matter how much sunscreen I apply. Over the years, I've learned I'm better off covering myself with clothing, and trying to vent heat as best as I can.

Pearl Izumi Aurora Splice 3/4 tights — Although I am as yet undecided, I am considering going chamois free for the long ride. It's a difficult decision, because while I like a bit of padding for my backside, I've learned I cannot wear a dirty or wet chamois for long periods of time without consequences that range from unpleasant to full-blown rash/infection. These consequences have nothing to do with my backside, which can actually weather the saddle spanking okay. I rarely have issues with chaffing, and I've never had a real saddle sore (at least what the Internet defines as a saddle sore.) I did, however, sustain a large and bulbous blister on my left cheek during the Freedom Challenge last year, after a particularly rocky stretch. I wore my thermal running tights, with no chamois, for about 75 percent of that ride. This solidified a belief that for me, chamois are nice, but not necessary on a long ride. I like the idea of 3/4 tights because, again, sun protection, and these have venting mesh behind the knee. I could combine these with calf compression sleeves and knee warmers for a warmer tight in cold weather.

North Face Thermoball Hoodie — Love this jacket. Warm when it's wet. Warm when it's dry. Warm when it's slightly cool and you're puttering around camp. Makes a great pillow.

Skinfit full-zip rain pants — I can't overemphasize how important full-zip is to me. I figure since I'm going fairly light on tights, I'll end up wearing these on cold days as well as rainy days. I also use these in winter racing and find them very capable in the wind-blocking department, which is really all that matters to me in a rain pant. (I don't think rain pants can keep you dry, especially on a bicycle, after many hours of pedaling through deluge and mud. No one will ever convince me there are non-imaginary pants that can do this.)

Skinfit primaloft mittens — These are just as light as any of my thin fleece mittens, they're warmer, more water-resistant, and have a flap that can be pulled back to expose fingers when dexterity is needed. They fit well over bike gloves. I'm considering combining these with a pair of Mountain Laurel Designs eVent shells for wet weather.

Hats and mittens are two areas where a little bit can go a long way in terms of keeping one warm and happy in wet weather. I have no idea what the weather will be like this year, only my memories that despite a multitude of winter endurance experiences, my closest brushes with scary hypothermia during an endurance event happened during thunderstorms in the Tour Divide, in Colorado and New Mexico, respectively (so no shipping stuff home from Montana.) I'm thinking about my go-to Mountain Hardwear Dome Beanie for a hat.

I haven't decided on a rain jacket — whether to bring my go-to Outdoor Research Mentor Jacket (like the Capilene top, it's a winter thing that's followed me everywhere for more than four years) or something lighter. It's hard to justify the heaviness of the Gore-Tex shell, but I know it's going to keep me happy in wet and windy conditions, and sometimes that's what matters most.

DryMax socks — These are like gold. Pure gold. For your feet. They really do hold away moisture, which is just as important for cyclists who want to avoid trench foot unpleasantness, as it is for runners trying to avoid blisters.

Acorn fleece socks — For cold days, and camp.

Integral Designs vapor barrier socks — Every since I recovered from frostbite six years ago, I have to be careful with my feet. Even if temperatures are not below freezing, I can sustain more nerve damage if they remain too cold for too long. These are a lightweight insurance policy against bad feet.

Montrail Mountain Masochist trail-running shoe — I know I've addressed the reasons why I don't use clipless pedals on this blog before. It has to do with the aforementioned frostbite damage that limits my tolerance of tight or stiff shoes. Also, I like to move my feet around on the pedals. It's another technique I use to relieve pressure from other areas such as my knees and calves. Long-distance cyclists are always raving about their multitude of hand positions on their handlebars, while locking their feet into a single position for the duration. This, I don't quite understand. The best way to relieve any nagging issue is to try moving in a slightly different way.

Miscellaneous: 

Sawyer Squeeze water filter — This was recommended to me by Mary, and seems like a great option for fast water treatment. Only three ounces, and the pouch can be used for reserve water storage. (I'm hoping to maintain a carry capacity of 5-6 liters, for a couple of long, hot, and dry stretches.)

Salomon Agile 12 backpack — This is a low-profile pack that's large enough to pack six liters of water if necessary, comfortable, and has huge side pockets for easy access to miscellaneous items such as sunscreen, salt tabs, snacks, the occasional comfort bottle of Pepsi, and camera.

Buff — Has so many applications, from blocking sun on the neck, to keeping ears warm, to mopping up water that's pooled on a sleeping bag.

There are of course other small items, tools, spare parts, and bits of clothing, not included in this list. I don't consider myself a gear expert by any stretch of the imagination, but I know what keeps me happy, and what's going to give me the courage to approach a mountain pass when it's dark and cold and raining. It's still a tough decision to make.

As always, input is appreciated. 

260-mile getaway

Despite all of their (understandable) busyness, I finally coaxed Beat and Liehann into a weekend bikepacking trip. My idea was to ride one of the few bike-legal sections through the Santa Lucia Mountains, from the Arroyo Seco Gorge to Cone Peak and back. The route was 60 miles each way through sparsely traveled country, often surrounded by "big W" wilderness, big scenery and tough climbs. I've been to all of these places before, but when I consider all of my favorite aspects of bike touring, I can't think of a better overnight route close to home. There isn't a single compromise mile; it's 100 percent awesome. 

 Since I still have the Tour Divide on my mind, I decided to extend the shakedown trip by leaving home on Friday morning and riding to the trailhead. I packed quite the luxury set-up: Big Agnes Seedhouse 2 tent, brand new Thermarest NeoAir (love), a puffy coat, and a stove. I froze three liters of water to a solid block of ice, and put a large ham sandwich in my backpack "cooler." I was satisfied with my creature comforts until I set out into the muggy morning air with temperatures rising into the 90s, and felt my legs balk on the first tiny bump of a climb up Mount Eden Road. I reminded myself that the transition to touring weight is the hardest part — after just one day of it, I forget what it's like to ride unloaded and stop caring. But those first miles ... ugh. As I crawled up the John Nicolas Trail with a million flies buzzing around my face and drowning in pools of sweat on my skin, I considered turning around and just driving out to Arroyo Seco with Beat and Liehann on Saturday. "You don't need to practice being miserable," I reasoned. (But actually, for best mental fitness, I believe you sometimes do.)


Comfort levels increased substantially as I traversed the Santa Cruz Mountains and dropped toward Monterey Bay. Thick fog engulfed the coast, and a strong west wind aided in my swift transition from sweltering to shivering. It was actually quite cool, but instead of adding layers, I decided to relish in the sensation of "just being cold." Fog reduced visibility to a few hundred meters, and I made another decision to keep my mind in the present and observe everything around me. I pedaled hard against the buffeting wind, feeling warm blood surge beneath cold skin and watching the world go by. Near Sunset Beach I contemplated the ornate adornments on luxury homes and the austerity of Steinbeck-era farmhouses next door. I avoided Highway 1 as much as possible by winding along coastal farm roads, where I watched beach grass, lupine, and stalks of unidentified produce dancing in the wind. Busloads of farm workers were scattered across the fields, huddled in hoodies. I know little about farm work, and I wondered about their lives. Did they feel tired and cold and hungry right now? Where will these buses take them tonight?

 I arrived in the town of Marina in the late afternoon, where I ate half my sandwich and contemplated my next move. I thought rather than travel up the Salinas River Valley, I could cut directly into the mountains via Fort Ord National Monument. It was a strange decision to make, because the west wind was now directly at my back and would have carried me almost effortlessly most of the way to Arroyo Seco. Instead, I turned an about-face at the trailhead and pedaled into the wind toward more distance and a lot more climbing.

 There were already nearly a hundred miles on my trip odometer. "Just going out for an evening ride," I thought as I powered up the first steep climb. Often I have the normal reaction of feeling depleted after a long day in the saddle, but occasionally I'm able to draw stamina from my efforts, and feel more energized as I go. These days are rare, and are almost entirely based on attitude, but the effects are exhilarating. I feel like a perpetual motion machine built to ride bikes, generating energy and observing the world as it goes by.

 Since I didn't know a best route through Fort Ord, I mostly followed Sandy Ridge fire road, which was steep and relentless but promised to lead me to the other side. Even with a hundred miles on my legs, some of the singletrack diversions were too enticing to pass up, and I found myself flowing through the manzanita with no idea where I was going. Steep ascents pulled at my tired legs and sand gobbled momentum, and I was smiling. "Just out for an evening ride."

 I reached a dead end at Laguna Seca, where there was some kind of car race happening on Friday night, and the routes out of the park were closed. A trail runner gave me directions to descend a few miles out of the way. Once I was back on track, I found myself in a renewed battle with my legs, which balked at climbing Laurels Grade Road. In their defense, it was a busy road with rush-hour Friday night traffic, and my attitude was not feeding them the energy they needed. This all turned around again after I escaped the tempting aromas and chairs of restaurants in Carmel Valley, and pedaled into the quiet canyon. A nearly full moon rose into the pink sky, and soon I was riding through spooky oak forests shimmering with silver light. It was a beautiful evening and I was as happy as could be — almost disappointed to finally arrive at my destination with 138 miles and 12,600 feet of climbing behind me. No matter, I still had tomorrow to ride all day, again. Yay for bikepacking!


 Overnight, I awoke in my tent, drenched in sweat, heart racing, in an involuntary panic because I was so desperately thirsty. I've never had a midnight thirst quite like that. It was intense. I drank most of the water in my Camelback, and then I drank all of it, even though it was probably more than a liter and would cause me to get up two more times in the night to pee. Even though I felt great for most of the later miles of my Friday ride, I did not take good care of my body — didn't replenish the salts, and didn't drink nearly enough water (I basically quit after the ice water ran out, and consumed fewer than three liters total.) I'd pay for this on Saturday, waking up with a swollen face and feeling a bit like a desiccated piece of road kill.

Liehann and Beat met me at the campground just after 9 a.m., when I was still trying to choke down a package of instant potatoes and pack up my stuff. We finally hit the trail just before 10 a.m., and it was already a scorcher of a day. Beat would see 37 degrees Celsius (98.6 F) on his thermometer later that afternoon. I felt rough, but I'd done my best to rehydrate and was still filled with enthusiasm. I couldn't wait to see what Beat and Liehann thought of this route.

"Wow, this route pays out right at the beginning," Liehann exclaimed as we pedaled beside the steep drop-offs of Arroyo Seco Gorge.

 "I love the Ventana," I said multiple times as we rounded corners to bigger views. The Ventana Wilderness is a rugged and remote place that is filled with things that scare me — rattlesnakes, poison oak, mountain lions, ticks, stinging nettle, thorny bushes, a million trillion sticker burrs, limited water, loose rocky terrain, and largely unmaintained trails that put you into the thick of all of these things, bushwhacking and scrambling. It's a place where rip-resistant fabrics and sturdy hiking boots are mandatory, in my opinion, and not a great place for delicate trail-runner types who like flow trails and gobbling up miles, and are allergic to all sorts of insects and green things. (I'm describing myself.) For these reasons, I mostly just love the Ventana from afar while scheming about backpacking trips that will be made "someday."

 Still, Indians Road is a great place to explore the periphery of the Ventana. Indians "Road" is former jeep track that was closed several years back, and is now in the process of being swiftly reclaimed by the mountains. This makes for great mountain biking terrain.

 On some maps, Indians Road is still a road. Beat told me that our Subaru's navigation system directed him to take this road (with frequent sections like the rockslide pictured above) into the campground. "Subie gave you some bad information," I said.

 It took some time, but the more food and water I got in my system, the better I felt. That's basically how it works. Fuel in, energy out, with attitude as the catalyst — assuming all of the moving parts are in good functioning order. I know there's more to it than that, but it helps to cling to such simplifications when contemplating something like the Tour Divide.

 The guys work their way around a landslide. This section served to remind me how terrible I still am at carrying my bike, and feel grateful that I'm not headed to South Africa for the Freedom Challenge.

 After Indians Road we made a long, hot, thirsty, hairpin-shaped bend through Fort Hunter-Liggett. From this point (pictured), Cone Peak is less than six miles as the crow flies, and more than fifty miles by road and trail.

 I still maintain that this route is 100 percent awesome, as the paved roads of the military reservation have their charm. There's almost no vehicular traffic, even on a beautiful weekend in May, except for the occasional motorcycle or Humvee. The route rolls through golden hills and the dappled shade of oak forests. And there are interesting sights, such as an urban warfare training area with full-scale model buildings and mangled cars. Dirt routes do criss-cross the military reservation. However, it's not only illegal, but idiotic to venture onto them. I wouldn't want to stumble into a military exercise that results in mangled cars.

 From Nacimiento Fergusson Road, we veered onto the Cone Peak fire road and reached the trailhead about an hour and a half before sunset. The timing was ideal for hiking the remaining 2.25 miles of wilderness trail to the peak beneath a full moon and the best light of the day.

 After spending a scorching day inland, it was nice to return to the coast and cooler evening air. We were too high for the sea breeze, though. Cone Peak rises 5,155 feet above sea level, less than three miles from the ocean. It's one of the steepest grades of ocean to summit in the contiguous United States. Big Sur is directly below, and I wonder whether people driving along Highway 1 ever think about the wild landscape beyond those famous cliffs.

 I enjoy imagining myself as an unstoppable bike machine, but I have to admit, it sure felt good to get out of the saddle and stretch out the legs for a while. My hamstrings felt compressed after so much time on the bike, and my left Achilles and another tissue on top of my left foot where quite sore from what Beat calls "extreme forefoot pedaling" (apparently I pedal the way I run.) I think I developed this style as compensation for knee pain, but I need to adjust my saddle and spend less time pedaling on my toes. Shakeout rides help me learn this stuff.

The view north from Cone Peak. Indians Road is along that ridge to the far right. In fact, I suspect you'd even see the road cut if I had a better zoom lens. Because we're not crows (or sturdy-booted backpackers) we had to ride and walk 60 miles with nearly 11,000 feet of climbing to connect these two points.

On Sunday morning, we reversed our roundabout route, enjoying a long descent into the upper reaches of the coastal fog, and then back into the hot inland valley.

 I still took many more photos. I favor loops but enjoy out-and-backs, too. It pays to see the same route from both directions.

We faced a long, steep climb in the early afternoon. I felt much better Sunday than I did on Saturday. The route was easier in this direction, but I also think I managed my recovery much better on Saturday night than Friday. I have Beat to thank for this, as he shared some of the water he hauled up from the valley to our dry camp at 3,800 feet. (I only had a three-liter capacity, and did have extra in the morning, but I used his water to make hot chocolates and dessert, which he also shared to supplement my 500-calorie Mountain House meal.) The whole self-care dilemma can be a difficult puzzle to solve. Carrying unnecessary weight is not ideal, but at the same time it's probably worse to slowly fall apart from inadequate fueling and recovery. I usually overcompensate, but lately feel like I've come up short in my planning. I could use a refresher before Alaska next year. Tour Divide could be a good teacher in this regard. :)

 We'll see if I continue to dream up justifications for the Tour Divide, or talk myself out of it because I'm a 35-year-old "grownup" who shouldn't aspire to a game where I pretend I'm a perpetual motion machine, quietly observing the world as it goes by. Recently I've read books and essays addressing the notion of finding meaning in "The Age of Productivity," when much of what we call productivity is an illusion. There's a lot I could say that doesn't really belong in a trip report, but as the wonderful Carrot Quinn mused, "What is a life?" I could sit in my apartment and string together words into products that people might give me small amounts of money for, or I could ride my bike and absorb the richness of an experience that requires not much in the way of words or money. What is a life? It will always be a puzzle.

All I know is that riding my bike all day, with the man I love and my friends and by myself, makes me happy. Maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's okay. 

Finding Mars

I admit, during the past week, I have spent a lot of time thinking about the Tour Divide. I blame, in part, a book I've been reading: "Finding Mars" by Fairbanks-based science journalist Ned Rozell. It's one of thirty or so paperbacks I still have on a bookshelf after culling my collection substantially over the past ten years. Since returning from Alaska, I've commenced nightly sauna "heat training." Because I can't read my Kindle in the sauna, I rifled through my bookshelf for old paperbacks to sacrifice to the cause (high heat causes books to fall apart.) I think Rozell's publisher sent me a copy of "Finding Mars" when I was still an Alaska journalist — anyway, I've had this book for four or more years, and assumed I'd already read it. Somehow I must have overlooked it, because while this "second reading" hasn't jogged my memory, much about this book has captured my imagination.

"Finding Mars" is a first-person account from Rozell as he follows a Japanese permafrost researcher, Kenji Yoshikawa, on a 750-mile field-testing trip by snowmobile across Northwest Alaska. Along with anecdotes about science and history of the region, Rozell also expounds on Kenji's fascinating life: a victim of hopeless wanderlust, Kenji spent his childhood in overcrowded Tokyo, dreaming of traveling to Mars. He dedicated his early adulthood to pursing the next best thing — he pulled a wheeled cart across the Sahara Desert, pedaled a bike across Australia, skied to the South Pole, and spent an winter in a sailboat frozen in the sea ice north of Barrow. From Rozell's writing, I could sense a kind of kindred spirit in Kenji — someone who yearns for open spaces in which to let perspectives expand and thoughts flow freely. My favorite chapter of the book describes the experiences Kenji and his partners enjoyed while skiing across Antarctica. 

"In Antarctica, every day was the same, same, same, same, same — for two months. But that sameness was very important for us, because we could think of many things every day. It was like Zen meditation."

Rozell writes, "A professor at Kyoto University later analyzed Kenji's dreams as the walk went on. In the early days of the trip, Kenji's dreams most often included, in order: (1) a prizefight featuring himself against a big-name boxer. (2) money. (3) women. (4) food. In the middle days, Kenji dreamed about (1) famous people who he admired. (2) foreign countries. (3) food. During the last two weeks of the trip, Kenji dreamed about (1) the ski across Antarctica. (2) food."

 The reductive nature of arduous journeys is often regarded as a liability, not a benefit. Still, I believe this to be one of the more valuable aspects of adventure. Paring one's life down to bare necessities has a way of sharping perspective, giving us the ability to look beyond all the confusion and noise, and see ourselves and the world around us with renewed clarity. The appeal of Kenji's simple outlook echoed in my own desire to take my bike to Canada, point it south, and do nothing else but ride it for (ideally) 20 days. If I keep my body fueled, my thoughts focused, and my legs moving, perhaps I can capture that rare opportunity to experience a mind as free and open as the Antarctic Plateau.

The timing this summer is about as ideal as it can be, with Beat heading to South Africa for a month in early June, (finally) nearing the finish of one book project, and receiving the go-ahead and a fairly open timeline for another. My fitness could certainly be better, but then I remind myself that I got by okay in 2009 after spending two months recovering from frostbite that largely kept me off my bike, followed by only seven weeks of real training. Six years have passed since my first Tour Divide experience, which is almost unfathomable, and I realize it's also been that long since I engaged in a substantial solo effort. If I have serious aspirations to take a bike to Nome in 2016, I could use a refresher in self-management and self-sufficiency when shattered. I couldn't plan a much better "training ride" than the Tour Divide.

When considering the Tour Divide, I was most concerned about my "mental fitness" — possibly lacking the mojo to stick it out to the finish. The common refrain echoes in my head as well — "Why do the same thing again?" I considered ideas for bike tours in different countries, but to be entirely honest, I just couldn't build enough excitement to get past the initial planning stages. I don't have any excuses — solo international travel is undoubtedly a wonderful experience, but it might just not be for me right now. When weighing the logistics, planning, and expenses, it wasn't what I wanted. I joked with Beat that maybe the two of us would get this endurance bug out of our systems, and then we could plan more relaxed treks across New Zealand or the Himalaya together. (Okay, this isn't a joke, but rather something I want to happen someday.) But while my body is still capable and mind willing, I do want to continue engaging in endurance challenges to explore far reaches of my inner galaxy. I want to find Mars.

Perhaps this is simply an excuse to take three weeks off from the world and ride my bike. Either way, it's been on my mind all week, to the point where I ordered new GDMBR maps and have spent some time researching potential updates to my circa-2009 budget gear. (Sleeping bag, water purification, sleeping pad, bivy sack, battery-powered lights — actually I could use some recommendations.) I also continue to conduct training with an eye toward the Tour Divide — basically, long days in the saddle, and lots of climbing. Since Beat is training for the Freedom Challenge, we've indulged in frequent biking and running dates, which I'm enjoying.  

After one rather rough recovery week following the White Mountains 100, for each of the past three weeks I've logged around 20 hours of running or cycling, with 20,000-22,000 feet of climbing. My goal for the month of May is to match or exceed that, with a couple of overnight trips, and the Ohlone 50K (May 17) — mostly because I love the Ohlone 50K. But for cycling, the goal is to ride tired, shore up mental fitness, gauge whether my mind and body is close to where I'd like it to be, and then decide whether to buy a ticket to Calgary in June. Of course I'll put together gear and dial in my bike before then. But as of now I'm not ready to commit one way or the other, and doubt I will before the first of June. (Which, incidentally, is not unlike my emotional commitment level before the race in 2009.) The Tour Divide is something I want to do again only if I'm going to commit to racing the full distance — to the limits of my capabilities. There are always ways I could be better, but the appeal of such a journey lies in seeking the hard edges. If I wanted to ride purely in the interest of touring, I would go somewhere new. 

 There will still be lots of running in May, of course. I believe running has made me a better cyclist — my knees are largely pain-free these days (at least, they're pain-free when I haven't recently torn or bruised something because I fell while running. But my knees nearly always hurt to some degree when I was predominantly a cyclist, before 2010.) My feet are tougher and I'm less prone to achilles and ankle pain (whenever cyclists ask about shoe recommendations to avoid such pains, I can only shrug and recommend running.) Running has also led to feeling stronger while climbing on a bike, and improved my long-term endurance.

Riding a bicycle, however, does not make me a better runner — I share the attitude that the only way to improve in running is to run. Even in the best of times, the time I spend cycling means I run relatively low mileage for a distance runner. But that's okay. My participation in UTMB may be put in jeopardy if I commit to the Tour Divide. Last year, I gave up the Hardrock 100 to ride the Freedom Challenge. I suppose when it comes down to it, I'll always be a cyclist first and a runner second, but I value my ability to liberally indulge in both.

 On Saturday Beat and I ran one of our favorite local routes, from Long Ridge down into Peter's Creek and back. The route accesses one of the few remaining old-growth redwood groves in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and also is one of the more rugged and remote trails in the region. It's 16 miles that always ends up feeling like 30 — stressfully steep descending, loose dirt, mud, roots, stream crossings, huge deadfall obstacles, tough climbs, repeat.

 Now that it's spring, the route also includes a continuous gauntlet of poison oak, billowing into the trail on both sides. We tried our best to ginger-step around it, to the point of contorting our bodies dramatically just to avoid touching anything green. I bathed myself in half a bottle of Technu after the run, but I'm still expecting to come down with a rash in a week. We love Peter's Creek, but I doubt we'll be back anytime soon. Poison oak is not a hazard to be trifled with, and it's everywhere after a drought-stricken, warm winter. It makes me want to avoid singletrack altogether.

 Long Ridge is still in nice shape, with a nice Friday-night rainstorm yielding gooey mud that turned to hero dirt before the day was over.

 That run is always tougher than it looks on paper. Peter's Creek, combined with a few overindulgences at a friend's dinner party on Saturday night, put me in rough shape for our planned nine-hour ride on Sunday. I was feeling sluggish from the start, and Beat asked me if I wanted to quit early. No! I couldn't ask for better training conditions.

For the past three weeks, most of my rides and runs have felt a little too easy. Finally, I could get outside with tired, achy legs and a grumpy disposition, and try to turn that all around. It actually worked pretty well. It took most of the day to not feel like a slug, but I worked hard at massaging my attitude while coaxing my legs. Finally, about 6.5 hours in, I devoured a bunch of fruit snacks and put in a strong effort up the final long climb.

We made good enough time that we were able to venture into Montebello Open Space before the park closed at sunset (rangers do hang out there, and they will ticket people.) Ascending the Bella Vista trail in warm evening light was a nice reward for our efforts. Even though I was feeling much better, I had to pedal hard to keep up with Beat. He has had a tough recovery from his Alaska journey, but he's finally starting to come around. I'm going to miss those few rides in April where I was still a little bit stronger than him. I think those days are over, but I'm glad he's feeling more confident about the Freedom Challenge.

Around here, there are few better places to be than the top of Black Mountain at sunset. It's simple and comforting to think about spending the next few months in California, sticking to my routine, planning some weekend backpacking trips, training for UTMB, and working on book projects. As recently as one week ago, this was my plan. But the fact that the easy plan is so appealing leads me to believe this is the wrong decision to make. As always, I like to keep my options open. 

Cures for the springtime mehs

You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little quieter on my blog these days. I'm just going through my annual period of readjustment that I've come to think of as "the springtime mehs." This begins when temperatures climb into the 80s, and I remember that summer is coming and summer is long. I regard summer with the same disquietude that many people feel toward winter. I adore winter — from deep cold Alaskan winter to (ideally) rainy and mild California winter. I manage summer, with its hot hot heat, searing sunlight, insects and wide array of allergens. I'll admit the outdoor stoke just doesn't come as easily when faced with these discomforts. I'll also admit that most of my outdoor stoke is driven by the prospect of adventure — any adventure. Even backyard adventures can be full of novelty and discovery. But as I enter the fifth year in my tenure as a Californian, adventure admittedly takes more creative spark than it once did. Some weeks, inspiration is running low, it's hot outside, and I find myself contemplating Lifetime Fitness memberships and other ways to avoid the outside. 

 At least my friend Leah was available for a Wednesday night ride in the Marin Headlands. As we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge with the late afternoon sun sparkling over the ocean, I thought, "It's been far too long." The evening was perfect — not hot or cold — and we chased quick runners up the hills and descended through dust clouds saturated in sunlight.

 We also encountered many animals, including this crotchety turkey who was not about to let anyone through his territory on the Marincello Trail. He was like a gnarled old troll, but instead of shouting "none shall pass," he'd puff up all his feathers and chase people while gobbling and hissing. We watched these two runners sparring with him when we were still a half mile down the trail, and they still hadn't made it past when we approached. The woman was especially afraid, but I was too. That turkey was mean!

 Leah and I both scooped a handful of little pebbles and she fearlessly led the way. He seemed deterred by her defense but came charging toward me. I yelped and lifted both legs off the pedals because I thought he was going to peck my shins. I tossed the whole handful of little rocks at him, which sent him darting into the grass. Just as I skirted by, he re-emerged to chase the poor runners some more as Leah and I pedaled furiously up the hill. I still don't know whether the runners made it through. They may still be locked in a turkey standoff on the Marincello Trail.

As we crossed over the ridge and dropped into Rodeo Valley, we passed a coyote making a ruckus near the trail. She was yipping and howling loudly in a way that seemed directed at us, and wasn't backing down. Just when I wondered whether there was a full moon making all the animals act weird, a bobcat leapt across our path. We raced the fading sunlight back across the bridge, filled with renewed stoke.

When we returned to my car, I couldn't get my electronic key to work and Leah noticed the rear window had been smashed in. Ugh, horrible feeling. When we met at the bridge parking lot 2.5 hours earlier, Leah arrived straight from work and had a large commuter bag. I stuffed her bag beneath the rear seat, covering what still showed with a greasy old sheet that I keep in my car to cover bikes. I had my own bag, full of extra clothing and my Kindle, that I left in plain sight on the passenger's seat. These thieves managed to grab Leah's bag from under the seat, while leaving my bag and everything in the front of the car alone. Unfortunately Leah's bag was filled with valuables, including her wallet, her work laptop, keys, and expensive pieces of clothing. Ugh. Big headache and losses for her, and a $150 repair for me. We heard the lectures about leaving stuff in cars at trailheads, but this is a big parking lot, usually packed with tourists, and Leah had nowhere else to put her bag. I really thought I had hidden it well, and the only reason I can think for a thief to go directly for that bag and nothing else in the car is because they'd watched us hide it. Well, nothing can be done about it now. Just when you get all worked up about grumpy turkeys on the trails, you are reminded where the real dangerous animals reside.

The weekend came, and I had the mehs something fierce. Beat wanted to put in some long rides for his Freedom Challenge training. But he was on call, so he had to carry his laptop and couldn't leave cell phone range — which can be surprisingly spotty here in the Silicon Valley. He wanted to ride the same route we rode last Sunday, and I was unreasonably cranky about joining him and Liehann, given the reality that it's a beautiful and challenging route. Also, it was the warmest day of the year so far, with temperatures in the mid to high 80s. I froze a bladder of water and went anyway, grumbling about "same old" early in the ride, but picking up enthusiasm in the later miles. You know — bikes just doing their job.

For Sunday I couldn't think of anything remotely exciting for our purposes of staying close to home and in cell phone range. Beat was feeling under the weather after Saturday's ride — whether from the heat, relative lack of cycling, or prolonged recovery from his arduous Alaska journey, he wasn't sure (I think the latter.) The second long ride was almost nixed until I came up with a great plan — we'd ride repeats up and down Montebello Road, as many or as few as each of us felt like riding.

Montebello Road is our go-to hill climb. From our house, the ride is 17.5 miles round trip, and Montebello Road itself climbs 2,000 feet in 5 miles. It's ideal for a quick weekday workout, so I ride this route anywhere from 1 to 3 times a week when I'm at home, and have for four years. I've logged well over 200 trips up Montebello Road. What better way to battle the "same old" mehs by riding the same old route a whole bunch of times in a row?

Yeah, Beat and Liehann didn't really get the logic either. But I was quite excited for these Montebello repeats. Five times would log 10,000 feet of climbing in 50 miles, and that was the goal. We parked the car with a cooler full of cold drinks and a couple of sandwiches at Stevens Creek Reservoir, and took off at our own paces for our chosen number of climbs. I enjoyed myself immensely, spinning up a road I could almost ride with my eyes closed (not really; there are really treacherous drop-offs lined in poison oak) and daydreaming about Alaska. Since I got back from our recent travels last month, I've noticed that all of my Alaska daydreams still revert back to my 2014 walk to McGrath with Beat. It was just such a special trip, and not so emotionally wrenching as my more recent tour on Alaska's western coast. I think I'm just really excited about the prospect of getting back on the Iditarod Trail next year. It makes for great daydream fodder when summer is coming, because summer is long.

Each lap I returned to the car for cold drinks and a snack break. It was just so simple and relaxing. Sometimes repetitive laps through familiar places are just the right cure for the adventure blues. Plus, it's a fun activity for geeking out on Strava data:

Total distance was 56 miles with 10,300 feet of climbing. Over five trips up the mountain, I kept a consistent pace and heart rate throughout. My slowest lap up and down Montebello was my first, at 1:08 (I stopped a few times during this lap.) The second was 1:04, the third was 1:02, and the fourth and fifth were both 1:04.

Now I'm curious how many of these laps I can complete before my pace falls off a cliff. I have an ultimate dream of 100 miles of Montebello — 10 laps and 20,000 feet of climbing. Liehann and Beat are not so convinced that this would be any fun at all (it would be a 12- to 13-hour ride, requiring an early start and an entire day.) But they weren't so sold on today's plan initially. Both told me at the start that they were going to bail after two laps, and I caught them both smiling all the way to the end. (Beat rode his loaded mountain bike and did four laps. But he looked strong after feeling so down on Saturday.)

This week I'm planning to re-introduce long runs into my life. Beat and I signed up for the Ohlone 50K next month, and it's been quite a while since I completed a long run (the White Mountains 100 notwithstanding.) When one is awkward and clumsy, running is always an adventure, and I'm looking forward to this, too.