Never-fail getaway

 I felt somber this weekend, for the same reasons many people in the Western world felt somber. It's true I spend an average of an hour each day reading newspapers online, and I'm not blind to the reality that terrible things happen every day, everywhere. Like many people, I harbor deep-set information fatigue, and no longer react viscerally to most of what I read. When information does spark emotions, I question why. What is it about this particular story, and not all the others? It's true that if we all felt equally sad for all the sad events in a world of 7 billion people, we would lose our minds. Yet we do feel sadness for strangers, and sadness for implications for the future. I'm one of those who is constantly fighting to keep my own world view from sinking toward despair.

 This falls back to my love of the outdoors, without which I have no doubt I'd be a much sadder person. There are a number of psychological and philosophical implications that I don't want to delve into for this particular blog post, but I find it endlessly fascinating — and amusing — that simple movement through outdoor spaces is so highly valuable as an experience. I could disappear for hours into an echo chamber of rehashed information and reactive observations, or I could just get on my bike and pedal it to a quiet redwood grove, where sunlight never touches the forest floor in November, and listen to the crush of leaves beneath whirring tires and the almost harmonized burbles from a nearby stream. All I have to do is go there, and I feel happy. These are my two sides — the one that yearns for information with a desire to understand, and the one that yearns for quiet with a desire to simply be.

 The draw of the long ride was particularly deep on Saturday. After being down with pneumonia for more than a month, Beat expressed interest in joining. He still has several physical issues lingering from his illness, including a rib that possibly broke during a coughing fit, but his health has been on a steady rise for a couple of weeks now. I questioned whether he might feel too sore or tired after a month of relative inactivity, but for Beat, "lost fitness" no longer makes much of a difference. He actually can pick right back up where he left off, which quickly became evident as I huffed and gasped to keep up with him on the winding climb out of Stevens Creek Canyon.

Within our busy metro area, we've pieced together a 76-mile loop that is refreshingly remote. We pass no businesses (unless you count the Mr. Mustard hot dog cart at Saratoga Gap, and the forever-under-renovation closed store in Loma Mar.) Trails are never crowded and road traffic is light. After a dozen or so descents along the perimeter of Big Basin Redwoods State Park, I have yet to see another person on the Johansen fire road. The tree canopy over Gazos Creek is so dark in the winter that one could easily mistake noon for dusk. There is much to enjoy, far away from noise.

As evening approached, Beat admitted to feeling knackered but continued to charge up the Bella Vista trail at the same relentless pace. We arrived at Black Mountain just as the sun settled beneath a pink strip of coastal fog. An oncoming cold front had cranked up the wind, and we steeled ourselves with multiple layers as the light faded from coral to crimson, and finally violet.

We descended into the expanding darkness, into a place so ephemeral and yet so easy to locate — my moving tunnel of peace. 

ITI training, week four

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. This session went well. I was able to move up a bar in six out of 12 exercises. I'm thinking about increasing to three sets instead of two on my "gym only" day of the week.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:49, 5.6 miles, 707 feet climbing. Temperatures had cooled off into the 60s, and I had such a great run that I burst through the long-range goals I set for myself a couple of weeks ago. I ran an 8:43-minute-mile average and managed second position (out of 185) on a Strava segment that I targeted as a way to boost my downhill trail-running confidence: 6:20 pace! Whenever I run this fast, a little bit of vertigo kicks in and I begin to feel wobbly. I'd love to get past that, and "Hill Trail Descent" is a fun place to test my limits. Between that mild vertigo and my tight hamstrings, I have serious reservations about ever training to run "fast," but building up confidence is a good thing. Now I'm not sure where to set my goals for this weekly loop. First place on Hill Trail Descent is probably out of the question because it's held by a pro at 5:48 pace. Whatever speed goals I set, they're certain to fall apart as I increase the hours on weekend rides.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 4:40, 42.5 miles, 4,795 feet climbing. It was time to take in the Subaru for service. The dealership is super slow and it's also a quick hop over to the Los Gatos Creek Trail, so I love using this chore as an excuse to go mountain biking in Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. On this day I was determined to take on "Dog Meat," a climb that has been famous among local mountain bikers since the Santa Cruz Klunker days. It ascends 1,000 feet on one mile — *after* you have plodded up 1,500 feet on the steep Limekiln Trail — and averages an 18 percent grade with sections that approach 30 percent. The ultimate goal is "no dabs Dog Meat," and while I didn't think I had this in me, I was still buzzing from my strong run on Tuesday and determined to give it my best shot. It probably will surprise no one that I cracked early. Rain on Monday left the fire road in a strange state — sort of a gummy consistency with loose gravel on top. After I nearly tipped over riding, I struggled to push my bike up that thing. It did occur to me that Dog Meat would be the perfect place for future pushing practice. After I finally reached the crest, I still had many steep rollers to conquer along the ridge to Mount El Sombroso. Then, after several miles of descending, I made a strange decision to climb Barlow fire road toward Mount Umunhum. By the time I was finally coasting down the pavement toward Los Gatos, I was so completely cracked that I feared I'd done irreparable damage to my 100 Miles of Nowhere goal coming up on Saturday. Oh, Sierra Azul. So beautiful, so tempting, so evil.

Thursday: Hike, 3:07, 7.7 miles, 1,419 feet climbing. I had to head out to Lake Sonoma in the morning to meet Ann for some interviews. As such, I skipped the morning gym session, and felt guilty about this. But to be honest, I was quite sore after Sierra Azul — shoulder and calves, probably from pushing up Dogmeat — and reluctant to take any more chances with the long ride coming up on Saturday. Ann and I took a very leisurely stroll above Lake Sonoma, but it was admittedly a long time standing on sore legs, and by the end I felt quite tired. That night I was awakened by an excruciating cramp in my right calf, and the next day the muscle was so tight I could hardly walk.

Friday: Rest. I felt guilty about not going to the gym, massaged my throbbing calf, and nursed a cold dread about 100 miles of Montebello.

Saturday: Road bike, 11:50, 105.1 miles, 20,159 feet climbing. I already wrote a ride report about the 100 Miles of Nowhere on Montebello Road, but as a training ride I think it went exceedingly well. I had few issues outside mild chaffing, still-sore shoulders, and the fact that it was a progressively harder effort as fatigue set in. That calf cramp, which still hurt whenever I stepped off my bike to walk around, didn't bother me at all in the saddle.

Sunday: Rest. I still felt guilty about not going to the gym, but I was sore all over. And yes, a rest day was the plan, but I can already see that my self-induced guilt trips are going to come from slacking on gym sessions. Dog Meat proved that I still have a ways to go in the strength department. But Montebello proved that I am well-situated in the endurance department. All in all, an encouraging week of training.

Total: 20:27, 147.6 miles ride, 13.3 miles run, 27,080 feet climbing.

The beauty of riding nowhere

Each year, Elden the Fat Cyclist — world-famous bike blogger and fundraiser extraordinaire — hosts a charity event called the 100 Miles of Nowhere. He first formulated the idea while riding a virtual 100 miles on his trainer, and now challenges cyclists from all over the world to donate to charity for the privilege of riding a "nowhere" century of their choosing. Creativity is encouraged, and pretty much any crazy century that one could imagine has been done — 100 miles on rollers, 3,000 rotations around a driveway, masochistic hill repeats, you name it. 

Although I've been a regular reader of Fat Cyclist for a decade, support his causes, and enjoy pondering my own versions of a "nowhere" ride, I hadn't participated before. This year the event announcement went out just as I was beginning to formulate a plan for winter training. It just clicked. "I've been talking about 100 Miles of Montebello Road for three years now. I'm finally going to do it." 

Why Montebello Road? I think any cyclist who lives near hills has a go-to climb, and this is mine. Climbing on a bike is my favorite activity, so I ride here a lot. The name means "beautiful mountain" in Italian, and it's appropriate. Starting 3.5 miles from my home, Montebello Road snakes up a scenic hillside beside a small creek, shaded by oak and cedar trees, with occasional steep drop-offs that open up big views of the South Bay and Mount Hamilton. It accesses a few homes and vineyards before the pavement ends 5.1 miles and 2,000 vertical feet above Stevens Creek Reservoir. I enjoy this climb and it doesn't get old for me, even though I've ridden it well over 200 times since I moved here in 2011. Because I ride Montebello so much, I know every switchback and driveway. I know where the grade steepens and where it levels off. I know where the pavement becomes especially broken and I have to hang on for dear life. I notice when cracks widen and when new tarmac is laid down. I notice when chunks of the hillside and larger trees come down, even after the debris has been cleared away. I've had to slam on my brakes for deer, rabbits, rattlesnakes, coyotes, and even a bobcat. There aren't many surprises left for me on that well-trodden road. 

So why Montebello Road? Because even though I've ridden it so many times I know every pothole, it never gets easier. And no, I don't get faster, because it takes a hearty helping of oomph to push the pace for a five-mile climb that scarcely lets off the resistance. My legs are usually quivering by the final steep pitch. The descent, with all of its hairpin turns, steep grades and broken pavement, hardly provides recovery. I think one Montebello is plenty difficult, and two Montebellos break into mental-game territory. So of course I started to wonder, what would happen after five repeats? How about ten? 

A hundred miles of Montebello Road requires ten out-and-backs with more than 20,000 feet of climbing. One participant, Karl, commented that the elevation profile would look like a "sadistic comb," which was an apt description. In all of my years of cycling, I've never climbed that much elevation in a day. Beyond the personal record, a century on one five-mile stretch of pavement requires a whole new set of challenges. There is, of course, the "boring" factor in the repetitions. It's not only the same road ten times — it's the same road I see all the time. On a road bike you don't walk, ever, unless something has gone quite wrong. But the gearing is stiff enough that you always have to pedal hard just to stay upright. Even if your speed is dipping precariously close to three miles per hour, it's always strenuous. I mentioned the hairy descents. Where would I find my motivation when things started to hurt? When I could only slow down so much? When bailing was always as easy as turning around and bombing downhill to my car? In other words, this would be a great mental training ride for the big, physically draining, often monotonous days on the Iditarod Trail. 

When I posted my proposal online, I was surprised to see a lot of initial interest. There were nine "going" and nine "maybes" on my Facebook event page. A couple of ultrarunner friends who almost never ride bikes said they wanted to give it a go. Then Beat came down with pneumonia and Liehann was worried his three-week cough would deteriorate to something worse. One by one, all the others bailed. I can't say I was surprised, as it wasn't the most conventionally fun way to spend what turned out to be an absolutely perfect fall day in the Bay Area. I assumed I would be riding alone and failed to show up on time for my proposed 6:15 a.m. start. So I was embarrassed to pull up at 6:19 to find three cyclists who I'd never met geared up and ready to go. Karl, on the right, wanted to try to best his personal record on one lap, and Eric (middle), had time to try for five. Dave (left), said he was in it for the long haul. Great! Let's get it started. 

Karl and I rode together for the first lap, and then I stuck with Eric and Dave for the next four. It turned out to be a surprisingly social ride. Dave kept a strong pace and commented on the fourth lap that he was surprised it wasn't getting much harder. It was then I knew both Dave and I were in this to the dark and chilly end, because neither of us was going to back down as long as the other was still plugging along. Such is the wonder of human sociality, and the reason why races are so much more fun than solo efforts, and why we were so content to grind out Montebellos on Nov. 7, riding in spirit with as many as 500 other "100 MoN" participants all around the world. We're all striving together. 

Around lap six, Beat came out on his mountain bike to join for a couple of rounds of what would be his first real venture outdoors in a month, besides bike commuting. We also saw friends and acquaintances who were out for their own Saturday rides. Jan, who was just finishing up a 17-mile trail ride, and who has been helpful with tips for dealing with my recent breathing problems, just shook his head. I was buzzing with endorphins and could only reply with a goofy grin, "I just love this stuff. I really do. I don't know why."

Photo by Dave Thompson. I'm wearing my circa-2007 "original" Fat Cyclist jersey and riding
Beat's wonderful 2011 Specialized S-Works Roubaix. Yes, those are flat pedals. Stiff-soled, fitted shoes pinch
my toes and hurt like hell after a few hours. I can't even wear running shoes that actually fit — these are 1.5 sizes
too large. I know this is terribly uncool. I do not  care. If you ever experience frostbite nerve damage and put
your feet through 12+ hour rides, you  can give me a recommendation for clipless pedals.
Otherwise, I don't want to hear it. :P

On lap seven, I hit my wall. All the others had gone home and it was just me and Dave, and the mid-afternoon sunlight dipping low on the horizon. After a summer mostly out of the saddle my "iron butt" had gone soft and chaffing was developing beneath my cheeks. My hands and arms were sore from the descents, and I had to hold one arm behind my back whenever I could to relieve a knot in my shoulder. My quad muscles quivered on the steeper segments. I was certain cramps were coming on, which could only be followed by walks of shame, which could only be followed by bailing altogether. But I'd look ahead toward Dave and kept grinding, because this clearly was not as bad as the simmering anxieties would have me believe.

Dave remained ever stoic. Occasionally, when I could keep up with him, I learned more about his background — he'd lost a lot of weight, and designed and built a special tandem bicycle so he could ride with his adult son who is recovering from a brain injury. At the top, only slightly glazed eyes and flushed cheeks betrayed the appearance that this ride was far too easy for him. We'd stuff down some food — I ate string cheese, squeezable packets of applesauce, Rice Crispy treats, and sandwiches cut into quarters, and realized my diet now completely resembled that of a toddler whose Mom carried just enough snacks to shut her up in public. We'd wipe the sweat from our faces and put on jackets and gloves, because it was always cold on the way down. And then we were off, screaming toward the glistening sprawl of San Jose.

We strapped on lights before lap nine because we'd finally burned all the daylight. The sun set at 5:11 p.m. Climbing the initial steep segments, I thought, "Only two more Montebellos!" which ignited a grumpy backlash because two Montebellos is still a lot. So I looked inward, to a stark white landscape of somewhere in Alaska, perhaps the Yukon River, beneath an unobstructed sky pulsing with emerald light and stars upon stars. Then the wind was howling, and I was hunched over my bike in a whiteout — broken, humbled, and awestruck by the power of it all, by this expansive nothingness on the edge of nowhere. All in my imagination — and perhaps in my future.

We descended in fading light and climbed into the tunnel of our headlights. Dave's light dimmed to almost nothing, but instead of quitting, he shadowed closely behind me as we ascended the quiet corridor. I was hurting all over. It seemed every muscle had to work for this final climb, and my breathing had become raspy and shallow. In part, I believe shallow breathing has become a habit after months of fighting real obstructions and constriction in my airways. So I consciously focused on taking deeper breaths, thinking about all of my quivering muscles and the reality that they just needed more oxygen. "Breathe, just breathe," I chanted quietly, and thought that this was probably going to become my new personal mantra.

"We did it!" I proclaimed at the top. Dave smiled quietly; his lips were quivering. It was 45 degrees and a cold wind whisked along the ridge, heralding an oncoming storm. We both sucked down the last of our water — even in the cold darkness, one bottle was no longer enough. I descended behind Dave with my high-beam on, but he seemed to manage just fine with his flickering commuter light. We rolled back to the cars after 105 miles in 13 hours and 5 minutes, including breaks, and about 11:45 of moving time. You can say that's a long damn time for a century, but I think it's pretty good for ten Montebellos, which are actually nothing like a century.

As I drove away, I realized that while the 20,000 feet of climbing was quite hard, I barely noticed the repetition. Each climb and descent was its own journey, with different light, different conversations, different thoughts, different challenges.

Still, a repetitive ride does provide beneficial numbers for comparisons. These are the times recorded for each 5.1-mile climb up Montebello Road. It's interesting to see the consistency when I was feeling good, and also how it started to break down on the later laps. My "personal best" on Montebello is 39:08, but I generally ride in the 45- to 50-minute range.

Lap 1: 59:18
Lap 2: 52:05
Lap 3: 50:51
Lap 4: 50:21
Lap 5: 50:24
Lap 6: 50:19
Lap 7: 56:01
Lap 8: 54:43
Lap 9: 58:53
Lap 10: 57:26

Maybe it really doesn't get that much harder as you go. I just have to get out of my head once in a while. And remember to breathe. 

Ten years

My blog hits the decade mark today. Ten years! That's close to 145,000 years old in Internet years.

I wanted to do something to celebrate, so for today only (November 3), all of my books are only 99 cents on Amazon. Even if you don't own a Kindle, you can read the eBooks on any smartphone or tablet via the free Kindle app, available here. The books are linked below. Collect all five for $4.95! As always, I appreciate reader support.




It's strange to realize that I've been updating this blog for a decade. Back in 2005, I would have never guessed that I'd still be at this a decade later — still blabbing on and on about cycling, and still preparing for yet another preposterous snow-biking race in Alaska. My jaw also would have dropped if you told me that I'd be approaching five years in the Silicon Valley, yet still working for small Alaska newspapers, and that social media was now so fragmented that blogs had become a dying art — the long-form literature of 2015. Or, in Internet lingo, the tl;dr.

I'm grateful for the time I've invested into this blog — although it remains narrow in focus, it has become a fairly thorough record of my life. Seared onto the digital archive are thousands of observations and images that otherwise would have been lost to the noise of faded memory. Because it's public record, this blog also has connected me to an ever-widening circle of like-minded people all over the world. It's gotten to the point where nearly all of my post-college friendships can be traced back to this blog. (Take Beat, for example. I met him through my friend Danni in Montana, who I met through Keith in Banff, who I met because his wife, Leslie, read my blog and invited me to come stay with them before the 2009 Tour Divide.)

There's also my odd lifestyle to take into consideration. Although I was just starting to take an interest in endurance sports when I launched this blog, I question whether that would have stuck if I'd never established the connection to others, as well as an outlet for this ongoing narrative. And although I often wish my passions were less esoteric, and maybe more comfortable, I maintain the belief that endurance sports can reveal a lot about self, relationships, and the human experience. This is why I continue to write long-winded blog essays about outdoor adventure still — one decade and 1,877 posts later. There's still so much to learn. I take flack for this, of course, but I don't see my love of outdoor adventures as any different from feeling passionate about art, music, dance, philosophy ... Movement through the world is my form of expression, and writing is my attempt to make some sense of these tracks before they fade away.

It's clear that my life would look very different if I never started blogging. I actually can't fathom where I'd be right now if I never launched a free Blogspot site on November 3, 2005. Sometimes the smallest motions make the largest difference. Thank you for dropping by, and for contributing to the ongoing narrative. It's been a wild ride so far.

ITI training, week three

Monday: Rest, mostly. I did do a three-mile dog walk with Ann in Auburn.

Tuesday: Morning, weight lifting at gym. Afternoon, trail run, 0:53, 5.8 miles, 704 feet climbing. This was my second gym session, so I tried a routine (subject to many future adjustments) of 12 exercises, 12 reps, two sets. There were a few exercises in which I couldn't reach 12 reps the second time around, and lots of huffing and puffing, but I never forced it. I take each rep slowly and if I can't make the exact same motion I used on rep one, it doesn't happen. Eight hours later, I went for a run that was one of my best in months. Seemingly effortless but fast — I thought it would take me weeks to build toward a 9-minute-mile average on this loop, and I came close on Tuesday (9:09 m/m). I'm guessing that's an anomaly more than a trend.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:09, 30.9 miles, 3,619 feet climbing. There was a lot less post-gym soreness than last week, although my hamstrings were sore. I decided I'm not going to include lower-body lifts in my gym routine, even though I have tons of fun with the leg press machine. Anyway, I took Snoots out for a ride that included more than enough leg punishment — Bohlman Road, pretty much the steepest four-mile climb in all the land. I challenge anyone to pedal an obese bike up that mountain and see how they feel at the top. I was actually blissed out, because this climb hit that perfect pitch of an effort I almost couldn't handle, to the point where I drifted into a dreamy flow state, but wasn't so difficult that I fell through the bottom into a swamp of stress and frustration. My reward for such undeserved uphill fun was a fast descent through El Sereno, which features big views across the valley as you swoop around high-banked turns. What a great ride. I'm still buzzing about it.

Thursday: Road bike, 1:28, 17.4 miles, 2,401 feet climbing. Montebello Road, still a whole lot harder than I'd like it to be.

Friday: Trail run, 1:12, 6.8 miles, 904 feet climbing, then weight lifting at gym. I felt like I took it easy on the run, but it was hot — I had to change all of my sweaty clothing before I hit the gym — and then I felt awful. It wasn't sore muscles, really ... I just had no energy and couldn't make it through lifts that felt easy on Tuesday. I incorporated three new upper-body exercises, and by lowering weights eventually made it through all the reps. I don't plan to always run and lift on the same day — ideally, I would lift Mondays and run Tuesdays. But on Thursdays or Fridays I hoped to double up. Clearly I should always lift first, since that's the harder workout for me. That feeling of fatigue is a bit brutal and yet satisfying — it's the kind of fatigue that takes many miles of running or biking to experience. For this reason, I'm excited that I'm trying something new.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 4:57, 43.4 miles, 6,674 feet climbing. Still buzzing from my Wednesday ride and ignoring the frustrating activities that followed, I set out for a long ride on Saturday afternoon. It was a warm Halloween Day (probably hit mid-80s.) I took a loop from my house that I hadn't yet tried in full, but it's a perfect combination of truly punishing steep climbs and fun singletrack descents. (Strava map link.) Somewhere before Russian Ridge I ran out of water, and went about 45 minutes without fluid under the hot sun. Even thirstiness did not make me grumpy, as I was really enjoying myself. I can't express how grateful I am that my biking bliss has returned.

Sunday: Trail run, 3:48, 18.3 miles, 3,334 feet climbing. I spent the first five miles catching up with my friend Martina. She split off and I continued toward Black Mountain at a comfortable zone 2 pace, walking when necessary rather than spiking my heart rate. As I hiked, I became unreasonably annoyed at how drenched in sweat my shirt and hair were, and about the sunscreen-laced sweat stinging my eyes, and the fact it was 80-something degrees on November 1, and I hate summer so much summer makes me sick and slow why is it always always summer here ... (trailing off into grumbling.) Then I ate a packet of applesauce and felt a whole lot better. Heh. Most of that temper tantrum erupted from low blood sugar, but I do struggle mentally with just how many months of the year are full-on hot here. The Bay Area has a lot going for it, and I'm not unhappy with my location, but yes, it's a challenge. I'm like a winter-hater in Minnesota, except a lot fewer people can relate to how I feel. And I did run out of water, again, about three miles before a planned stop at a fountain. But I'd already had my temper tantrum, and running out of water was my fault rather than something I couldn't control, so I sucked it up and kept running.

Total: 15:29, 91.7 miles ride, 30.9 miles run, 17,635 feet climbing. These last two weeks have been fairly tough, in good ways. I've been sleeping well and feel energetic in the evening ... once these factors change, I know I need to dial something back. Beat is finally coming out of his pneumonia fog, although he may still be a ways out from feeling up to hard efforts. I'm proud of how well he's taking care of himself ... I certainly didn't do as well back in July.

I will take it easier next week ahead of 100 Miles of Nowhere on Saturday, probably not much running. But I'm especially excited about how great I felt on the bike this week. That is, with the exception of riding Montebello Road specifically, where jitters are getting the best of me. I haven't been this nervous about performance before a non-race in a long time. 

ITI training, week two

Monday: Road bike, 1:32, 17.4 miles, 2,424 feet climbing — I'm starting to feel a little stronger on my bike. But I'm still terrified about the deca-Montebello coming up on Nov. 7. Sadly, Beat was diagnosed with pneumonia this week. He hasn't been able to log any hard training in more than two weeks, so 100 Miles of Nowhere is definitely out for him. He's starting to feel better, but damn, it's been a rough year for our respiratory systems.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:54, 5.6 miles, 701 feet climbing — In an effort to inject a whisper of "speed work" into my routine, I'm going to make an effort to improve on my regular Tuesday run, a hilly half-pavement, half-trail loop. This pace is about 9:34-minute-mile average. I'm going to work on getting that under 9-minute-miles. Also, I'm hoping to break the top three times for a half-mile downhill segment called "Hill Trail Descent" on Strava. Currently I'm 6th out of 181 women. Isn't Strava fun? I think Strava's fun.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:29, 31.3 miles, 4,481 feet climbing — I took Snoots, our expedition Moots fat bike, out for the first time since last winter. Ah, I missed Snoots. She's so sluggish on pavement, and yet so airy on trails. I feel it's an indignity to take her on anything but snow, however, I need to get reacquainted with the nuances of fat bikes. A slog up Highway 9 was rewarded with fun rollers on Skyline Ridge and the always-gleeful John Nichols Trail descent just as the sun was setting.

Thursday: Weight lifting at gym. As this was my first time at the gym, I treated this as a practice session. I tried out all the machines at different weights until I reached my limit, then did a handful of reps two notches below that weight. After reading several texts on the subject, I've decided circuit training with machines will best fit my needs for now. In hoping to continue with 12 exercises, 12 reps times two, two times per week. But for just playing around, I was *really* sore the next day. Beat could make me wince just poking my shoulders. This is disconcerting, I have to admit.

Friday: Trail run, 1:28, 8.3 miles, 1,169 feet climbing. My upper body felt too sore for bike riding. Hmph. Running, I felt pretty good, albeit a little on the slugglish side.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 4:08, 37.2 miles, 5,376 feet climbing. Liehann set out for his weekly hill climb ride. He aims for four-hour rides, which is a good block of riding for me right now. We rode up Grizzly Flat and along Long Ridge, including my nemesis, the Sunny Jim Trail. I can't always climb Sunny Jim without dabbing, but I made it on Saturday. I also managed a Grizzly Flat climb PR, which tells me I'm probably stronger right now than I think.

Sunday: Trail run and hike, 5:30, 23.4 miles, 3,922 feet climbing. A out-and-back variation of the Cal Loop on the Western States Trail outside Auburn. I ran the first 14 miles at a fairly fast pace with Bruce and then hiked the last 10 with Bruce and Ann. As a workout, I think run/hike is a good format for my winter training, as I get a wide range of intensity plus longer time on my feet without the beatdown of a long run. In many ways, it's most difficult to stay in shape for long bouts of walking, yet this may prove to be a decent percentage of the "ride" to Nome, depending on conditions. Everything depends on conditions, which is what makes training for this event such a puzzle. I need to hedge my bets with a little of everything.

Total: 17:03, 85.9 miles ride, 37.3 miles run, 18,072 feet climbing.

Moving forward on the Western States Trail

This weekend I traveled out to Auburn to record a few interviews with Ann Trason. I've been wanting to work on a biography about Ann for two years now, but pushed the project to the back-burner last year when we reached what I felt was an impasse. I operate best as a visual writer, which requires a lot more details than a bullet list of of accomplishments with quotes from people who were on the periphery. Since I wasn't there to witness any of the events I want to write about, I have to rely on Ann for these details. It's a problem, because Ann feels mortified by even the idea of talking about herself. She's an extremely private person, and that's okay. But as self-effacing as she can be, I think she understands that she's led an extraordinary life, and has a story that's worth telling.

The only window I've ever found with Ann is when she's running — out on the trails, she lets the stories flow out, and they're wonderful. Somewhat belatedly, I realized that I need to carry a voice recorder with me when she invites me for a run, collect the steam-of-consciousness, approach her contacts with questions to fill in the holes, and then use existing archives to connect stories and facts on a timeline. The issue, of course, is carving out the time to do the journalistic detective work needed to reconstruct a narrative. And lately, there's also been the issue of injury. Ann recently had knee surgery and probably needs another. She hasn't been running, and without her outlet, the quiet settles back in.

Two weeks ago, Ann purchased her dream home: an airy 1940s single-level house with a large garden at the top of Robie Point in Auburn, California — mile 99 of the Western States course. Ann feels a deep connection with the Western States 100 race and trail, and understanding that connection, I believe, is one of the keys to unlocking her narrative. She's been able to walk longer distances recently, so she invited me to join her and a friend for a run/hike on the Cal Loop segment this weekend.

The plan was for her friend, Bruce, and I to run segment along the river to collect leftover ribbons from the 50K trail race she organized last weekend, then loop back and meet her as she hiked down from Foresthill. Bruce, an old-school ultrarunner who has been around long enough to consider Ann one of the "kids," pulled me along at what I did not consider a conversational pace, chatting up a storm about the sport in the early 1980s. He coached me on my downhill technique — "Run like you're running in place. Don't think too hard about it. Look ahead, don't look at the ground" — and then flew up hills as I gasped behind him and tried to ask questions when I could catch my breath. Here's a guy in his 60s who has been running long distances for 40-plus years, and still runs hard.

"What's the secret to your longevity?" I asked him.

"Don't think too hard about it," Bruce recommended. "Just run."

After 15 miles of running we caught up with Ann and hiked with her for nine miles. We told her we filtered water out of the American River and she wondered why we didn't just wait until a perennial stream that was a half mile ahead.

"I didn't know about that stream," Bruce answered, and she wondered aloud with a tone of innocent amazement how he'd forgotten about that particular stream. Ann knows this trail inside and out, and still loves it after all these years, after all these miles, even when she can only walk its corridors at what to her is a frustratingly stilted pace. From my perspective — as someone who finds the California foothills pretty, but not stunning, and the climate unpleasantly dry and hot — it's an interesting intellectual challenge to surmise the root of her passion. She's traveled all over the world, gone on many adventures, won many races, and still she returns her love here, to this dusty trail where it all started.

I wonder if it's as simple as that. This is where it all started — where a friend took a high school track star who had a disappointing college career on a 30-mile trail run that launched 14 Western States wins and a lifelong relationship with this place. Although I can't relate to her level of success, I do see my love of the Susitna River Valley mirrored in Ann's Western States Trail. Ann's oak-dotted hills and yellow pine forests are my frozen swamps and black spruce stands. Maybe it's as simple as that.

After unwinding with the 18-mile hike, Ann was ready to retackle her home-improvement projects on Monday. I spent the day holed up in the crawl space of her new home, plying through boxes and file cabinets filled of old newspaper clippings, magazines, and correspondence. It was a fascinating if brief journey into her past, and helped me form a clearer picture of the depth of her accomplishments. In doing so, I realized that the reason I want so much to write about Ann is not because she was great, and not even because she was great outright in an era heavily dominated by men. I admire Ann for her passion. Finding a way through all the barriers into the bright core of this passion will be an adventure in itself, and an honor.