ITI training, week nine

 Monday: mountain bike, 2:38, 25.1 miles, 2,987 feet climbing. I am considering using Beat's MootoX YBB fat bike in the Iditarod. This is the bike I rode in the 2014 White Mountains 100. Its set-up resembles my mountain bike, which I rode long distances in the Freedom Challenge and Tour Divide, so there's already a comfortable familiarity. The other bike is Snoots, the expedition fat bike. We've had some good, difficult times together. But she's a beefy bike, and I am concerned about the heavier front end given all of my struggles with pushing through deeper snow drifts. It feels like sacrilege not to use Snoots for the reason we acquired her, but as I've said before, I just want to take my best chance of making it to Nome. Even if I anticipate hundred of miles of pushing (I always do), I believe a bike is the best mode, but I'll take a sled if trail conditions or weather reports look especially discouraging (i.e. an ongoing El Nino warm snowpocalypse.) Snoots can go with me to Baffin Island, when I finally make that trip happen.

That all said ... I'm riding the Fat YBB on my training rides now. Beat outfitted the bike with skinny 29" tires and rims for the time being, so I can't call it fat biking. But trail riding is a breeze on this bike — it's unquestionably more responsive than Snoots. I think the handling might be an advantage if snow coverage is again low when the Iditarod starts, as it has been the past two years.

Tuesday: Morning, weight lifting at gym. Afternoon, trail run, 0:50, 5.6 miles, 675 feet climbing. This was a great gym session. Same weights as last week, but it felt almost too easy. This was almost disappointing, as I usually have to go into "high intensity" puffing zone to get through my reps. Did two sets this session, since I was planning to run in the afternoon. My usual "Tuesday Monta Vista" loop went okay. As expected, I am no longer becoming effortlessly faster, but I'm still fighting to hold this run under 9-minute pace. It's a hilly trail run, and the paces for each mile are pretty close to 8 minutes or 10 minutes.

Wednesday: Road bike, 2:43, 33.3 miles, 3,624 feet climbing. Rode Highway 9 to Page Mill, and I felt sluggish for most of the ride. It was quite warm — a record high, 72 degrees — and I've flipped over to the other side of winter complacency, so I had a puffy pullover in a backpack but not nearly enough water (Page Mill is often a complete freezer. I kinda like it. But it wasn't on this day.)

 Thursday: Trail run, 0:54, 5.1 miles, 341 feet climbing. I drove down to Pacific Grove for a couple of interviews. After we finished, I still had about 25 minutes of daylight left to go exploring, so I decided to embark on sunset run to find the beach. Once I reached the coast, I returned in what turned into full darkness on unfamiliar trails. Early in this run, a large German Shepherd aggressively and repeatedly shoved me by jumping against my shoulder and chest while growling and barking, as I yelled and backed up slowly. The dogs' owner, who was more than 100 yards back and not approaching quickly, did nothing besides call to his dog, who finally ran toward him when he reached us about six shoves later. Seriously. This is why I make a point to avoid off-leash areas, but I wasn't aware of the rules in this park. Between the dog attack and the darkness, it was an adrenaline-filled outing for a 54-minute run.

Friday: Weight lifting at gym. Did three sets — definitely harder than Tuesday, but I upped the weights by five pounds on six of the 12 exercises. I still struggle mightily with arm curls. It's like my biceps are their own dead weights, and they're just never going to get stronger. Biceps are an important muscle group when wrestling a fat bike out of a snow drift, so this may be a partial influencer in my desire for a lighter front end.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 4:07, 35.9 miles, 4,715 feet climbing. Beat, Liehann and I set out on a brisk, beautiful Saturday morning to ride up Grizzly Flat, along Skyline Ridge, and down the John Nichols Trail. A front moved through on Thursday and Friday that dropped temperatures into the 40s and a lot of rain on the trails, but they drained nicely for our sunny ride. I kept my pace well on the mellow side, anticipating a long run we had planned on Sunday. Still, I felt guilty about not putting in a better effort on Saturday. When I was training for the 2014 ITI, on this same weekend in December, I ran back-to-back 35-mile and 31-mile trail runs. I am basically in competition with my 2014 self, and feel I should at least be up for anything I did back then.

Beat excitedly anticipates running in the cold rain.

Sunday: Trail run, 6:17, 30.6 miles, 6,815 feet climbing. Beat and I signed up for the winter Woodside Ramble 50K — a great course through the redwood forests along Skyline Ridge. An atmospheric river was moving in on the Bay Area, and I couldn't have been more excited about the weather. They were calling for a possible chance of snow — snow! — above 3,000 feet, but it wasn't quite cold enough. Temperatures started out in the low 50s but dipped into the low 40s as the front moved through, dropping nearly an inch of rain, hail, 40 mph wind gusts, and much fun on the singletrack trails above Woodside. My hamstrings were very tight from the start — much tighter than usual. It felt like the tension level had been set to rigid, and I couldn't open my stride to save my life. It was perhaps a blessing in disguise, and the muddy trails were very slippery at times, and I become highly imbalanced (even more so than usual) when I try to place a foot anywhere but directly below the rest of my body. I took especially small steps on the descents, because otherwise my feet slid all over the place. This was disappointing, because the descents at Woodside are winding and gradual — perfect for a timid descender like me to really let go — and I usually do. Besides tight hamstrings, I felt great, and enjoyed the rainy day run: Splashing in puddles, punching at the wind, and keeping my pace just hard enough to stave off the convective chill. Beat was feeling rough today, but he won't let me get in front of him if he can help it, and finished the race a few minutes before me.

Total: 17:31, 94.3 miles ride, 41.3 miles run, 19,155 feet climbing. 

On gears around an uncaring sun

Even though it was only six months ago, I don't spend much time thinking about the Tour Divide. This is uncharacteristic for me, as memories of adventures are the background of my mental landscape — the colorful screen savers that pop into view during idle moments. Sometimes, while wheeling a cart around a grocery store, I still hear the crunch of footsteps on ice-crusted snow atop some Susitna 100 course that melted away a lifetime ago. But the Tour Divide ... that faded too soon.

When I try to think about the Tour Divide, what often pops into my mind is a flickering series of moments along the highway to Togwotee Pass, in Wyoming, one of those evenings that now sprawl like wispy clouds across an evanescing sky. I was pedaling my bike; it's funny because that's not what I remember. I remember stopping at intervals to put a foot down, slumping forward as my hands dangled over my red handlebar bag, and gasping until I caught my breath. As I looked around at pink-tinted pine trees and silhouetted road signs, these became moments of lucidity amid what is now little more than a wash of gray.

I was battling toward the top of the pass, where I knew I'd find a picnic area with an outhouse to stash my aromatic bike now that I was back in grizzly country. The decision to camp in this picnic area was one I'd made earlier in the day, and beyond that, the destination didn't hold meaning for me. I didn't care that there was already frost on the ground and my seven-year-old sleeping bag was proving less than toasty. I didn't care that I didn't really have a meal to eat beyond this bag of nuts I'd been carrying since Canada. I didn't care if rednecks came and stole my bike because I was sleeping right next to the highway, or if a bear came and gnawed on my leg. All I could feel at this end of this particularly difficult day was profound detachment. I'd been gasping all afternoon, taking longer breaks to force more oxygen into my blood while getting mauled by more mosquitoes, and I'd finally slipped into autopilot. It's endlessly interesting to me that profoundly detached autopilot, with what seems like almost no emotional investment or motivation, still generates forward motion. I'd be in Colorado before I defaulted to collapse.

The sun began to set, which only registered on an instinctive level. "The light is fading. It will be cold soon." I stopped again to cough up a glob of something thick and metallic-tasting. Coughing usually opened airways and helped me feel better briefly, but on this evening I experienced surges of fear. "The light is fading. It will be cold soon." It was almost refreshing, this fear, but it didn't stay. I fished through my seat bag to find my mittens, and while doing so, gazed back at the crimson light spreading across the sky. A tiny lake absorbed a perfect reflection, surrounded by glowing peaks of the Tetons. "This is perfect," a quiet voice whispered. "This is what you came for."

But the voice was just static on a television screen turned low and dim in the corner of a dark room, and I was an old woman staring blankly at the void. The depth of my detachment became startlingly apparent as I put on extra layers and looked away from the horizon. I did not care. My ability to care seemed to be slipping farther away. But what could I do? At some point after dusk, lyrics from an Modest Mouse song entered my flickering consciousness — "Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset" —which, incidentally, is a song about battling indifference.

A few days later, I sought medical attention in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, for shortness of breath and congestion. At the time it was measured at the clinic, my blood oxygen level was 90 percent. It's not a particularly alarming level of hypoxemia, but this was after six hours of resting while awaiting my appointment, and after my outlook had become a good deal more lucid and optimistic. In all likelihood, I'd been starving for oxygen for days. While the muscle weakness and physical distress I'd experienced was minimal given I could still ride my bike a hundred-plus miles a day (until I couldn't), it's interesting and disquieting to contemplate what this did to my mind. "Milder forms of hypoxia can impair thinking, alter levels of consciousness, cause depression and stir up anxiety." — NYT, 2006

Is it possible I experienced temporary bouts of low-level depression? I don't think this theory is entirely unfounded.

Now, facing the 1,000-mile journey to Nome and all of the physical and mental difficulties I am sure to encounter every day, I'm spending more time reflecting on what I learned from the Tour Divide. I never again want to care that little about myself or the world around me, especially in an environment as immediate and severe as Alaska. But what will I do if I again struggle with breathing? Will an inhaler be enough to restore oxygen supply? Will I know where to draw lines? I didn't always make the best decisions during the Tour Divide, where I was simply lucky to have a wider margin for error.
 I may be somewhat of a paradox in that I relish physical challenges because of the intellectual and emotional stimulation they provide, but crumble to pieces when my mental faculties are truly compromised. Another negative life experience — trying to complete the 2013 Petite Trotte à Léon in the Alps while extremely sleep-deprived — brought this to light. I was hallucinating, I was paranoid, my eyesight was failing. I lost control; I had anxiety attacks. I'll never go back to that metal space if I can avoid it.

So what makes me believe I can handle the rigors of the entire Iditarod Trail? I'll be honest — I've never felt more uncertain about anything. Even now that I've gained considerably more confidence in my physical health, I understand that physical health is only a small part of the equation. If nothing else, the 2015 Tour Divide reinforced this belief.

This isn't to say I would back out of the ITI because I'm concerned, only that mental health is something I've been pondering. The mind-body connection is both nebulous and unwavering, easy to tamper with but difficult to control. This is the most pressing challenge I'm considering, moving forward. 

ITI training, week eight

Monday: Snow bike, 4:37, 25.3 miles, 3,522 feet climbing: This was a tough ride given I was mostly goofing off with Beat's new bike in Corner Canyon. Mashing pedals uphill through several inches of snow is hard work even if I am moving at walking pace. The worst part of the ride happened after I decided to veer downhill toward the town of Alpine, and found myself on this ridiculously steep jeep road covered in ball-bearing rocks that were masked by an inch of snow, and deep tire ruts. Walking downhill just made it worse — my shoes had poor traction on those icy rocks, and I fell on my butt while wrestling a bike that wanted to launch downhill without me. I really thought I was going to crash badly. Happily, the bike's brakes, stability, and tire traction were just amazing, and I was able to creep downhill, also at walking speeds, but upright. Then it was time to push the bike uphill on another similarly steep road, back to Draper. I was worked at the end, sweaty with minimal layers even though it was 25 degrees outside.

 Tuesday: Hike, 2:21, 6.4 miles, 2,611 feet climbing: Dad and I got out in the morning to hike Grandeur Peak before my work day, which on Mountain Time begins at noon. It was 9 degrees when we started. I know this isn't Alaska-level cold, but I don't think I've ever seen an extended cold snap this early in the winter in Salt Lake City. Temperatures were in the 20s during the day and the single digits overnight the entire week I was in town, which is relatively rare for November. I'm certainly not complaining. It was a great intro to winter for me. Grandeur Peak had minimal snow and we took it at an easy pace, jogging some on the way down.

Wednesday: Snow bike, 2:06, 12.8 miles, 1,996 feet climbing. A short but strenuous loop in the hills north of West Wendover, Nevada. Mostly what I was on this ride/hike-a-bike was cold. I was wearing the clothing I put on for driving, and set out with not enough extra layers. I needed extra gloves and socks, something warmer or at least windproof on my legs, and something to cover my face, as it was 15 degrees with a stiff breeze. I always manage to have a "freeze ride" in early December, and then the lesson is re-learned and I start making better choices. Usually it happens in California while wearing a jersey and shorts when it's 40-something degrees, so at least it was properly cold for this year's lesson.

Thursday: Morning, trail run, 1:52, 10.1 miles, 1,847 feet climbing. Evening, weight lifting at gym. I stayed with Ann in Auburn, and set out in the morning for a quick run on the Western States Trail toward No Hands Bridge. This was one of those runs where every step felt effortless. I intended to go at an easy pace for three miles and then back, but when I finally looked down at my watch, nearly five miles had passed. I attributed my abundant energy to being back in balmy California (it was 51 degrees in Auburn), but I actually think my immune system is the one to thank for this one amazing run. Have you ever heard the theory about the big blitz of fighting a virus — right before symptoms hit, your immune system kicks everything into high gear, giving your whole body a burst of power? Just a myth? Probably. Traffic was horrendous for the final 150 miles home, with torrential downpours and many accidents. By the time I hit the gym after 9 p.m., I was feeling pretty bad, which I attributed to stress from the drive. As it turned out, I was coming down with a stomach flu that my niece and nephew in Utah passed on to me. I sputtered through my weight session, but did do three sets at the same weights as Sunday. (No, I didn't yet realize I was sick. Yes, I do wipe down with disinfecting wipes before and after using machines at the gym.)

Friday: Rest. Ugh. I was sick. Stomach flu is a short-lived virus, but relentless. For most of the day I was so nauseated that I couldn't stand up without feeling dizzy, so I slept through the afternoon. Still, I waited until after 7 p.m. before I finally admitted to Liehann that I was too sick to join him for a ride in the morning. At least I'd come out of my haze enough to eat my first meal of the day — bland vegetable soup and Sprite at a Vietnamese restaurant with friends (yes, I did use hand sanitizer.)

Saturday: Evening weight lifting at the gym. Okay, I still did not feel good on Saturday, but better. I made it through two sets of lifting. I tried a run on the treadmill, but only lasted eight minutes before I felt like I was going to puke. (Yes, I did double down on the disinfecting wet wipes.)

Sunday: Trail run, 1:35, 8.6 miles, 1,101 feet climbing. I slept for 10 hours and woke up feeling amazing. 110 percent. Actually, what happened is I didn't feel quite like death anymore, but by comparison it seemed so great that I figured I could tack on a bunch of miles to the 13-mile run Beat had planned and salvage my week. Ha. As soon as we'd run 0.1 miles, it was clear I did not feel amazing, and by mile four I was about to keel over. I took a short break to get the nausea under control and then jogged home. Overeagerness noted. No harm done, really. Stomach flu is not one of those illnesses that morphs into pneumonia if you're too overeager. But pukey runs are not particularly fun.

Total: 12:32, 38.1 miles ride, 25.3 miles run, 11,077 feet climbing. Beat thinks it's a good thing I got sick and ended up having a light week. He lectured me the other day about "junk miles" — the derogatory term for what I call "volume training." Seriously, I hope to propel myself across Alaska all day every day for upwards of a month, and if I can't handle 20 hours a week of moderate-intensity efforts, then I have no business attempting this. This is my opinion. I do need to build strength, but volume is what builds endurance. Some people build endurance with lower amounts of higher-intensity training, but this has never been my practice and I'm not even sure how it would work for me. When I was training for the 2014 Iditarod, I mostly logged weeks in the 15-20-hour range, and rarely had rest days. I was pretty happy with my endurance for that event, but as always I was disappointed with my insufficient strength and lack of specificity (I had pulled a sled so little in training that I had difficulties with my hips and hamstrings, and shin splints because 350 miles is just a long damn way to walk in 7 days.)

As always in this sort of endeavor, it's never about how fast you go, but how slow you don't go. If I can establish a solid forever pace and maintain it for hours and days with minimal bodily breakdown, I'll have achieved my version of ideal fitness. The body can adapt to long-duration, limited-rest efforts. You see this in practice with thru-hikers: those who start fit and don't overdo it early tend to get stronger as they go. Setbacks such as the stomach flu notwithstanding. I hope to have a better week, next week.

Beat's new bike

The day before Thanksgiving, Beat and I stopped in Grand Junction to pick up the bicycle Beat plans to ride to Nome in March: a custom titanium Eriksen designed and previously owned by Mike Curiak. This is Beat's third "Curiak" fat bike, and it's gotten to the point where Mike e-mails Beat directly before he posts his bikes for sale. (Edit: As per MC's comment below, Beat was the one who initiated this sale.) I liken Beat to an art collector in this regard. When it comes to bikes for winter backcountry touring, arguably nobody in the world has more experience or has put more thought into the specifics than Mike Curiak. Even as I balk and argue that two people who live in a small apartment in coastal California do not need another fat bike, I can't deny a deep appreciation for these beautiful machines. It's gotten to the point where we actually do hang them on the walls.

This is also possibly the current best bike in the world for Beat's intended use on the Iditarod Trail. Mike wrote about this bike: "Key word above = geometry. I had a custom frame built because although everyone seems to make a fatbike these days, none of them come anywhere close to geometry that really, truly works on snow. 99.9% of the people buying and riding fatbikes these days don't know any better, and 90% of them don't care. Most are simply happy looking down on their gee-whiz bulbous tires, thinking that the tires are the most important thing. No way."

More details about this bike here and here.

Although I've been in awe of cycling from the moment I decided to pursue bicycle touring in 2002 (in my own backward way of deciding on a 600-mile trip, then re-learning to shift and pedal on a borrowed bicycle, and then finally buying one), I have never loved bicycles. Sure, I form emotional attachments with my well-used bicycles, to the point where you'd have to mangle my four-year-old, high-mileage Moots mountain bike beyond recognition before I'd ever be willing to give him up, and even then I'd cry. (I did actually shed a few tears when I shipped my Surly Pugsley to a new owner in Alaska, and sent my Karate Monkey to live with my sister because I couldn't bear to let her go. Also, I ascribe genders and personality traits to my bicycles.)

So perhaps I am bicycle obsessed after all. But a large part of me remains annoyed by the realities of bicycles — they're bulky things, and quite heavy when loaded with touring gear. They have to be carried or pushed in a wide range of unrideable conditions. They break down and need new parts frequently. They have to be secured and fretted about when left unsupervised. There are always these new-fangled components like thru-axles that I can't coax into releasing without much gnashing of teeth. (I have real difficulties with mechanical learning, of which I'm not proud, but there it is.) Even among rideable trails, a high percentage are off-limits to bicycles. There's so much more freedom — and fewer complications — in hiking, running, and backpacking. And yet the feeling of riding a bicycle — the steady rhythm, flow, and ease of covering ground — will always keep me coming back to cycling, even if the machines vaguely irritate me.

This one of the many reasons why Beat and I work so well together. He appreciates bicycles to the level of an art connoisseur, and I benefit from his attentiveness and fine-tuned decisions. On the other side, I love cycling so much that I'm pretty happy to straddle just about any bicycle and wrangle it into working for me, and like to think I do my part to coax Beat into riding the works of art on the wall.

Beat flew back to California on Sunday night, but I decided to spend a couple more days with my family in Salt Lake. Alone with Beat's new bike, of course I had to take it out for a ride on the neighborhood trails in Corner Canyon.

Here's another embarrassing confession that reveals my contemptuousness when it comes to mechanics: This bicycle came with two sets of wheels — 29" rims with 3" tires for "summer" use, and fat bike rims and knobby tires for "winter" use. Beat mounted the skinny wheels for his desert ride in Loma, and I was effectively too lazy to swap out the wheels. Sure, I reasoned that the trails were mostly well-packed and the 29+ set-up would be sufficient. But I also knew that my tendency is to venture off beaten paths to explore new ground, and I *knew* that rather than riding the established network of well-built, world-class singletrack, I was going to end up exploring the untracked jeep roads above the canyon. This is just who I am, and why I don't always abide well with the limitations of bicycles.

Still, for riding in anywhere from 3" to 9" of drifted, somewhat crusty fluff, this bike handled impressively well. It helps that Utah snow is practically like air, but I had great fun motoring up steep hillsides that were pocked with deer tracks and nothing else. Sure, the big wheels would have assisted an easier and faster ride, but I was glad for a little more nimbleness when I launched down a mercilessly steep jeep track riddled with baseball-sized boulders that were hidden by a thin layer of snow. Brakes were dialed in as well, thank goodness.

On Wednesday I turned west to head home. I hoped to visit Ann in Auburn that evening, but the timing worked out that I had about two hours to kill en route along I-80. I chose to stop early in the day in West Wendover, Nevada — a place on the Utah/Nevada border that I used to frequent shortly after I turned 21 because there was such novelty in cramming six friends into a $19.99 hotel room, dropping $25 on the roulette table over a series of $0.50 bets, and milking all the free perks while chatting with some truly eyebrow-raising characters at the Red Garter Casino. These days, the thought of such an outing depresses me to no end. Thus, by association, Wendover does as well.

I usually actively avoid this place when driving between Utah and California, even for a bathroom break, but this time decided to finally check out the hills surrounding this somewhat run-down tiny resort town at the edge of the Bonneville Salt Flats. I parked at the Stateline Casino and set out on a jeep road toward a small cluster of mountains to the north. Because of Wendover's extremely dry climate, I was not expecting to see any snow, so I again didn't change out the wheels. It was a rude awakening to step outside to a temperature of 15F, a slight breeze, and after a few hundred feet of climbing, several inches of snow.

In just over two hours, I was only able to link up a 13-mile loop with a short spur toward a rocky canyon. There was a fair amount of walking along these steep jeep roads, most of which were untracked. I was wearing what I had for hiking at 15 or so degrees the previous week, forgetting that when I ride a bicycle, I need to dress at least a layer warmer. My hands and feet became useless clumps of cold meat. There was a long, gradual descent on a severely rutted and rocky road that was just technical enough to prevent me from applying much effort, and I froze without relief.

At yet, I was so enamored with this frozen landscape — almost alien in its barren expansiveness, and yet so close to the interstate that I could venture out for a quick jaunt in the same amount of time many travelers would drop a few bucks on slots and $6.99 prime rib lunch.

I also have a better sense for how well this bike is going to work for Beat in Alaska. It is quite nimble, light, and comfortable — the saddle notwithstanding. (I used to pride myself on being able to sit my butt on any saddle without issues, but Adamo saddles quickly cause what feels like bruising on my sit bones. After my five-hour ride on Monday, I could hardly sit in a chair without wincing. Beat uses these saddles because they distribute weight directly to the sit-bones to protect softer body parts, so I get it. But they strongly do not work for me.)

But if we have to have another bike filling the walls of our apartment, I'm glad it's this one. 

ITI training, week seven

Monday: Hike, 1:33, 4.6 miles, 2,293 feet climbing. Beat used his lunch break to go for a jaunt up Green Mountain, whose trailhead is only about three miles from Google Boulder. The views from Green Mountain are spectacular — quite the enviable lunch run. I was wearing spikes and turned my ankle badly on the descent, but was able to work it out with minimal limping.                   

Tuesday: Morning, trail run, 1:35, 6.1 miles, 1,742 feet climbing. Evening: Weight routine. I started from the Baseline Road trailhead and explored some of the lower trails of the Flatirons. It was a toasty day at 60 degrees, and the area was crowded. I struggled with the rockiness of the trails, and did a lot of hiking after turning my ankle again. In the evening I went to the weight room in the hotel for another free-weight session.My shoulders and arms were still sore from Sunday's routine. Still managed 30 pushups over three sets, but most of them hurt and were probably ugly. 

 Wednesday: Trail run, 1:25, 6 miles, 939 feet climbing. Beat and I drove to Salt Lake City for Thanksgiving, but not without stopping in Grand Junction to pick up his latest two-wheeled acquisition. It's true, Beat and I disagree about the number of bicycles he purchases. I'm still considered the "cyclist" in our relationship, and yet I'm the one that attempts to put a moratorium on the n+1 rule. But Beat is an avid fan of Mike Curiak's one-of-a-kind work, and any time one of those bikes ends up on the market, Beat feels he must have it. He also has the appropriate justification of needing the perfect bicycle to take to Nome. Anyway, it's his money, and I admit I enjoy the fruits of his collection. (I'll probably rave about this bike once I have an opportunity to ride it.)

Beat wanted to take his new bike for a spin, so we hit the trails in Loma. While Beat had all the fun, I went for an awkward, slow "run" on the Moore Fun Trail, which is mostly a pile of rocks. I decided that running buffed-out trails in the Bay Area does not aid in my aspirations to become a desert or mountain trail runner. The same goes for mountain biking, although I admit that any technical terrain is far from my first choice if it doesn't involve a large reward (like amazing mountain vistas.) I only have so much patience for staring down at trails rather than looking up to my heart's content.

 Thursday: Snow hike, 1:31, 4.5 miles, 1,641 feet climbing. Beat, Dad, and I embarked on a quick pre-feast hike to lower Bell Canyon falls in the morning. Felt good, maintained a fairly fast pace on the powdery climb just trying to keep up with these two (6 out of 20 for the 2.1-mile Strava segment.) But this didn't feel like a hard effort.

 Friday: Snow hike, 3:04, 7.8 miles, 3,198 feet climbing. Gobbler's Knob is a 10,200-foot peak above Salt Lake City. Winter trail conditions were good, but even in good conditions — even in summer conditions — this climb is a grind. A cold front was moving in, carrying high winds and lower temperatures (it was probably 10F at this altitude, with a steady 20 mph wind gusting to 30, which was calmer than we expected.) Our total time was four and a half hours, and stopped time was fairly minimal in those fierce windchills. I so enjoy these difficult slogs, even if their numbers look so puny in my training log.

 Saturday: Snowshoe, 2:43, 7.9 miles, 2,574 feet climbing. The storm brought a few inches of new snow, so we opted for a winter wonderland jaunt to the Red Pine lakes in Little Cottonwood Canyon. The temperature was 17 degrees at the trailhead, and it dropped swiftly when fog and flurries moved in. Later I learned a gauge at Snowbird recorded temperatures of 0 to -3F around this time, and we were just a few drainages over from the ski resort at a similar altitude. I was underdressed and not pulling my weight in the trail-breaking department, so I felt cold for most of the climb. We hiked along the slushy shoreline of Lower Red Pine Lake and continued a true slog to Upper Red Pine, breaking trail in several feet of powder through a treacherous boulder field. I struggled enough with my footing that I could barely keep up with Beat and Dad even though they were breaking trail, but didn't generate much heat at the 0.5 mph pace. A stiff breeze drove the windchill well into the minuses, and I became quite cold — numb shoulders and thighs cold. At the lake I did some callisthenics to push some blood back to my limbs. We were able to move a lot faster and even run some on the descent, but I didn't feel warm until a mile from the trailhead. In this way, it was a valuable training exercise.

Sunday: Afternoon: Snow run, 1:20, 6.7 miles, 1,178 feet climbing. Evening, weight lifting at gym. There was more fresh snow on Sunday, and not enough visibility to get excited about a mountain hike, so Beat and I ran a loop on the Ghost Falls and Clark trails in Corner Canyon. (Note: I did suggest Beat ride his bike instead, but he chose to run with me.) This was a fun run — I love loping downhill through fresh powder. The temperature at the trailhead was 26 degrees. It felt downright warm, until we hit the wind in the more open areas, then brrr. I took Beat to the airport in the evening, and then spent the next hour looking for a gym — I belong to this national chain that used to have several locations in the South Salt Lake Valley, but apparently at least two of them have closed. I kept trying new addresses because I'd already invested so much time, and finally I found a very nice franchise in West Jordan. Going back to my machine routine after two weeks away was encouraging — I felt very strong, upped all my weights, and didn't struggle with the third set as much as last time. It will be interesting to see how sore I feel tomorrow.

Total: 13:13, 43.9 miles run, 13,563 feet climbing. This felt like my lightest week since I started this training block. I would have liked to embark on a day-long effort, but it can be tough to squeeze in eight hours in a one push, especially while out of town and spending time with family. The Friday and Saturday hikes were both difficult, and good preparation for cold. Yes, still no rest days, but those other days of 90-minute jaunts are really just warm-ups. I'd like to hit closer to 20 hours per week for most of December, but I don't stress about specifics. As seriously as I'm taking ITI preparation, I will always prioritize "life" over "training" — I just do a lot of combining of the two.

A few more pictures from Saturday:

Dad and Beat after the climb, before they changed into their warm gear. Dad cracked a rib after he tripped while trail running more than a month ago, and is just getting back at it. (Dad and I share the clumsy gene.)

 While navigating the boulder field between Lower and Upper Red Pine lakes, we all stumbled into and over our fair share of hidden rocks. Here, Dad dropped his foot into the narrow opening between two boulders, and the snowshoe wedged underneath like a latch. Even with Beat reaching to loosen the binding, it took several minutes to work his leg free. This gives me more pause about solo winter travel — it would be unnerving to have this happen while alone. Because you can't see the boulders beneath the snow, you can't always avoid the holes. They're like miniature crevasses.

 Upper Red Pine basin, at 10,100 feet. The sun was trying to break through the fog. Scary boulder minefields, frozen fingers, frigid winds, and the 0.5 mph pace ended our desire to climb any higher. 

Opt outside

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, just like Fall Grand Canyon is my favorite tradition, for many of the same reasons. Besides bringing the family together in a low-expectations format centered around mushy food and homemade pie (my favorite!), Thanksgiving also prompts reflection on gratitude. Expressing thankfulness is another way of compartmentalizing values. What am I thankful for? What in life do I value most? Same question. 

This Thanksgiving was particularly festive, as it brought everyone in my immediate family together for the first time in a long while. We always gather at my aunt's house near Ogden for a large traditional spread and brief catch-ups with some of my many first cousins, their kids, aunts, uncles, and my 85-year-old grandmother. It's often a noisy affair that begins in the early afternoon, so my dad, Beat and I only had a couple of hours in the morning to sneak in a hike.

 We went to the lower Bell Canyon falls amid a few inches of fresh snow and frosty temperatures. It was a quick hour-forty-five, stabbing at the steep slope and breathing cold fire. I loped down the canyon behind Beat and Dad — both faster than me — brimming with gratitude.

 For Friday, we embarked on what seems to have become our yearly tradition of climbing Gobblers Knob on Black Friday. This year, some of the hype surrounding this pseudo-holiday focused toward REI's smart marketing campaign, #optoutside. Yes, it's a social media ploy, but it's also a fun sentiment. I love the idea thousands of people venturing outdoors during what is often a cold and windy part of the shoulder season in many parts of the United States. More people still choose to battle crowds at stores on this day, and honestly I think that's fine, too — my sisters are among those who love the Black Friday sales. It's a small slice of consumer culture, and I recognize that I'm very much a part of this. But similar to expressing gratitude on Thanksgiving, it's great to actually set aside a day where you can reflect on what you value more — a cheap television, or a day outside?

 Temperatures dropped into the teens as we climbed up Butler Fork toward the fierce winds that were ripping along the ridge. Winds of 50 miles per hour were reported in the canyons earlier in the day, and I was fearful of potential hurricane-force gusts, but we seemed to find a relative window of calm amid the snow-driving weather happening all around us.


 We even found a tiny pocket of calm to sit down and enjoy a quick lunch of pita bread slathered in Nutella and peanut butter. Thanksgiving dinner is pretty good, but if everyone could taste a Nutella and peanut butter sandwich at 10,000 feet amid a windchill of 0F, lots would have a new favorite food tradition.

With our hands and feet numbed by the short stop, and shards of ice whipping around us, we started down the mountain in giddy moods. I thought about how lucky I am to share these experiences with two people I love, my closest family members, and how grateful I am for our health. Happiness is simple at its core, where reality aligns with our values. I wouldn't trade this for anything. 

ITI training, week six

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. Went for three sets this week, 12 exercises, 12 reps. I stuck with all the same weights as last Thursday and struggled with the third set. When doing these exercises, I contemplate how the movements might correlate with hours of pushing and lifting a loaded bike through unconsolidated snow. I think working toward three or even four sets might be more appropriate than simply trying to increase the amount of weight I can lift. Building moderate strength along with endurance? Seems plausible. 

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:50, 5.6 miles, 692 feet climbing. I again tried to run the Monta Vista loop quickly and only moderately succeeded — 8:55-minute-mile average. The difficulties I'm running up against now are slightly more sore and fatigued quads after long weekend rides, and I'm not willing to pound the descents. But I continue to improve in small increments on the climbs. 

Wednesday: Snowshoe, 2:08, 5.9 miles, 1,743 feet climbing. By Wednesday I was on the road without a bike, so my pedaling miles are going to be zero for two weeks. I believe that's not a problem in terms of training, as slogtastic activities such as snowshoeing are even more appropriate for the "skills" I'm attempting to boost. For consistency purposes I'm going by Strava numbers, but the software tends to short me on time — it seems if I'm moving slower than two miles an hour, I don't get counted for moving at all. I should also note that for training purposes, I count anything I do on foot as a "run." Even if I'm working on a 53-minute-mile through snow drifts, you can bet that, minute-for-minute, I'm putting more physical effort than my 9-minute-mile jaunts on trails, so I'm absolutely going to call it a two-hour run. (Or just call everything hiking. I don't really care.) Anyway, this was a tough climb to Castle Peak, starting at 7,000 feet and working my way up to 9,000 feet through slush, breakable wind crust, and shin-deep sugar. I pushed the pace (yes, at 1.5 mph) so I was blasted by the top, and my calf muscles were quivering. Actually this outing took closer to three hours of moving time, but again, I'm sticking to Strava numbers for this journal. 

Thursday: Snowshoe, 4:20, 11.7 miles, 3,050 feet climbing. Oof. This was actually a six-hour effort with only a few short stops, and I was really feeling the altitude. There were only a few inches of snow at 7,000 feet, but I was still moving at snail's pace as I waded up the Lehman Creek Trail in Great Basin National Park. Past a campground at 9,000 feet, there was more than a foot of fresh snow, and the slog really set in. Close to treeline, above 10,000 feet, I hit these snow-covered boulder fields that involved balancing on loose rocks while wearing snowshoes. I couldn't take the snowshoes off for fear I'd put my foot in a hidden hole and break my ankle in a spot where I was all by myself with only fire-starters and a space blanket as survival gear, and wind-chills were easily below 0F. Winter mountain travel is amazing but it's also extremely intimidating. For many good reasons, I constantly have the "danger, danger" sirens going off in my head, and stress adds to the fatigue I feel on these outings. I turned around about a half mile short of my destination but well past the amount of time I planned to use up for this "run." Damn, I was tired. This is such better training for the ITI than those silly bike rides I do in California. :P

Friday: Trail run, 2:06, 9.6 miles, 688 feet climbing. Calves were sore and hamstrings were tight, so I took it pretty easy on this fun jaunt into McDonald Creek Canyon along the Colorado River, near the Utah/Colorado border. There wasn't much of a trail in the canyon so this "run" involved quite a bit of hiking up and down slickrock ledges, and shuffling in the sandy wash. It was fun to embark on a desert adventure after two snowbound slogs. 

Saturday: Trail run, 1:35, 5 miles, 2,732 feet climbing. I finally made it the Boulder, and Beat and I met up with Daniel (the friend who recently lived in Frisco and helped rescue me when I was very sick during the Tour Divide, and now lives in Denver) and Joe Grant (professional ultra-runner and super nice guy who lives in Boulder) for lunch and a quick afternoon jaunt. Joe guided us on a hike up Bear Peak and we chatted about life on the Front Range. Again, I'm still calling this a run, because the pace was brisk for me and Beat (and clearly a stroll for Daniel and Joe.) I felt moderately embarrassed when I was hugging icy boulders with full-chest contact, and the Coloradans were dancing over them on their tip-toes. But this is who I am. It takes a lot more than a few snowy outings to fix clumsy. Running downhill with these guys did help push me past my comfort zone, which is a good thing. 

Sunday: Afternoon, snowshoe, 2:38, 7.6 miles, 1,082 feet climbing. Evening, weight lifting. Beat and I drove up Boulder Canyon for sightseeing, and chose a random trailhead near Niwot Mountain to go snowshoeing. We hoped to find good ridge access, but instead followed a trail that meandered through the woods in a long traverse around the mountain. Both of us were disappointed about the lack of views, but it was nice to get out for a more relaxing hike. I'm beginning to adjust to the altitude although still sucking wind at 10,000 feet. Beat had more difficulties. I also discovered our hotel has a small gym, so I spent a half hour on a free-weight routine — mostly adapted from exercises I could remember from the "Strength Training for Runners" program I did for eight weeks last fall. Shoulders were pretty sore after 30 pushups, broken up in three sets of 10. But that's far more than I was able to do at this time last year. 

Total: 13:39, 45.5 miles run, 9,978 feet climbing. Well, the numbers make this look like a pretty paltry week. It certainly didn't feel that way. But I'm glad to have this opportunity to embark on snowy adventures this week. These efforts certainly will help more toward my goals than a faster time on the Monta Vista loop. Here are a few more photos: 

Beat and I visited the Boulder Running Company, which is practically across the street from Google Boulder. I was interested in purchasing one of those Ultimate Direction hip belts named after well-known runners who live around here, but got the souvenir shirt instead. Who needs a hip belt when you can just stuff things in the pockets of a jacket and tie it around your waist?

 Joe pointed out all the notable landmarks. There was a stiff wind blowing and I'd guess the wind-chill was around 20 degrees, and Daniel was perfectly content in his T-shirt and shorts. Meanwhile, we Californians were pulling on jackets and mittens and being teased for this, because we're purportedly preparing ourselves for Alaska cold.

 Although I prefer mountains, I share a fascination for the open spaces of the prairies. Colorado's Front Range has fast access to both landscapes. I like this photo for the sharp shadow of Bear Peak spread over the foothills.

 More Bear Peak views.

 Looking west toward Indian Peaks Wilderness. There was some fierce gusty weather happening on the Continental Divide.

 Sunset on Saturday evening.

 Beat hiking on the Sourdough Trail on Sunday. We were breaking fresh trail after a mile, despite seeing a dozen cars at the trailhead, which caused Beat to comment "Coloradans sure are lazy." I had to laugh. The main issue, I think, is that skiing is still pretty thin here, and people who snowshoe are usually pretty casual about it and really do only hike a mile. We did see a few fat bike tracks, and I wondered if they veered off in a different direction. Still, I really enjoyed this outing despite the lack of views. Snowshoeing is such a difficult but soothing activity.