Rusted wheel

Photo from Jamye Chrisman Photography

This is a photo of me and my friend Bill Martin at the start of the Fat Pursuit last weekend. We had a great time fretting during the pre-race hours and then riding together for all of five minutes before Bill and everyone else faded ahead of me, into the sunset. Seeing Bill was one of my favorite parts of the weekend. We first met shortly after I moved to Missoula in 2010, and bonded over our mutually oddball adventurelust. How many people will agree to leave from work on a cold October evening, ride bikes up a mountain until they hit snowline, keep on riding, get really chilled because it's October and 18 degrees outside, start pushing when the snow becomes too deep, reach the top, share lukewarm soup, and descend over fresh mountain lion tracks to return to town at midnight, on a work night? Bill was nearly always up for such nonsense, and at the time I didn't even realize how lucky I was to find such a kindred spirit in close proximity. He contributed to making 2010 one of the most memorable years of my life (meeting Beat also had a large influence on tipping the scales to "best year.")

Although I moved away five years ago, Bill and I still manage to reconnect about once a year at endurance races. It reminds me what I value most about this hobby of mine — the community.

This week I have been questioning my future in this realm. Endurance racing has been a struggle, and for the most part a failure, for the better part of a year now. Starting with my "altitude sickness" in the 2015 Fat Pursuit (same symptoms I had this past weekend, though slightly less obstructive), the "kennel cough" of my Alaska coast tour (It was a lung crud. I was coughing up gunk left and right), the Tour Divide pneumonia, more breathing attacks during UTMB, and finally the 2016 Fat Pursuit. It's an ongoing problem. But it's not exactly a typical medical problem. I'm faced with having to go to a doctor and say, "I'm having a lot of trouble with my breathing, but only when I engage in strenuous efforts for 12 hours or more."

"Um ... so don't do that."

Next week I'm returning to see the allergist I visited in October. She's a highly recommended asthma doctor, but when I went to see her a few months ago, I was starting to come around from the Tour Divide crud and believed I was on the mend from illness. She listened to my assessment about having pneumonia during my summer "bike trip," being wheezy and weak from July through September, and feeling much better in October — which would be consistent for recovery from pneumonia. Then she tested me for allergens and determined I was highly allergic to grass pollen and cats. Since those allergens were absent from my life at the time, she recommended I return in April to start immunotherapy.

Clearly there's more to it than a one-time illness. Ahead of my visit next week, I wrote out the long saga of every breathing attack I can remember over the past year, the contexts, and my reason why I'd like to seek aggressive treatment as soon as possible. I'm only hoping this allergist takes me seriously, or can refer me to a pulmonologist who'd be willing to conduct more tests. Even if the tests reveal something, it's doubtful there's a quick cure-all. Asthma medications could be helpful, or not. My symptoms have many of the markers of exercise-induced asthma, but because they've only happened in extreme situations, a doctor might not be convinced there's anything wrong with me. To be honest, I'm still a slight skeptic that there's anything actually wrong with me. I'm a believer in placebos and I also believe in the power of psychosomatic symptoms. Maybe my primitive mind/subconscious finally found a way to stop me from engaging my oddball adventurelust — by making me feel like I'm trapped in my worst fear. My worst fear is drowning. I fear this so much that I would give up endurance activities permanently, without regret, if I believed breathing difficulties were an inevitable part of the landscape. Regardless of the physical dangers — and yes, of course those matter — the experience of this state is the biggest de-motivator of all.

I was wrecked after 92 miles and 18+ hours in the Fat Pursuit. Not in a tired, hungry, sore legs kind of way, but in a sleepy, raw throat and chest, pounding headache kind of way. Despite many doses of ibuprofen, caffeine, water, electrolytes, tea, etc., I could not shake that headache. It persisted through Tuesday night. Yes, this can be a symptom of spending time at moderately high altitudes. You know what else can cause a three-day headache? Being low on oxygen for 18+ hours because your airways are constricted.

I stayed with my parents in Salt Lake City through Wednesday morning, and then returned to California. On Monday and Tuesday I was able to get out for a couple of short hikes with my dad. Besides a desire to get out in the mountains, I also wanted to test my breathing in high-altitude, cold air. It wasn't too bad. At a moderate pace I did not become winded, although my top end has been lopped off entirely. Moderate paces are really the best I can do right now — I can sense there isn't enough oxygen to push any harder. This is what I experienced for weeks after the Tour Divide as well. As long as I kept my breathing and heart rate under control, I was fine. Any surges into Zone 4 quickly pushed me over the edge, into the gasping zone, and it tended to deteriorate from there. I feel that hard edge in my breathing again now.

This was reinforced today when I went out for a run at home in California, elevation 300, temperature 57 degrees. I tried my routine, hilly loop that I've been running each week at sub-9-minute pace. Today I felt winded at 11-minute pace. Just the way it is. This is how I unravel my fitness, one endurance race at a time.

But at least I went to some very nice places while hiking with my Dad:

 Returning to Big Cottonwood Canyon on the Broads Fork trail.

 Mill B North trail, early on a chilly Tuesday morning. Due to my work schedule, we had to leave at 7:30 a.m., when temperatures were still in the single digits.

 Dad still rallied even though cold temperatures are not his favorite. I believe his words on Sunday were "I hate the cold." He's probably plotting his snowbird move to the desert right now. He turned 63 on Wednesday!

Dad does love snow-hiking, though, because he can bound effortlessly down trails that are rooty and rocky during the summer, and not pound his joints. After hiking a mile in tracks on Mill B, we broke trail for about a half mile before we found newly broken trail — by a moose. The moose trampled all the way up the switchbacks, resulting in a postholed, ankle- and hip-twisting mess that we gave up on after another half mile. "Moose make the worst trails," I whined. Dad found it amusing.

I remain hopeful there's a better solution to my breathing problems than "Um ... so don't do that," and that I'll know more next week. 

Still gasping

On Friday night, Beat and I started the Fat Pursuit 200-mile snow bike race in Island Park, Idaho. Our intent for this race was to test ourselves and our Nome gear in a more demanding environment than our typical training rides. I'll probably write more as I process my experience, but I ended up pulling the plug at checkpoint one (mile 80) because I'd had difficulty breathing for ten hours, there was no joy or benefit in the hypoxic struggle, and I'd already failed my personal test. For whatever the reasons or causes, I still experience respiratory distress during higher levels of exertion. In an endurance race setting, it's distressing and frustrating. In the Alaska backcountry, it could be extremely dangerous. This is something I need to address immediately, rather than grasp onto the fraying threads of optimism that "this is something I can control" or "this will get better" just to keep my Alaska dream alive.

I DNF'd another race, and I am disappointed about that, but that disappointment is far outshadowed by the idea of giving up the Iditarod. This is the dream I've been fighting for since the first signs of breathing difficulties developed during the 200K version of the Fat Pursuit in January 2015. But I'm not performing remotely well at this level, and the Tour Divide showed me that these issues just go from bad to worse over days and weeks. Also, when I'm experiencing breathing difficulties, every molecule of joy is sucked out of the endeavor. Beyond my personal safety and concerns about my health in the future, I won't abide the gray, disoriented, distressed and joyless state of oxygen deprivation just to prove I'm tougher than myself.

So, what happened? The shorter version — the race started at sunset and I immediately fell off the back of the field of 25 or so. Okay, that's fine, but I was already stressed about what I viewed as a tight cutoff, and realizing that I was starting out so slowly caused some anxiety. As darkness fell the course entered a series of rolling ski trails, and I surged to keep my momentum up short but steep hills. This necessitated hard breathing that soon triggered a feeling of pressure in my chest, and I remained completely winded for the next ten hours. If I pushed too hard, I could hear a chirpy wheezing in my throat after I stopped to catch my breath. I tried using my albuterol inhaler, but it was not spraying adequately in the 15-degree cold, and holding it in my hands for a few minutes didn't warm it up enough to work. Hiking up steeper inclines (and soon all inclines), I needed to stop and rest frequently. Before I reached the checkpoint, I was stopping every five minutes or so even on flat terrain. Trail conditions were relatively slow, with fresh grooming (which churns up the hardpack) and an inch of fresh snow, but I struggled to maintain 4 mph and I saw that as the minimum pace for making the final cutoff — if I could hold it together for another 34 hours. This seemed unlikely, needlessly punishing, and potentially reckless. Beat waited for me at the 80-mile tent checkpoint for nearly two hours, and convinced my still-foggy mind of the futility of pushing this limit. He was concerned enough about it to stop his race and ride the 12 miles back to Island Park with me. He did warm up my inhaler to a point where I could take a puff and feel much better, but the effect was short-lived when I started riding again.

The Fat Pursuit feels like my "Come to Jesus" moment. My problem is probably not just allergies, high-altitude, anxiety, over-exertion, pneumonia, cold weather, or any single-cause incident. It's a complicated pattern. Endurance racing is the constant. Exercise-induced asthma would be one possible explanation. But my pattern doesn't fit the classic profile of asthma or even exercise-induced asthma, since I've only experienced breathing difficulties and congestion in the more extreme situations I put myself in, and during the recovery/aftermath.

I spent some time reading reviews of relevant scientific studies. I'm not trying to diagnose myself via Dr. Google, assume I understand all the factors of these studies, or even assume they relate to me (most of those studied were professional athletes, not amateurs.) But the articles did provide some interesting observations. From what I can gather, in a nutshell: People who spend large amounts of time breathing heavily outdoors — especially when exposed to allergens, pollutants, high altitudes, or cold — appear to have a higher incidence of respiratory disorders than the general population. Among the findings:

"Chronic physical training might arouse a faulty adaptation of the main lung components, at the alveolar–capillary interface or at the airway level, particularly when exertion is carried on in particular environmental locations, as in cold or in hypoxic conditions at even moderately high altitude. The result is that the negative influences of these respiratory system limitations will be greatly intensified during exercise performance, especially in highly fit individuals."

 — "Respiratory disorders in endurance athletes – how much do they really have to endure?"

 "With all of the preceding discussion relating to exercise triggering, can exercise really cause asthma? The answer turns out to be yes: there does appear to be an asthma variant caused by extremes of exercise and cold air exposure. In this syndrome, elite athletes, especially those who train in cold climates, may experience non-atopic airway inflammation and subsequent airway hyperactivity. The best understanding of this process has come from studies on Alaskan sled dogs competing in the Iditarod race. Compared with nontrekking dogs, race participants demonstrated a dehydration injury of their airways leading to an inflammatory process associated with airway hyperactivity."

— "Dispelling the myths of exercise and asthma" 

 "The available literature indicates that participation in high-intensity exercise in certain environmental situations is implicated in the development of airway pathophysiology. Thus, whilst the benefit of regular physical activity for health and well-being is widely recognized, there is legitimate concern that the intensity of hyperpnoea necessitated by elite-level exercise may be detrimental for respiratory health."

— "Airway dysfunction in elite athletes – an occupational lung disease?"

"Possible mechanisms involved in the development of asthma in athletes are still uncertain; however, the content and physical characteristics of the inhaled air seem to be important factors, while immune and neurohumoral influences could play a modulatory role."

— "Prevalence and Mechanisms of Development of Asthma and Airway Hyperresponsiveness in Athletes"

I intend to see a pulmonary specialist as soon as possible, in hopes there may be some physical evidence that I can address and treat. But I recognize I might not find readily available answers, and that I may need to take a prolonged period away from endurance activities to improve, and that it may never get better.

A number of people have reached out to share their own experiences with respiratory distress. Some manage their exercise-induced asthma with medications, some had to readjust their training or move to a different location. One woman who had breathing difficulties and multiple bouts of pneumonia for years finally got a CT scan, which revealed a cyst that, once removed, cleared up all her issues. So ... there's hope, too. But this is where I'm at right now. Uncertain, disappointed, but grateful I still have good overall health that I intend to maintain. 

Pushing through another year

There we were, pedaling along a snow-covered ridge to spend New Year's Eve the traditional way — in a primitive one-room cabin 40 miles from the nearest road — when I noticed Beat was really mashing his pedals.

"Oi, this is tough," he announced. 

"Yeah, the trail is super soft," I agreed. A stiff wind whisked across the spine of Wickersham Dome, where the temperature was 37 degrees above zero. The warm weather was a result of a fierce Chinook storm that was raging across southern Alaska, pushing high temperatures so far north that the Geographic North Pole registered a temperature above freezing for only the second time during winter in recorded history. These aren't welcome conditions for snow bikers, who depend on below-freezing temperatures to harden compacted snow into a rideable surface. Thaws break up the surface layer, which traffic whips up into thick grains of loose snow, resulting in rides that feel very much like slogging through the soft part of a sandy beach. My GPS registered speeds in the 4 mph range, when I was pedaling about as hard as I could. 

Beat, however, wasn't struggling with the soft trail as much as the bike itself. The cranks turned more slowly until they seized up altogether. The bottom bracket was shot.

Unless you just happen to be carrying a spare bottom bracket and a crank removal tool, there isn't much you can do about this type of mechanical. You have a bike that still rolls but can't do anything else. We were five miles from the trailhead, so defeatedly, we turned around and started hiking back to the car. I was deeply disappointed — Alaska's White Mountains are one of my favorite places of all, and I knew I wouldn't be returning in 2016 — but took consolation in the fact we had another, closer cabin reserved on Jan. 1, and we could still hike out with our sleds the following day.

After about ten minutes, Beat turned around again. "You know, a mechanical like this can easily happen in the ITI. There are almost certainly going to be multiple sections where we have to push bikes for 40 or more miles at a time. Let's go out anyway."

"And push our bikes the whole way?" I shook my head. Sure, pushing a bike is good training, and in good to marginal conditions, isn't more difficult than pulling a sled (poor conditions are another story altogether.) Still, pushing a bike is, for whatever reasons, a much more mentally taxing endeavor. You always want to ride the bike. Even if you can only ride a hundred feet at a time, you'll get off and get back on and get off, again and again, just to avoid pushing. Beat's bike could coast, but in these soft conditions, it only rolled on the steepest descents. We were faced with taking these bikes for a 35-mile walk today, then 40 miles back over the next two days.

"You can still ride some, and wait for me, or turn around," Beat suggested. "We'll switch."

I shrugged, suddenly excited about the prospect of still being able to spend the rest of our holiday in the Whites. "Sure," I said. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll even get there before next year."

We agreed on the tactic that I would ride for one mile, stop and wait for Beat, and then we'd switch bikes for another mile. Initially my plan was to ride back toward him to avoid getting chilled. But as we descended into the Wickersham Creek drainage, trail conditions did not improve and I did not succeed in increasing my 4mph average. With a determined effort, Beat can walk 3.5mph in these conditions, even pushing a loaded bike. The comparison started to feel a little disheartening. I would pedal as hard as I could, until my quads were throbbing and I was venting swirls of steam off my back. One mile would buzz on my watch, and I'd stop to grab a quick sip of water and a snack before I turned around, only to look back and see Beat right there. He was never more than three or four minutes behind me. Meanwhile, I'd be so fatigued from my pedaling efforts that it was usually a relief to take my turn pushing. I thought Beat would feel the same about riding, since he was walking so quickly. But he often only went about a half mile as I fell further behind, then relinquished his pedaling shifts early or altogether.

It was all hard work. Twilight came and the hours wore on. Beat ran out of water. I still had a liter and a half, so I shared mine. We had all the supplies to camp and melt snow, but it was still fairly early in the day, and we had no good reason not to keep moving. Almost imperceptibly, the cloud ceiling dropped and a light drizzle began to fall. Winds intensified and the drizzle picked up intensity, morphing into a driving rain.

"Ugh, it's raining," I moaned. I spent several years in Southeast Alaska and still shudder at memories of rides in 35-degree rain, of which there were many. I don't have many experiences in 30 or 40 below, but I still consider near-freezing hard precipitation to be the worst weather, especially when combined with wind.

Gale-force winds drove hard at our backs while the precipitation deteriorated into sleet, and then thick, flaky snain. The tailwind boosted Beat's walking speed but didn't really help my pedaling pace, as I was now plowing through veritable Juneau powder (slush). We were both soaked and exhausted by the time temperatures finally fell below 32 degrees, and headlamps illuminated a blinding wall of snow. At times the blizzard was so intense that I had to close my eyes for several seconds at a time amid the crosswinds, because I had neglected to bring goggles (lesson learned. Never forget goggles, even when it's "warm.") My riding pace dropped to the same speed as Beat's tired walking pace, and his headlamp was nearly always in view. It was nice to travel this way together until five miles from the cabin, when enough new snow had accumulated that I wasn't able to ride at all. Unfortunately I'm even slower on foot.

We guessed we were only five miles from the cabin, but in the state of fatigue we'd worked ourselves into, it felt like an impossibly far distance. We were both out of water, but the wind and heavy snow made stopping to melt snow a formidable task that we wanted to put off as long as possible. My fuzzy fleece jacket looked like a wet dog, and I became chilled whenever I paused for more than a few seconds. On we slogged for another hour and a half — less than four miles — when we reached open water on Fossil Creek. Since we couldn't discern the depth from the shore, we took the time to pull on our lightweight waders. I'm glad we did, as cold water surged around my knees while I wrestled my bike through broken sheets of ice and slush. I greedily eyed the creek water but decided to refrain from risking giardia. After all, the cabin couldn't be more than a mile away at this point.

It was two more miles. The final mile of trail had filled in to a point where it was difficult to locate on top of the frozen creek, and I was stressed that we'd miss the turn-off to the cabin and keep slogging up the divide. But at 9:20 p.m. it finally appeared, twelve hours after we left the Wickersham Dome. There was no kindling or wood inside the cabin, so Beat commenced chopping logs that some generous cabin uses left on the porch while I gathered snow and melted liter after liter of water, drinking the spruce-flavored liquid almost as fast as it melted (I was so thirsty. I didn't even realize the depth of my thirst.)

Cabin chores always add up, and by the time we'd warmed the cabin, chopped more wood, spread out our soaked gear, cooked a freeze-dried dinner and apple crumble, and guzzled hot chocolates, we missed New Year's altogether. Beat noticed the time at 12:16 a.m. "Happy New Year!" I said hoarsely, and we shared a kiss.

Sometime overnight, the weather cleared. The storm had dropped about five inches of wet, heavy snow, and I was grateful it hadn't turned to a foot or more. I slept on the upper bunk of the cabin, where heat from the wood stove woke me up in a feverish frenzy sometime around 3 a.m. Even sleeping on top of my bag, I was drenched in sweat and alarmed, ripping off my shirt and rushing outside to the newly frosty air. The temperature had dropped to 10 degrees. I stood outside in my underwear and booties, watching faint auroras ripple across the star-filled sky. The half moon illuminated limestone cliffs in shades of indigo and silver. It was stunningly beautiful, and I stood mesmerized for a full 15 minutes as my nearly naked body slowly cooled down to the point of discomfort.

On New Year's Day we got a reasonably early start, anticipating that we'd both need to hike most of the 18 miles to Borealis cabin. While packing up, we discovered the bikes were encased in ice — we were both so shattered the previous evening that we neglected to wipe them off after dragging them through open water in Fossil Creek and several inches of wet snow, which froze into a blocks of solid ice. Luckily we had a way to thaw the bikes, or they may have needed carrying (the brakes and rims were so ice-caked that the wheels wouldn't roll.) Another important lesson, re-learned.

Sometime before dawn, two dog teams came through on this remote section of trail, laying a smooth track that the colder weather hardened to a nicely rideable trail. Temperatures had dropped to -5 on the creek. The knee-deep water we crossed the previous night had frozen enough to hold our weight. We put the waders on just in case, but didn't break through.

It was still hard work, but the riding was a lot more fun on this day. I wasn't overheated and I wasn't wet — I decided that perhaps 0 degrees is the perfect temperature for winter cycling. Beat still did about 90 percent of the pushing. I dare say he enjoyed it. He spoke often about walking to Nome instead of biking, and I can't say I'm surprised nor do I blame him. I still don't know what he'll decide, but I will say that as much as I enjoyed riding on Friday, I also fantasized about a long journey where I wasn't stressed out all the time about subtle changes in trail conditions or mechanicals or finding the perfect line. I still don't think I can walk the thousand miles. Certainly not at Beat's pace. But it makes for a peaceful daydream.

Still, bikes are pretty wonderful. When they work.

Three friends were planning to meet us that evening at Borealis. Through our cryptic texts, they were able to discern our need for a bottom bracket, and Eric (who owns this bike) acquired the part and tools and carried them all the way to the cabin on his kick sled. (A kick sled is similar to a small wooden dog-mushing sled that a person stands behind and rides like a scooter, kicking for momentum. It weighs a fair amount more than a pulk and needs to be pulled uphill, but it can coast downhill. I see it as a somewhat humorous mix of hiking, skiing, and mushing. Eric is planning to ride it in the White Mountains 100.) Anyway, Eric saved the day. Beat was able to fix the bike, although I think he was disappointed that he couldn't claim the feat of pushing the whole way. Friends Joel and Kevin also joined for a great night of laughs and race strategy discussions.

The following morning, I was jazzed for consecutive riding on firm trails at 0 degrees, but the temperature shot back up to 32. Boo. As we climbed out of Beaver Creek, Beat got so overheated he had to strip down to shirtless for a little while.

It was a great morning for riding, even if I was faintly exhausted from the start. Man, this trip took a lot out of me. I think neglecting calories and hydration on the first day did us both in. My feverish heat-panic on Thursday night was one indicator of how depleted I became during that 12-hour push. Such efforts are more than doable with good self-care, but once a hole has formed, it's difficult to climb out.

Eric took this photo of me riding out. I wanted to ride in a base layer, but there was still a stiff breeze, so Beat's ultra-thin Mountain Hardwear Ghost Lite jacket served a nice purpose. Even when there's no precip, it's hard to dress for cycling in temperatures near freezing. You can't go with much in the way of exposed skin, but it's easy to overheat your legs and torso. Personally I think I prefer 10 degrees for pedaling. Or a nice California 55.

Mid-day light on the Whites. I sure do love this time of year at Latitude 65.

We'd fly south early the following morning, but I was thrilled to squeeze in as many adventures as we did during our holiday in Fairbanks. Despite a decent week-plus of training, I feel even less confidence for the Iditarod than I did before. The gear testing went very well, but I sure do feel like a weakling after ten days of struggles in the snow, not to mention the fact that I was fully worked by an 80-mile, three-day trip. My confidence in my physical readiness is nearing new lows, and I don't even want to think about what might go down at the Fat Pursuit this coming weekend. Still, I need to remind myself Alaska does this to me every year. It's an incredible place, but it's a hard place. It's all too easy to become complacent, and forget. 

2015 in numbers

On Dec. 27, while uploading yet another track to Strava, I glanced at the sidebar, which noted that I'd ridden 4,899 miles in 2015. "Only 101 more to 5,000!" I thought. And I had four days to do it! Four days where I had one full day of work (rest day), the first day of a three-day trip to the White Mountains, and two other days in Fairbanks, where all miles require a significantly higher investment of both time and energy than they do at home. But the number seemed doable. It's fun to have goals — I sometimes guiltily refer to them as excuses. Now I have to go outside and ride bikes! Oh, darn.

I announced this goal to Beat and Corrine, who is recovering from knee surgery and graciously leant me her 9:Zero:7 Whiteout while casually mentioning that between holiday visits this year and last, I've probably put more miles on her fat bike than she has (more guilt. Please come visit us after we move to Boulder, and we'll abuse my bikes on Colorado singletrack.) Once the goal was public, I had to go for it.

On Dec. 28, I set out to follow a friend's GPS track as it meandered through a maze of neighborhood connector trails, mushing routes, and power lines. A massive Chinook (wind storm) was already moving across Alaska, nudging Interior temperatures to a pleasant 10 degrees in the valleys and slightly uncomfortable 25 on the ridges (ah, it does not take long to acclimate to the cold, even for us Californians.) I'd stripped down to a base layer and was still sweating up my own personal sauna. The route I followed proved extra challenging — plenty of steep (pusher) hills, little-used soft trails, and more climbing. I was aiming for 30 miles that day and they were happening the hard way, slowly.

"Why didn't I just ride some loops down in the Goldstream Valley?" I thought. "Ten miles per hour without evening trying."

But as I gazed down the ridge, flanked by the eerie skeletons of burnt black spruce and illuminated by the 2 p.m. sunset, I knew the answer. The miles don't matter. They never did. I ride bikes so I can visit places such as this, and I "train" so I can seek them out at every possible opportunity, and have the fitness to derive more energy from my efforts rather than become depleted. These days, I see life as a series of experiences rather than a checklist of accomplishments. Yet, I do appreciate statistics, which, like words, give shape to the more abstract aspects of experience. I've been dutifully recording the numbers from nearly every activity to Strava since late 2013, and the stats begin to write their own narrative. These are my totals for 2015:

Cycling:

Distance: 5,015 miles
Time: 592 hours, 38 minutes
Elevation gain: 499,928 feet
Rides: 118
Highest mileage week: June 15-21 — 812 miles (Tour Divide)
Most time spent pedaling in a week: June 15-21 — 95 hours, 50 minutes (Tour Divide)
Most climby cycling week: June 15-21 — 51,066 feet (Tour Divide)
Best non-race week: April 27 to May 3 — 30 hours 28 minutes, 293 miles, 32,933 feet climbing

Running: 

Distance: 1,701 miles
Time: 412 hours, 38 minutes
Elevation gain: 351,132 feet
Runs: 166
Highest mileage week: March 23-29 — 96 miles (White Mountains 100)
Most time spent running in a week: March 23-29 — 26 hours, 38 minutes (WM100)
Most climby running week: August 24-30 — 25,531 feet (UTMB)
Best non-race week: August 3 to 9 — 23 hours, 36 minutes, 70.5 miles, 17,625 feet climbing

Cumulative distance: 6,716 miles
Cumulative elevation gain: 851,060 feet
Total moving time: 41.8 days

My favorite number is the final one. I'm also pretty proud of the 850,000 feet of climbing. I'd love to log a million feet of climbing one of these years — presumably quite doable in Colorado. But the final stat — nearly 42 days on the move — is a hearty helping of experience. It's 11.5 percent of the year, entirely in motion — Strava records actual moving time, so it doesn't even count the seconds I stop to eat a snack, gaze across a horizon, or sleep under the stars. Pure outdoors time is a fair amount higher. I recognize that I am fortunate to have such an abundance of spare time to spend playing outside. Yet, I don't necessarily see this as spare time, or down time. This is my life. I would happily carve out all the sacrifices necessary to afford these moments under the low winter sun.

The final 39.5 miles of 2015 came in about the most difficult way possible (which I'll recount in a subsequent post.) But they made for a wonderful if arduous adventure that even I might have been more eager to back away from, had there not been an arbitrary milestone on the line. Numbers are fun. Records of numbers are motivating. I'd even encourage the freewheeling outdoor enthusiasts who claim they don't care to give it a try. A cheap GPS watch and free software can go a long way.

I don't have any goal numbers for 2016. I expect this to be a lower-mileage year with less focused training once I get through (if I get through) the ITI. But I'll continue to relish every moment I can spend in motion; in my book, those moments count the most. 

2015 in photos

This is my favorite blog tradition — the "Year in Photos" review. The idea with these posts is to choose one favorite photo from every month. For me, this means images that best represent momentous events or perspective-shifting experiences.

The above photo is my overall favorite, from a solo tour I attempted on the Iditarod Trail in March. My intent was to ride from Unalakleet to Nome, about 250 miles, over the course of a week. From the moment I rolled away from the Unalakleet Airport, the North Wind shut down every preconceived notion I had about this trip, and every shred of confidence I had in myself. The trails became so drifted in that I could scarcely locate them, and even if I could, I was scarcely strong enough to hoist the bike through knee-deep drifts that had the consistency of sand dunes as 30-50 mph winds continued to blast me in the face. It took me four long, extremely difficult days to cover 60 miles. When I turned around at Little Mountain Cabin, it was because Beat was returning to Anchorage with Steve after tragedy struck Steve's family. But even before I'd heard the terrible news, I was wavering on continuing any farther. I strongly doubted my ability to survive the sea ice crossing to Koyuk. I write about my fears frequently and overstate the odds of dying on occasion. That isn't the case here. Here I explored the situation from the most objective rationale possible, and I realized I wasn't strong enough, or experienced enough, to accept the risk of a 35-mile crossing with no shelter in that weather. I still feel that way. But I learned an incredible amount from this trip, and I actually feel more confident about taking on the journey to Nome because of it. I believe I'll make better decisions, knowing what I know now.

This photo, taken from a slough off the Shaktoolik River, represents the bewilderment and awe I felt in that vast, desolate place. It also represents the way I feel about 2015 — this year was about being a little bit broken, and a little bit frightened, but continuing to press forward with optimism that something better waited just beyond the horizon.

January: Fat Pursuit in Island Park, Idaho. I can't write about 2015 without zeroing in on my lung angst, which first cropped up during this 200-kilometer fat bike race in Idaho. I spent most of the last 60 miles gasping, hyperventilating, and spitting up phlegm. I blamed altitude for my breathing difficulties, but in retrospect, these symptoms mirrored others that I associated with illness and exertion later in the year. There are still a lot of questions and uncertainties surrounding my health, and I'm reasonably nervous to return to this race on Jan. 8 (next week!!). A tight cut-off for the 200-miler means I have no choice but to at least attempt to ride as hard as possible, at altitude. If I again struggle with breathing and congestion, it will be a strong indicator of how fit I am. Perhaps my lungs are no longer equipped to process the amount of oxygen I need to push myself in endurance sports. I need to be ready to face the possibility. That's what this photo means to me — a soft, blurry kind of melancholy, punctuated with hope.

February: Pacifica, California. Most of what I remember about February is that it was unseasonably hot in the Bay Area, and I put in lots of solid training for two big goals in March — my Alaska bike tour, and racing the White Mountains 100 on foot. This photo is from a big loop my friend Jan and I rode around the northern San Francisco Peninsula. We checked out some new-to-us trails in Pacifica and ended up on a harrowing illegal DH trail (after this photo was taken.) But it is a gorgeous region. This is something I will miss very much when I move to Colorado — the Pacific coast.

March: Iditarod Trail, Knik, Alaska: After the start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational, I rode my bike out to Flathorn Lake and back to cheer on runners. I like the frosty trees in the background of the photo, contrasted by the sunny, almost spring-like conditions in the foreground, as well as the smiling faces of friends who were embarking on the thousand-mile trek. Intense weather and tragedy struck later in the race, and no runners reached Nome this year. The Iditarod is a journey of extremes, and this photo hints at this dynamic — from icy to green in moments.

April: Portola Redwoods State Park, California. Another place high on the list of "things I will miss most about California" is the Slate Creek Trail, and our occasional 16-mile visits to Beat's "friend," the 1,200-year-old redwood known as "Old Tree." This combination of bright sunlight and lush forest is truly unique to California.

May: Ventana Mountains, California. Beat, Liehann, and I embarked on bikepacking trip to ride through the Ventana Mountains, climb Cone Peak, and return. Before that, I rode my bike from home to our starting point, hitting a number of fun trails along the way. That 140-mile day convinced me I was ready for the Tour Divide the following month, because I enjoyed every pedal stroke and felt driven to continue even when I reached the campground. This was back when I still believed that mental willingness trumped physical fitness in this kind of endeavor. I can't say I believe this any longer.

June: Great Divide Basin, Wyoming. I think just about every Tour Divide participant took a photo of this old Chevy hood rusting beside an extremely remote doubletrack in the Great Divide Basin. But I love this particular "bike selfie" for what it represents to me — the incredible places, and great distances I can reach on mental willingness alone. I was not well on this evening — in fact, this was a particularly bad one, where my lungs were so congested and breathing so limited that I had to hike up every hill, and couldn't top 9 mph on the flats. But I kept going that day because I so badly wanted to keep going, and because I was in the middle of nowhere and effectively had to keep going. That night, after crashing on the oil field road and deciding to set up camp right there, I caught rare sighting of an incredible aurora flare — the Northern Lights in Southern Wyoming. It was an incredible reward — a reminder of why I'm driven to keep moving. I wouldn't trade this experience, even if I did believe my failed Tour Divide was my undoing (I don't.)

August: Wind River Mountains, Wyoming. Sadly, I don't think I took a single photo in July. I scoured my Lightroom folders and couldn't find anything. That says a lot about how I was feeling that month — I was extremely weak and feverish for the first week, and continued to struggle with breathing issues for the rest of the month. I didn't get out much. So I have no photos — a lost month. Instead I'll include two from August. This photo is from a five-day backpacking trip with friends in the Wind Rivers. Everything hikers write about this place is true — it's the most stunning mountain range I've visited in the United States. If you squint at the righthand corner of this photo, you can see our tiny camp in the big, big world.

August: Col Ferret, Switzerland. Ah, the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc. I captured a number of beautiful images during my time in this race, but chose this more muted scene — descending the pass from Italy into Switzerland as the moon rose. The gasping and wheezing had returned, I had raging IT band tightness, and knew I was limping to the inevitable cutoff in the tiny village of La Fouly. Amid a persistent angst about failure and poor health, my overwhelming emotion was awe. I felt lucky to be there. I knew from the beginning that starting UTMB, after a being so sick during June and July, was a mistake. Failure was too likely, but that wasn't quite a compelling enough reason to pass up the opportunity to make yet another attempt to circumnavigate Mont Blanc. It was a beautiful run while it lasted. Most of my friends don't understand the appeal of this crowded, over-hyped race, and they wonder if I'll go back and try to get that Alps-ultra finish I so badly desire, once and for all — the answer is I'd love to, but it seems doubtful I'll qualify for the lottery again, at least anytime soon. Perhaps someday.

September: Augstmatthorn, Switzerland. Recovering from UTMB proved to not be so bad. I was already regaining stamina, and for unknown reasons, I haven't had any major breathing issues since (I haven't used my inhaler since October.) After the races in Chamonix, we spent two weeks with Beat's mother in Switzerland. I was able to get out for a handful of "recovery" adventures in the Swiss Alps that were pretty incredible. This narrow ridge above Interlaken is a place I fully intend to return to someday.

October: Greys Peak, Nevada. On the drive home from the Grand Canyon trip, I made a "quick" rest stop to climb an obscure peak outside Wells, Nevada. It turned out to be a tricky route-finding challenge, and I like this photo for the mystery it conveys. Where am I going? Why am I here? Such questions frequently cross my mind when clinging to ragged ledges, as they do in life.

November: Gobbler's Knob, Utah. Thanksgiving with my family meant several opportunities to climb Wasatch Mountains with my dad. This photo is from the descent from Gobbler's Knob, amid a swirl of blowing snow and a stiff chill on Black Friday.

December: Corrine's front porch, Fairbanks, Alaska. This photo reminds me of the first photo in this post — a frosty landscape with delicate light and stark shadows. But instead of depicting cold desolation, this photo is warm and exuberant. This coming year will bring ventures out of my comfort zone and rapid changes — I admit to feeling nervous about 2016, but also brimming with excitement. Happy New Year!

Photo posts from years past:
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010 part one, part two
2011
2012
2013
2014

Return to the magical land of Tolovana

Like most people do around the holidays, Beat and I have adopted a number of annual traditions. And like most traditions, ours started as a matter of chance and solidified into the enjoyable activities that tug at sentimental heartstrings and reverberate with desire to return again and again. Some people drive around and look at Christmas lights or catch a production of "The Nutcracker." We hike to Tolovana Hot Springs.

Before last March, when the Alaska coastal village of Shaktoolik took over the distinction for me, Tolovana was the worst place I'd ever been. Thanks to a collision of geographic anomalies and resulting micro-climates, Tolovana is generally colder and significantly windier than the city of Fairbanks, which is only about 40 miles south. Weather forecasts are useless. On relatively pleasant days in Fairbanks, it's not uncommon to find temperatures of -25 and winds gusting to 40 or even 50 mph on top of the ridges. I've seen this weather before, encased in every layer I had with me, eyes wide and shoulders trembling as I plodded up the steep face of Tolovana Hot Springs Dome. It brings to mind documentaries I've watched about horrific mountaineering endeavors. Only in Alaska will people hike through this kind of weather not to reach a grandiose summit, but instead climb naked into a horse trough to soak in dirty, tepid creek water. Yet another reason to love Alaska.

2015 brought what I might consider middle-of-the-road Tolovana — a temperature of -12, and winds gusting to 25 mph. Still quite harsh, and my out-of-practice hands went rigid as I fumbled with my sled and extra layers at the trailhead. I was close to tears for the first two miles downhill, but gradually recirculated enough blood to feel capable, if not cozy.

You might wonder at the appeal of all of this, and I can assure you, for me, it isn't the hot springs at the end of the 10-mile trek that always manages to drain an entire day's worth of energy reserves. The hot springs are okay — they're not amazing. There's a small cabin we rent for the night, with a wind generator that powers lights and a propane oven, so we can make hot pizza and cookies and chat away the night with friends who also find pleasure in such a harsh trek. All of these amenities are great, and certainly make this place exceedingly more accessible. But for me, the appeal still lies out there, on the wind-swept ridge of Tolovana Hot Springs Dome, with all of its terrible beauty.

An early sunset from the ridge, where my balance teetered in the gusts and windchill sucked all the blood from my fingers in seconds, but I took photographs anyway. I value the keepsakes.

We had an enjoyable evening with our friends Eric and Jay. It took some coaxing to get me out to the springs, where luxury means a wooden horse trough with two hoses — one gushing with scalding spring water, and the other with 32.1-degree creek water. It's imperative to strip down fast, but only after ensuring you got the mixture right, otherwise you're going to have boiled legs and a frozen torso. The last time I went for a soak in the wind, I sustained frost-nip where ice-crusted hair pressed against my scalp. It was quite painful and has made me reluctant to return to an activity that I associate more with suffering than relaxing. I was going to make up an excuse and stay inside the cabin while the guys went for a soak. However, after hearty servings of hot chocolate, pizza and ice cream, the winds died down and I mustered up the confidence to venture outside. The water temperature was perfect as we watched trees sway in the breeze beneath an impressive meteor shower. I caught a glimpse of the brightest meteor I've ever seen — an orange fireball with a white tail, ripping through the moonlit sky. 

So you can see, can't you, why Tolovana is a magical place? There are always surprises. The next morning, the wind was gone, and even though a respectable cold (-20) still lingered in the valleys, calm air made me feel impervious to the chill. After making a wide arc through the long night, the nearly full moon set over the mountains while we marched up the dome and ran down the other side. I raised my arms and took large, loping steps — flying, or more like moonwalking, through the surreal landscape with its glistening ghost trees and lunar plains.  

It was an easy climb back to the trailhead — not much effort at all compared to the rewards. Frost-incrusted trees slumped over the trail like a crystal tunnel, sparkling in the early afternoon light. Simply magic. 

ITI training, week eleven

Monday: Trail run, 3:37, 18.1 miles, 3,424 feet climbing. I'd planned to put in a long ride during the single full day I had in California between our Boulder and Fairbanks trips, but Monday brought an atmospheric river that dumped well over an inch of rain in just a few hours. I think back to my years in Juneau and how utterly miserable it was to ride through cold rain, and I admit I just can't make myself do it these days. Trail running in the rain is considerably more fun. On this day I set out from home to run to Black Mountain and back. I reached the bald peak during the crux of the storm, when the wind-blown rain picked up both volume and velocity to the point where I felt like I was being water-boarded while climbing into the deluge. Yes, it is still more fun than biking in the rain. I only had this paper-thin rain jacket and I became deeply chilled, swinging my arms wildly as I descended the steep and rocky Black Mountain trail with a horizontal waterfall slapping me from behind. It was all quite exciting. 

Tuesday: Weight lifting at gym. Managed to squeeze three sets in about 25 minutes by doing a bit of a speed session. In rushing through the workouts, I pulled one of my abdominal muscles, which caused discomfort on the flights to Seattle and Fairbanks and several days later. Admittedly I got wrapped up in my outdoor activities after this, and only did one weight-training session this week. 

 Wednesday: Snow bike, 2:35, 16.1 miles, 1,665 feet climbing. It was 0 degrees for our first fat bike ride in Fairbanks, which is mild for these parts but always a bit of a shock coming directly from California. Another shock is the substantial increase in surface resistance that pulls heavily on the quads and keeps coasting to a minimum. It's a place where good trail conditions and lung-searing efforts yield a 6mph average, and muscles cool down and stiffen up after just a few minutes of rest. I admit snow biking has an air of ridiculousness, but I admire the local cyclists who endure these conditions all winter long, because that is some toughness forged in steel.

Thursday: Snow bike, 4:39, 28.3 miles, 2,713 feet climbing. Christmas Eve had a little more drama, as we were out for five hours, it was 18 below in the valley, breezy on the ridge, and we did a lot of descending (first two miles were fast downhill, ugh) and climbing as we tried new layering systems and re-learned what doesn't really work for us. I had it a lot better than Beat, whose feet were cold the entire time despite multiple gear-changes and strategic running. I had a cold lower back and hands, which sounds and is minor, but still manages to set off bouts of panic (my fingers are cold but I'm wearing my mittens, what do I do? What do I do?) I also had some breathing difficulties when my face mask — which is lined in silnylon — was cinched tight. After this ride was over, I'd rate my exhaustion level somewhere near the all-day range, even though it was only 5 hours and less than 30 miles. But it was a good test run.

Friday: Sled-drag, 2:00, 6.3 miles, 189 feet climbing. It was still 18 below in the valley, but it is notably easier to regulate body temperature and feel completely comfortable while hiking. Dragging a sled strains my hamstrings and hips, and I find I can only pull so hard regardless of my energy levels, but I felt pretty good on this "run."

Saturday: Sled-drag, 3:36, 10.2 miles, 1,454 feet climbing. When we arrived at the trailhead for Tolovana Hot Springs, the temperature was 12 below and winds were gusting to 25 mph. The parking lot is high on an exposed ridge. It's often high drama to embark on the trek into the hot springs, and this trip was no exception. By the time I got my sled put together, my hands were stiff, and I had to endure a particularly mean case of the screaming barfies as circulation returned (holding my trekking poles inside of pole pogies and shoving everything under my armpits as I stumbled down the trail.) This was a good test run for my balaclava (which Beat sewed for me last year). It's made out of windproof fleece with silnylon lining the inside of the face mask. The hope is that instead of turning my balaclava into an ice helmet, all the moisture from my breath will collect on the waterproof material and funnel down to the chin, forming a nice snotcicle at the bottom, which can be broken off at intervals. After consulting with my friends in Fairbanks, it seems that everyone finds face moisture to be an unavoidable nuisance, so I am not alone. The main issue I have with this mask is a panic-inducing feeling of suffocation when I am working and breathing hard. While hiking up Tolovana Hot Springs Dome, there were a couple of instances where I ripped the face mask down involuntarily, only to be blasted on my wet cheeks with the fierce windchill, with an unpleasant flash-freezing effect. Still, I think this is the right system. I'm quite happy with my windproof layers — Windstopper tights and hat, and this fantastic fleece jacket (Mountain Hardwear Airshield Polartec) that breathes so well it's dry on the inside after hours of sweating in subzero temperatures, yet blocks the wind completely. I've had this jacket for two years and love it.

Sunday: Sled-drag, 3:40, 10.2 miles, 2,623 feet climbing. Overnight, the wind completely died, and even though it was still quite cold — around 20 below in the low-lying valleys — we enjoyed a serene and drama-free hike back to the road. Compared to the windchill of Saturday, even these low-lying spots felt pleasant, and I was grateful to march along without a suffocating mask wrapped around my face. I'd eaten a lot of food and had a nice soak at the hot springs, and couldn't have felt better in the morning. My hamstrings were tight, but I realize that's something I've been complaining about for a couple of weeks now, and is probably only partially related to the sled-dragging. It only took us four hours to hike out of Tolovana, when it usually takes more than five. It's funny to feel strong and triumphant about hiking 10 miles in four hours. I felt pretty triumphant.

Total: 20:09, 44.4 miles ride, 44.8 miles run, 12,068 feet climbing. I was going to post more pictures from Tolovana, but I'll do that in a separate post. I was happy to squeeze in 20 hours this week, each one of them full of character-building goodness. Gear-testing is going well. We might actually be out of cold days for our remaining time in Fairbanks, but I suppose we can't complain about nice weather for further riding opportunities. Strava just informed me that I've biked 4,899 miles so far this year. If I rode 101 more, I could top 5,000 for 2015. I'm thinking about going for it, but it won't be a small task here in Fairbanks, where no miles come easy. We'll see!