ITI training, weeks 12 through 14

After the New Year I let my training journal fall by the wayside. Then I thought my training had been completely derailed, so why should I even bother? I decided to compile a catch-up post for the last three weeks because having the logs on record proved valuable in the past, and because I'm continuing to look for patterns that may shed more light on my breathing issues. 

Week 12: 

Dec. 28: Snow bike, 4:52, 32.3 miles, 3,295 feet climbing. Long ride around Old Murphy Dome outside of Fairbanks. This had a fair amount of climbing for a snow ride, and soft trails made for a tiring effort. Temperatures ranged from +8 to +25 degrees.

Dec. 29: Rest

Dec. 30: Snow bike, 5:41, 44.8 miles, 2,196 feet climbing. Easier pace than Monday, riding with friends on mushing trails and through the Goldstream Valley. One hard hike-a-bike early in the day. Temperatures were a balmy +15 to +32 degrees.

Dec. 31: Snow bike, 9:52, 39.5 miles, 2,599 feet climbing. The New Year's outing to Windy Gap cabin in the White Mountains while Beat pushed a bike with a broken bottom bracket. Rain and new snow made for soft trails. Even when I was pedaling, it was difficult to top 4mph. Beat walked nearly as fast. Didn't eat or drink enough, completely exhausted at the end of the long day.

Jan. 1 and 2: Snow bike, 8:27, 39 miles, 2,577 feet climbing. Back from Windy Gap via Borealis cabin overnight. I found it tough to recover from the New Year's Eve ride, and didn't have much oomph. Snow biking is hard. Loaded snow biking on typical backcountry trails is tougher for me than any other sport I've tried. It demands a lot of brute strength, which I admittedly lack in sufficient amounts. I was already wondering if I had a thousand miles of snow biking in me, even before any breathing issues resurfaced.

Jan. 3: Rest. Flew home to California. 

Total: 28:52, 155.8 miles ride, 10,667 feet climbing

Week 13: 

Jan. 4: Fat bike, 1:06, 10.2 miles, 1,069 feet climbing. Beat mounted studded Dillinger 5 tires on the Moots YBB fat bike, so I took it for an hour-long test ride on pavement. I felt sluggish and fatigued on this ride — probably indicative of how spent I was following 30 hours of snow biking in Fairbanks. Big, tiring weeks are necessary when training for a multiday race, but my lack of recovery wasn't a good omen so close to the Fat Pursuit. I thought three days off the bike following this one would help reset my engine. Either didn't work or didn't help.

Jan. 5: Weight lifting at gym. Three sets, same weights as 10 days earlier, which was the last time I lifted. So sore!

Jan. 6: Rest. Drove to Salt Lake City.

Jan. 7: Rest. Drove to Island Park.

Jan. 8 and 9: Snow bike, 16:56, 90.3 miles, 3,636 feet climbing. The Fat Pursuit 200-mile race, stopped at mile 80 with breathing difficulties. The difficulties started during the third hour of the race, which negated my previous theory that only extended fatigue will bring on problems.

Jan. 10: Rest

Total: 18:03, 100.6 miles ride, 4,705 feet climbing. I suppose it's fitting that week 13 would be the meltdown week.

Week 14:

Jan. 11: Snow hike: 1:51, 5.3 miles, 2,126 feet climbing. Climbed the Broads Fork trail with Dad. My chest and throat were raw, and I was fighting a pounding headache and general fatigue, but was otherwise okay. I thought this would be a good opportunity to to test my breathing capacity in difficult conditions. Temperature was about 20 degrees, elevations 6,100 to 8,300 feet. I kept my heart rate in zone 2-3, and didn't have any feelings of tightness in my chest for the duration of the hike.

Jan. 12: Snowshoe: 1:38, 4.2 miles, 1,705 feet climbing. We went up Mill B and I felt notably worse on this day. Temperature 10-20 degrees, elevation 6,100 to 7,800 feet. We kept it short and slow, but I could sense that I didn't have a better effort in me. These two hikes, even more than the failed race, reduced my trust in my "long game" for something as demanding as the ride to Nome. In previous multi-day efforts, I recovered better from hard days, but I believe this possible oxygen deficiency brings the physical setbacks to a whole new level. I also remember my deterioration during the Tour Divide, and believe these breathing difficulties can only bring decline — possibly managed, but not recovered. Even though I felt okay hiking in the cold at high elevation in Utah, my confidence was further fractured.

Jan. 13: Rest. Drove to California.

Jan. 14: Trail run, 0:58, 5.4 miles, 677 feet climbing. I didn't run quite as slowly as I feared — 10:35 pace — but that's nearly two minutes per mile slower than I was able to run this loop in December, and I was actually going as hard as I could because I wanted to test a "tempo" effort. Even trying to keep my breathing controlled, I became winded and felt like my heart rate was higher than normal. Since I was back at sea level and temperatures were in the 50s, I figured my fitness was shot.

Jan. 15: Weight lifting at gym. Three sets. Again a long time had passed since I last lifted, and I was able to return to my old weights but just barely. Admittedly, I've lost faith that weight lifting is making a modicum of difference toward my goals. I didn't necessarily feel stronger with a loaded fat bike in Fairbanks (when I'd been at it twice a week for 10 weeks), and I've certainly been sucking on multiple levels ever since. But ... I'll stick with it. Hopefully more regularly for the next few weeks.

Jan. 16: Trail run, 6:51, 31.5 miles, 6,776 feet climbing. Steep Ravine 50K, described in previous blog post. I'm still not sure how to make sense of this experience. I'm completely baffled.

Jan. 17: Weight lifting at gym. Shoulders were sore from Friday's workout and aggressive trekking pole use at Steep Ravine, but it went relatively well. Back to regular lifting.

Total: 11:20, 46.5 miles run, 11,284 feet climbing. I sort of feel back on track now. We shall see!

Busting out?

I spent a week Googling and brooding on breathing issues, only to become more and more perplexed. Not only do I feel more stupid and crazy, but aimless Internet research also strengthened that tinge of anxiety that my problem is terminal or something that requires a grain/dairy/fruit/sugar/cat/exercise/winter/outdoor-free existence that might feel terminal. I did reach a reluctant conclusion on three things: 1. Regardless of the cause, breathing difficulties are something I will probably experience again. 2. It will likely take some time to figure out which treatments/lifestyle changes (if any) will remedy the problem. 3. In the meantime, I need to figure out if and how I can cope.

My breathing felt limited during my hikes in Utah, and fully strained while running in California on Thursday. I thought about taking two weeks off from any cardio exercise. Taking a long break at this time would probably be my last gasp, so to speak, for any hope of participating in even a short-distance Iditarod this year, but I was starting to feel desperate. Meanwhile, I had signed up for this 50-kilometer trail run that started in Stinson Beach on Saturday. There was much quiet yo-yoing about the thing before my thought pattern ended on an upswing: Why don't I just go out there and see what happens? If it goes south and I'm still gasping, that will be the answer I need. That will mean I don't have the lung capacity for a long effort, at least anytime soon.

The Steep Ravine 50K started at 50 degrees under light drizzle, with a forecast that called for steady rain picking up throughout the day. The Marin Headlands received a healthy dose of precipitation in the preceding weeks, so the hills were vibrantly green and the trails were saturated with mud. The fog ceiling hovered only about 200 feet above the sea, and visibility above that altitude was reduced to a few feet at times — not the most appealing scenery for a course that boasts nearly 7,000 feet of climbing. Despite the foreboding weather, the race director announced that nearly 50 people had checked in for the 50K — not a bad turnout. I quite like running in cool, moody weather, but my heart was filled with dread. The parameters I'd set for Steep Ravine had harsh implications — if I failed, I not only had to withdraw from Iditarod, but also risk falling deeper into the rabbit hole of questioning and uncertainty.

My strategy for the run was to focus entirely on controlling my breathing: take deep, steady breaths, keep my heart rate in Zone 3 or lower, and slow down — or stop if necessary — the second I felt that "sharp edge" pressure in my chest that seems to precede an attack. I also brought my trekking poles because I realized that the steep, rooty, muddy trails would put me on my face more than once if I focused too heavily on my internal affairs, unless I had crutches to prop myself up. I've run three or four local 50Ks with trekking poles, and yes, I'm always the only one, and yes, the people I'm around usually express envy later in the race. Running crutches are awesome. I'm still waiting for them to catch on in the U.S.

So it went from the start — breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, which such focus that I almost forgot I was running. My Zone 3 — which is what I consider 145-160 beats per minute — doesn't afford a satisfyingly speedy pace, but it does make for a relaxing, meditative experience. Breathe in, breathe out, up Steep Ravine, over Cardiac Hill, down the endless switchbacks, slip-slide on the horse trail along Redwood Creek, up the Dipsea roots, down the Dipsea stairs. Repeat.

Rain continued to come down, and the trails deteriorated into channels for flowing runoff. It was slippery, often steep, and reasonably technical — conditions that would normally stress me out during a trail race. On this day, however, mindful breathing put me in a dreamy, Zen-like state, and I felt no fear. On the second ascent to Cardiac Hill, around mile 11, I splashed into a puddle and felt a sudden surge through my chest, as though my lungs had burst open. It's difficult to describe the sensation, but it was startlingly invigorating — almost alarming. At first I confused the sensation for the beginnings of an asthma attack, but as I slowed to a stop, I could feel all this warm, humid air moving in and out of my lungs. It genuinely felt like a higher volume of air — or perhaps a more oxygen-saturated version of the atmosphere. I commenced jogging and felt great. I could have sprinted up that hill, but I wouldn't let that happen. This little runner's high wasn't going to derail my commitment to Zone 3 and steady breathing. At this point, I was steadily floating.

Breathe in, breathe out, along the socked-in return to Stinson Beach, then once more along the raging creek in Steep Ravine. After I successfully descended the infuriatingly endless hairpin switchbacks and the shoe-sucking horse trail a second time, it occurred to me that I was something like 24 miles into this run, and felt no negative effects. Not only was I breathing normally, but I didn't have any foot or muscle pain, no tightness in my IT band or ache in my quads, not even chafing. I hadn't even tumbled or slipped onto my butt, not even once! I was actually having pretty much the perfect race.

On my last visit to Cardiac Hill, I stopped to eat a few handfuls of soggy Shot Bloks and savored the experience. I posted this photo from my friend Chuck so you can see the beauty of Cardiac Hill in this weather — it's exposed, windy, and very wet. This guy actually volunteered to hang out here for 8+ hours doling out much-appreciated but waterlogged snacks and drinks in disintegrating paper cups. This is why volunteers are lauded as the true heroes of any trail race. I stood here nibbling on Shot Bloks as though they were fine pieces of cheese, and marveled at how great I felt. "It's all this moisture and oxygen in the air," I thought. "It's like crack."

As I floated down the Dipsea Trail, I passed two women who pulled over to let me pass. "We can't keep up with you and those poles," one commented. "You're fast with those things."

"Thank you," I beamed, even though I wasn't sure they meant it as a complement. (I think trekking poles are to the ultrarunning scene today what Hokas were five years ago: For the frail and Europeans only.) But I felt unstoppable, clickity-clacking down the slimy wooden stairs, down the gray-washed trail to Stinson Beach where there's normally a spectacular ocean view, and across the finish line. After hanging out with friends, eating chili from a tiny paper cup, and gradually becoming wracked with shivering, I noticed a chart indicating I was the first woman to finish the race. Clearly this was a result of attrition, as a few women probably dropped down to the 25K after the first loop, and there weren't many to begin with (I was first out of eight to finish the 50K.) Still ... winning a coffee mug is a nice cherry on top of a perfect race.

I'm really not sure how to make sense of this experience, since this is probably the easiest finish I've ever had in a 50K, just one week after the exhausting aftermath of a failed snow bike race. I can't gauge my health on this, because conditions were dramatically different — sea level, warm, humid — compared to the cold, dry, and high-altitude air I struggled with last week. I'm seeing my doctor on Wednesday, and I now have another confusing variable to add to the equation. But I think there's something to be said about mindful breathing, as well as the power of positive thinking when there's an entire passion at stake. 

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.