Heat maps

February rolled around and it occurred to me that I only had two more weeks — just two weeks! — to finish up gear and food prep and cram in a big training block before the taper/constant low-level panic period commences ahead of the ITI. My main goal after Feb. 15 is to avoid even a whisper of respiratory illness, so I'm hoping a sharp taper, less time exposed to air pollution and rising pollen counts, and maybe all the Vitamin C will be enough to keep me healthy. Time will tell. I'm convinced if I head into Anchorage with even an allergy sniffle, I'm hosed.

That opened the first two weeks of February to spend some quality time with bikes, fortifying my endurance and testing my breathing capacity at hard efforts — at least, as hard as efforts can be in the friendly conditions of this climate in which I currently live. I really hoped to get out and find some cold temperatures during this time, but a trip wasn't feasible within driving range (even Yosemite and Donner Pass had forecasts for temperatures in the 50s and 60s this past weekend.) Also, shortly after I recovered from my Colorado cold, Beat caught a full-blown flu. He had a fever of 102 and was sick for most of the week, so traveling anywhere was out.

As I mulled a schedule, I realized that this two weeks is just about it for my adventures in the Bay Area. Sure, I'll get out for short rides until the end of the month, and I'll likely be back to visit a few times after we move to Colorado in April. But I'll be in Alaska for all of March and wrapped up with the move and work catch-up in April, so for long outings in California — this might be it. It's always bittersweet to generate all this excitement for something new, only to be reminded of everything you need to leave behind.

On Saturday I chose a route that was all about climbing as many steep hills as I could on the Eriksen, but for Sunday's ride, I just wanted to cover ground. A century is good for that, and Sunday seemed like an ideal day for a road outing — sunny, 65 to 70 degrees, and a Super Bowl vortex pulling a lot of the weekend traffic toward Santa Clara. It was one of those idyllic Sunday mornings that I remember imagining for my future when I was a child — dozens of people cycling and walking along the neighborhood streets, green grass and blooming flowers, a bright blue sky and sunshine cutting through frosty air. The scene left me beaming as I pedaled along roads I normally avoid because they're part of the crowded suburbs, and continued as I made my escape into the redwood-forested mountains and down to the sparkling coast. I've lived within pedaling distance of the Pacific for five years, and I don't visit nearly often enough. When I gaze out over that yawning blue horizon, my jaw still drops, every time. It's just so big.

I turned away from the coast on Bonny Doon Road, with the sun beating down in the late afternoon. I was nearly out of drinking water and licking salt off my lips as I crawled up the steep pavement. I thought my reward for this climb would be a chance to ride through a landscape I'd never before visited, but as I neared the crest of the road, I recognized these sandstone cliffs. I'd been here before. I took a short rest beneath a cedar grove and scoured my memory for when that might have been. Another road century? Maybe in the spring of 2014, when I was training for the Freedom Challenge? More happy memories flooded my thoughts, along with a tinge of sadness for the farewells. Would I ever return here, to the sand hills above Santa Cruz?

I'd told Beat the ride would take about eight hours, but I tend to overestimate my abilities, well, most of the time. With 10,000 feet of climbing and occasionally fierce coastal cross-winds — and fatigue from a 7-hour Saturday ride to follow up a big week — the route beat me down and I fought the climb up Zeyante Creek as the sun went down. Just as I reached Skyline Road, I encountered a long line of stopped cars. A sedan had careened off the narrow road and slid 100 feet down an embankment, and crews were blocking both sides of the road to pull it out. A cop gave me the okay to slip past, and after that, the road was utterly empty. For the next twelve miles I encountered only two cars, heard only the fierce wind howling through the redwoods, and saw only an ocean of city lights sparkling in the Santa Clara Valley below, where the Super Bowl was happening. It was a rare hour of utter solitude, eerie and invigorating. There's nowhere I would rather be, even after Beat called me to inform me I was missing a wonderful dinner with friends (I was nearly two hours late.)

There's so much in the Bay Area that I'm going to miss.

On Sunday night, I went on Strava to see all the places I've visited in the region, and which ones I managed to miss in five years of residency. Strava has these great heat maps that mark every ride I've ever uploaded. The heavily frequented routes are burned in red, the less frequented ones in shades of blue. Although I've been on Strava since 2010, I didn't use it regularly until 2013, so my heat maps miss a few spots, but it's fun representative of ground covered:

This is what my "running" heat map looks like in Southcentral Alaska:

The Alps:

And Boulder:

It's fun to look at adventures as squiggles on a map and consider all the places to fill them in. So many possibilities. 

ITI training, week 16

 Monday: Afternoon: Road bike, 1:35, 17.4 miles, 2,298 feet climbing. Late evening: Weight lifting at the gym. Easy pace up Montebello Road. Would have liked to get in a longer ride, but I picked up a last-minute freelance assignment, and you don't turn down those! It was pretty late by the time I shuffled over to the gym — 3 sets, 12 exercises, 10-12 reps (I'm increasing weights and I don't always make it to 12 reps, especially on the third set.) I enjoy how I feel after a good gym session — buzzed and relaxed at the same time.

Tuesday: Rest. Flew out to Boulder in the morning, worked during day.

Wednesday: Hike, 1:31, 4.3 miles, 2,325 feet climbing. Beat and I hiked up Green Mountain during his lunch hour. It was a warm day (58 degrees), and much of the trail was coated in wet, hard ice. Trail conditions improved as we climbed, but even our microspikes skidded out from time to time. My sinuses were stuffed up, which I thought might be a reaction to the altitude, but as it turned out I had caught a cold.

Thursday: Run(ish), 1:53, 7.8 miles, 1,740 feet climbing. I jogged from the hotel to the top of Mount Sanitas and back. While running, the sun felt downright hot even though it was supposedly 28 degrees when I walked outside at 8 a.m. (It would hit 62 later in the day.) I suppose that's altitude for you. This was probably the worst day for my cold, but I felt disproportionally terrible. Selfie to confirm being roughed up after a mere hour. I got a bloody nose shortly after taking this photo, and became dizzy and had to sit down for a minute after that. Not sure what gives — Mount Sanitas is under 7,000 feet. But it's apparent I suck quite badly at altitude right now. I only hope I can turn this around when I move to Boulder in a couple of months.

Friday: Trail run(ish), 1:20, 5.5 miles, 1,370 feet climbing. I only had 90 minutes to spare on this day, so I returned to Mount Sanitas, then descended the Lion's Lair trail and horrible muddy icy mess down Sunshine Canyon. I felt quite a bit better than I did on Thursday.

Saturday: Hike, 1:57, 5.3 miles, 2,036 feet climbing. Beat and I bushwhacked up to South Boulder Peak, and then I followed the trail over Bear Peak to Bison Road (Beat found another shwhack route after Bear Peak.) We were now sleeping at 7,100 feet, and my sinuses were still clogged. So more wind-sucking.

Sunday: Hike, 1:56, 6.3 miles, 1,145 feet climbing. We did a slow walk around the perimeter of our property, and then 4 miles of slow running at Walker Ranch. By this point I'd again become mildly distressed about my fitness, and the razor-thin margin for conditions where I can actually feel good and perform well. Clearly altitude knocks me down. I haven't yet managed another cold-weather breathing test since mid-January. My window to do this rapidly closing. It was warm in Colorado, and now a high pressure ridge is settling over California. I suppose I can assume that if cold temperatures are one of my asthma triggers, I will figure this out quickly in Alaska.

Total: 10:15, 17.4 miles ride, 29.2 miles run, 10,914 feet climbing. My struggle seems to be an issue of oxygen uptake, and rapidly decreasing performance in the presence of any obstructions — such as sinus congestion — or altitude. I've been reading a few more studies that deal in overtraining and adrenal fatigue. I do continue to consider potential residual effects from the Tour Divide and improper recovery. Still, decreases in VO2 max are not usually recorded in overtrained athletes, and reports of shortness of breath tend to fall under all activities — even walking around the house — which is not my condition. There's also the consideration that I'm not experiencing a single other symptom of overtraining. When I'm breathing well, I feel healthy and energetic. My resting heart rate, appetite, and sleep are normal. Still, of course I can't rule anything out. I've been using an Arnuity inhaler for two weeks now, and if my symptoms are a result of asthma, this should start working soon. Anyway, I'm just doing some thinking out loud over a rather pathetic week of training. Just four weeks until the ITI and I'm kind of a mess, but at least I'm approaching acceptance. 

A backyard for adventures

On Friday, Beat closed on a house in a quiet mountain neighborhood located in the hills above Boulder, on the western side of the Flatirons. Home-ownership is something Beat has wanted for a few years now, but it wasn't practical or desirable in the Bay Area, where $2 million affords a 180-square-foot shack on purportedly desirable land. Beat's wish for privacy, space, and a much better man cave than our bike-crowded two-bedroom apartment was part of the impetus for leaving the Silicon Valley. We spent many relaxing evenings daydreaming while scrolling through real estate listings in Alaska and Switzerland, but practicality pushed us toward Boulder, Colorado, where Beat could continue to work for Google.

After only a weekend of house hunting before Christmas, we stumbled upon this place that was unbelievably perfect for us. Located at 7,100 feet elevation, it's 25 minutes by car to the center of town, 12 cycling miles, and 7 or 8 running miles. It was built and previously owned by an interesting British couple who styled it with a number of unique features, such as hand-carved railings and 300-year-old fortress doors from India. Although they're quite fit for people in their 80s, the couple was starting to feel the strain of mountain living, and decided to move closer to their children and families in Houston. But they didn't want to sell their place to just anyone, and Beat happened to come along with the right attitude at the right time. We've since heard the stories about a number of potential buyers with whom it didn't quite work out over the past year, but for us this happened at whirlwind pace.

Beat's work transfer isn't until April, so we have a couple of months before the big move. But we had a short time to check out the grounds over the weekend. I'm still in shock over the series of events. Back in November I was skeptical that we'd leave the Silicon Valley within the next few years, and by January, Beat had purchased an expansive mountain property in Colorado. It's a lot to take on compared to apartment living in California. I picture myself taking up landscape painting and vegetable gardening as new hobbies ... and housework, of course. It feels overwhelming at times, but it's exciting for me as well. I entered my 30s living out of my car in Alaska, so I can appreciate both semi-nomadic living and the opportunity to settle down and explore.

Beat is especially excited about the potential for human-powered commutes to work. The bike commute involves a winding mountain road that's very popular with road cyclists. On foot, Beat could utilize number of trails through the mountains, hitting a few peaks along the way if he's feeling ambitious (the most direct route is less than five miles to the edge of town, descending 2,500 feet on a singletrack trail after a short climb on a gravel road.) I'd also plan to head into town this way on occasion — writing at coffee shops for a bit of stimulation and human interaction. But the Costco runs are going to require the Subaru. (Beat says I should buy a bike trailer to haul groceries up the mountain. I suppose if I want to get strong, that's one way ...)

On Saturday we set out to find the most direct route to South Boulder Peak, an 8,500-foot summit that looks like it's practically in the back yard. There was some burr-coated bushwhacking and slogs up 45-degree slopes to reach the ridge, where rotten snow conditions caused us both to roll ankles and wrench knees in hidden rock hollows. 

I'll admit off-trail 'shwhacking is not my favorite activity, but using that method, it's only 1.75 miles from home to the summit of South Boulder Peak. I don't see myself doing this a lot.

Sunday morning views. 

The garage.

Looking west. On a clearer day I think it's possible to see some of the larger peaks along the Continental Divide.

Watching the weather come in. The forecast for the mountains called for 12-24 inches of snow, starting Sunday night. We were scheduled to fly out of Denver at 8 p.m., so we just missed the storm and potential to be stuck up here for several more days. Darn.

The property sits on 35 acres of land, so in the morning we set out with a GPS to walk the perimeter. It's a long, thin strip of land, but I had no concept of just how much space 35 acres encompassed, because it just kept going and going. Along the way we found a few small bouldering spots. Another potential new hobby?

The wood pile. Beat has already purchased a used chainsaw and a splitting maul. He's excited about becoming a mountain man this spring.

More not-bad views.

Our busy street, with Green Mountain in the background.

Beat's property is bordered on two sides by city park property.

More bouldering opportunities.

A small creek cuts through the land. Although we did some zig-zagging, we walked 2.2 miles to circle the property. It's a surprisingly large space, and rugged. Lots of steep slopes, gullies, and rocky outcroppings, but there is some useable space. The previous homeowner even passed on a permit to build a small office building, but Beat is more interested in erecting solar panels.

After our perimeter walk we went for a short run on the Walker Ranch loop — which is bike-legal and seems like a potentially great trail for mountain biking in the summer. I imagine going for long gravel grinders on mountain roads, combining them with hikes in the Indian Peaks wilderness, heading east and exploring the prairie ... so many possibilities. First I'll have to hope for some changes in my asthma and acclimation, because my fitness up here is relatively terrible. Really. I'm winded almost all of the time and had a pathetic week of training while I was in Colorado. Still, it's a beautiful place to walk along slowly, wheezing and smiling. 

ITI training, week 15

Monday: Trail run, 2:36, 13.5 miles, 2,155 feet climbing. I ran a variation of my "half marathon" loop at Rancho San Antonio — I had to change it up because recent mountain lion activity in Wildcat Canyon has resulted in trail closures (I'd love to catch sight of a lion at Rancho; there are so many deer there that it seems unlikely they'd be remotely interested in snacking on runners, although I could be wrong.) My muscles felt completely recovered from the Steep Ravine 50K, but I'm having issues with my "central governor" and any pace that threatens rough breathing. Walked a lot more of PG&E than usual.

Tuesday: Weight lifting at gym. Had a great session with my usual 12 exercises, 12 lifts, three sets. Finally back to "normal" with my highest weights. I still think the only thing lifting weights makes me better at is lifting weights. But at this point, four weeks out from the ITI, I just have to accept that what I have is what I get.

Wednesday: Road bike, 2:28, 31 miles, 3,224 feet climbing: Finally, a mostly dry day to ride my road bike! Oh, it was pure bliss. So fast, so smooth, so fun. I took on my go-to Highway 9 to Page Mill loop, but mixed it up with a climb up Redwood Gulch to challenge my balking central governor. Redwood Gulch gains 700 feet in one mile and has a section on the lower end with 20 percent grades. With my road bike gearing it's forced intensity — the slowest I can pedal still spikes my heart to ~180 beats per minute. At this intensity, my breathing becomes shallow and fast. It worries me — although it may be a recent bad habit I can fix with more focus.

Thursday: Mountain bike, 3:23, 32.7 miles, 4,139 feet climbing. Bohlman Road is like Redwood Gulch, times three. Beat basically won't ride it after some bad experiences while he was recovering from last year's Iditarod, and it's broken me a number of times, when I went out just that small percentage too hard. It's a good "breathing test" climb, although I admittedly soft-pedaled it about as much as it can be soft-pedaled. I managed to reel in the gasping, but still felt uneasy about my breathing and somewhat oxygen-deprived. The reward for climbing that mean road is descending El Serreno. For good measure I returned via Fremont Older.

Friday: Weight lifting at the gym. I only did two sets on this day because of "tapering." But I had some pre-race jitters that I took out on the seated row, and managed to pull a muscle in my left shoulder. It actually hurt a lot. I didn't tell Beat about this because he scolds me about my poor execution of weight training.

Saturday: Trail run, 5:54, 29.9 miles, 6,414 feet climbing. Crystal Springs 50K. This is my "PR" course, so I feel like I should be able to run it fast, and admittedly went out what was probably too hard for my current fitness (i.e. lack of top end/limited recoveries from long efforts.) I've gotten pretty good at managing these mid-range efforts on limited calories. Over six hours, I ate one package of Shot Bloks and two packs of fruit snacks, which is about 360 calories total, and only became hungry toward the end because it was lunch time. In my opinion this is a good adaptation for the Idiatrod, where bad weather can limit opportunities for food intake, and calorie sources can dwindle if sections take a lot longer than you're expecting. Breathing was mostly good, although the weather added its own challenge, with these bursts of drenching rain that set off a "drowning" reflex and prompted more gasping. Again I was able to reel it in and focus my breathing before it escalated to the attack level. I've now been on a maintenance inhaler for just over a week, and used an albuterol inhaler before harder workouts (i.e. Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday.) This may be helping. It's hard to say.

Sunday: Fat-ish bike, 2:07, 20.7 miles, 2,702 feet climbing. So Beat has decided he's definitely going to walk, not ride, to Nome during the Iditarod. This decision did not surprise me. I'll even admit that most of my snow rides since December 2014 have been slow, slow slogs that involved a lot of dragging around of this too-heavy anchor, and I've nearly lost sight of what I loved so much about this sport. (Yes! I'm admitting it.) But Beat being who he is, already acquired this amazing bike for the endeavor, and now that he no longer needs it, I am considering taking this to Alaska rather than Snoots or the YBB fat bike. Beat switched back to 29+ wheels because it's silly to ride studded tires in California. On Sunday I had a little bit of that tired-leg fatigue following Crystal Springs, but surprisingly wasn't that sore, so I took the Eriksen to the top of Black Mountain. It does ride great. Now I need to load it with a bunch of crap and push it up some steep hills, since I'm all but convinced that's how we're really going to spend most of our time together.

Total: 16:30, 84.4 miles ride, 43.4 miles run, 18,635 feet climbing

Breathing easier

Beat at the semi-sunny start of the Crystal Springs 50K

On Wednesday I checked in with the asthma doctor who I first visited in October. We had a very long conversation (I was surprised she was willing to spend so much time with me. I'm used to medical professionals being in more of a rush) and she conducted a few tests. My resting lung function is now significantly better than it was in October, but the doctor said she could detect possible inflammation. She started me on a once-a-day cordicosteroid inhaler, along with advice to use my albuterol inhaler before every workout. She's of the opinion that I do experience exercise-induced asthma, and this condition was possibly first "activated" by engaging in intense activity while ill (this could be the case in both the 2015 Fat Pursuit and the Tour Divide), or a condition of my allergies that have worsened over the years. I have both genetic (my dad has adult-onset) and environmental (endurance/outdoor enthusiast with allergies) connections with asthma.

The doctor thinks stress and cold temperatures are a likely trigger, and urged me to engage in at least one more difficult cold-weather workout before I go to Alaska. I am supposed to check back in one month from now to see whether I've made any progress with the medication. Exercise-induced asthma can be a nebulous illness to diagnose and monitor, and I can't rule out other possibilities such as vocal cord dysfunction (which asthma medications do nothing for.) So ... there are still many question marks. But I feel optimistic. I'm glad to have found a doctor who's willing to listen and seems genuinely invested in finding a solution. She works with researchers at Stanford and has treated a number of elite athletes, but when I waved off my "little hobby" compared to the Olympians she's worked with, she responded, "it does matter!"

She seemed excited about the ITI, and told me there's no reason I can't participate if I feel my asthma is under control. I still see some glaring issues. First of all, I'm not sure how I can develop this confidence in one month. My breathing incidents are still limited and have only been triggered in more extreme cases that I probably won't be able to effectively test before Feb. 28. Also, it's difficult for anyone who hasn't been there (myself included) to really understand the isolation one is under on some sections of the Iditarod Trail. I'm thinking specifically of the 180-mile section between Takotna and the Yukon River that is truly a no-man's land, where Beat and others were effectively stranded for more than 10 days following a major snowstorm last year.

It is entirely possible to be all alone out there for 10 days (if the Iditarod Dog Sled Race moves to Fairbanks again. But even if it doesn't, mushers and volunteers are not in a position to provide assistance except in extreme emergencies.) If I start experiencing Tour Divide-level breathing difficulties, I will have nowhere to recover and may find myself in a state of becoming weaker until I need to curl up on the side of the trail for 10 or more minutes every hour, which is exactly how I hauled myself into Silverthorne during the Tour Divide.

It's one thing to risk this when it's 90 degrees outside and I can stick out my thumb if I truly feel desperate. It's quite another when it's potentially 40 below and I am a hundred miles from the nearest village. If I have any doubts about my fitness, I should *not* venture out there. I feel strongly about this. That won't necessarily stop me from trying if I've created assurances for myself, and that's something I also lie awake at night thinking about. The 350-mile effort to McGrath is, I think, doable. At least I'll probably know early in the race whether it's not. But I want — so much  — to go to Nome. I really need to draw that line, but it's hard.

So I am proceeding with my training with an admittedly disappointed eye on the 350-mile ride to McGrath ... still planning to ride, but keeping my running legs fit in case it's a huge push-fest, or in case the Iditarod Dog Sled Race does move north and I opt to bring a sled in order to hedge my bets on a big storm with nobody breaking trails behind it. On Wednesday and Thursday I did two tough bike rides, intentionally seeking out the steepest hills nearby. I did this because my "central governor" — that quiet, semi-subconscious switch in your brain that keeps you from pushing your body too hard — has been extremely conservative since the Fat Pursuit. I've been proudly clinging to this idea of self-restraint when it came to keeping my heart rate in zone 3, but during a Monday run, I realized I couldn't boost myself into zone 4 if I tried. I was too scared. Scared of losing my breath, and not getting it back.

 Zone 3 or lower is fine for multi-day endurance efforts — but now is the time to test my breathing capacity and potential asthma triggers. Situations during the Iditarod will certainly boost my heart rate to the top of the charts. It's unavoidable. Here, roads like Redwood Gulch and Bohlman Road with their 20-percent + grades will force me into the red zone — I can't pedal slow enough to stay out of it. Still, I didn't feel all that fantastic on these steep sections. My breathing was cautious and a little shallow, with my less-quiet central governor begging me to get off the bike and walk. I was perplexed. Here's a new mental limitation I need to address — is my lung capacity really that limited, or is it all in my head?

Today Beat and I ran the Crystal Springs 50K in Woodside. The sun peeked out for a very brief few minutes at the start, and it occurred to me I haven't seen all that much sun in 2016. El Nino is really cranking out some precipitation so far this year, and it's fantastic for the drought. But for Saturday, it meant another wet, slimy, slippery, and chilly run through the foggy mist. I wrote last week about basically floating on clouds through the Steep Ravine 50K, and that definitely did not happen this week. I worked for it, and I didn't feel great. All of my moving parts were fine, but I was low on energy and general oomph even after I gave myself permission to go at the hills a little harder. I guess there was a part of me that hoped I could run "fast" even though I have no reason to believe I could be fast right now (my once-a-week tempo run that I haven't really done since 2015 isn't going to cut it.)

We had several cloudbursts throughout the race, but around mile 20 the rain really started to come down. It was pouring, windy, and there were icy pellets falling from the sky. I was in a better mood at this point, as I'd given up my "run fast" dream and finally eaten a packet of fruit snacks (I'd been skipping snacks at the aid stations because the food was so soggy. I'm not kidding. The Oreos were practically floating in the standing water that collected in the paper bowl.) When I passed an acquaintance, Marissa, and asked how it was going, she replied, "oh, you know, just trying to get through this nightmare."

"What's the matter?" I said with genuine inquisitiveness. "It's only hailing!" (It was hailing.)

Marissa and another woman burst out laughing. "You can talk, you're used to the cold." After she said this, I realized that my fingers were actually quite numb, but it didn't really bother me before because it was 45 degrees and there was no real danger. But I did struggle to open the next packet of fruit snacks three miles later.

I tried for a little leg-pop to the finish, even risking a bit of slippery sliding in the slimy mud, but it wasn't enough to slide under six hours. I finished in 6:02. I was first in my age group, and actually the second woman to finish — just missed that mug! (Actually, I probably missed it by an insurmountable number of minutes, but the winner was still hanging around at the soggy finish area when I got there.)

Overall it went well, especially because I didn't place nearly the focus on my breathing that I did last week (I admittedly did not have the energy for this kind of fixed thinking. I was just tired.) Which is good to know, since I can't exactly meditate my way through a whole Iditarod. Optimism continues to regroup. 

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.