ITI training, week 18

Monday: Rest

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:53, 5.6 miles, 681 feet climbing. Monta Vista loop at cruising pace. This minor but persistent strain in my left shin — which started sometime before we went to Colorado three weeks ago — finally went away for good. And back pain hasn't returned since I stopped riding the road bike. So right now, all of the niggles are gone. Yay!

Wednesday: Afternoon; fat bike, 2:07, 18 miles, 2,821 feet climbing. Evening, weight lifting at gym. I took the Eriksen out for a cruise around Fremont Older trails. I am enamored with this bike, which of course is the one Beat purchased to take to Nome himself before he decided biking isn't all that fun and switched back to the foot division. I wonder if Beat will mind if I call the bike "Erik." Erik is amazingly comfortable and responsive, and doesn't feel awkward when loaded. I think we'll get along really well.

Thursday: Fat bike, 4:34, 41.5 miles, 5,530 feet climbing. I have been trying to finish up some projects before we head to Alaska, but I've become *incredibly* preoccupied with Iditarod thoughts. Even so, I had one more immediate deadline to hit on Thursday, and wasn't able to get out until 2:30. I felt strong on the two big climbs — Black Mountain and Windy Hill, which is a lung-burner even on the best days. I made it to Russian Ridge right at sunset, and it was sublime.

Friday: Weight lifting at the gym, then trail run, 0:55, 5.6 miles, 688 feet climbing. For both of my weight-lifting sessions this week, I made it through three sets of 12 exercises, 12 reps. While I was working the barbells on Friday, I became convinced I could see distinct muscle definition in my arms, but when I encouraged Beat to "check out my guns," he just laughed. Ah well. It's interesting how much 45 minutes of lifting weights leaves me fatigued for an hour run, given I'm still focusing on upper-body only. I made it through the Monta Vista loop at a respectable pace, but I felt as though I was battling through the last hour of a long run.

Saturday: Fat bike, 7:37, 76.6 miles, 8,706 feet climbing. Liehann and I made it out for one last lap around the "Big Basin Big Loop." A Strava activity search indicates I've ridden this exact variation of the route at least six times, and the moving time on this ride was an nearly an hour less than my next fastest (8:29.) It's funny because I didn't feel like we were riding faster than usual. Liehann was instructed by his coach to keep his pace in a certain power zone and make minimal stops, and I just matched this pace (usually I lag well behind Liehann when we ride together.) I felt great on this ride; it was all around relaxing and enjoyable, and I had no noticeable soreness or even fatigue afterward.

Sunday: Fat bike, 4:31, 39.5 miles, 5,517 feet climbing. I wrapped up my final "peak week" with another climby ride — Black Mountain to Grizzly Flat to the John Nichols Trail, then Highway 9 and Redwood Gulch. It's always most telling to see how I feel the day after a long ride, and I still had plenty of spark on this day.

Total: 20:39, 175.6 miles ride, 11.2 miles run, 23,942 feet climbing. If I was training for a shorter warm-weather bikepacking race like the Stagecoach 400, I would have high confidence in my fitness right now. But there are so many unknowns and added challenges to the Iditarod that I remain cautious and uncertain about my prospects at any distance on that route. I visited my allergy doctor today (Wednesday, Feb. 17), to check on my progress one month after I started using a daily maintenance inhaler. My lung function has not improved — something she was hoping to see — but she said it's encouraging that I've been feeling better during my workouts. I'll be sticking with that medication through the next month in Alaska, and hoping that it helps offset the inflammation I'm still dealing with. I'm in taper mode now and also fighting a cold, right on cue, that's causing some productive coughing (which I'm hoping is the reason for my "failed" lung test.) I even speculated that the congestion might be a result of allergies — pollen counts are currently rising — but the doctor checked my sinuses and said it's definitely a cold (I guess they can tell by the color of the mucous.) I hope I can cough all this gunk out before it really starts to matter, and that it doesn't escalate into Beat's pneumonia. He's feeling much better this week, so that's good news. 

The load

On Monday, I loaded up the Eriksen with most of the gear I plan to use in the Iditarod Trail Invitational and took it out for a two-hour spin on the steep and bumpy trails of Fremont Older. Most of this system is based on decisions I made before my five-day bike tour on Alaska's west coast last March, and stuck with after the hard lessons of that trip. It's a set-up that favors frequent camping and windy/wet conditions, and makes concessions for my own absent-mindedness and tendency to pack my gear haphazardly.

The main stipulation for my bike set-up was that it be extremely non-fussy. Everything should be quickly accessible and easy to pack away. If it's blowing 40 mph, I want to grab my parka in five seconds without risking the loss of other items to the wind. If it's 35 below, I want to just throw my whole bivy bundle back on the rack without futzing with stuff sacks and straps. If I'm thirsty, I don't want to remove my entire food supply to get to my stove. Although I'm a big fan of Relevate bikepacking bags, for a winter trip, for me, racks and panniers make more sense. There's more room for everything to spread out, so I don't have to fuss with compressing every little thing. And there's plenty of extra space for food, as well as gear if it's too warm to wear anything but a base layer.

There's a time and place for ultra-light, but for someone with my experience level, I think this is a reasonable set-up. I'll just admit that I am emphatically not racing the 2016 ITI. I'll be thrilled if my lungs hold up past Finger Lake, and over the moon if I arrive in McGrath feeling strong. I'm taking what I need to feel secure and able to rest at intervals, comfortably, when needed (unless it's blowing 40+ mph. Then I can't stop for anything.) I'm grateful to have the support of the race organization and volunteers to help me in my adventure, but I'm really heading out there to "bike my own bike" — within race perimeters and rules, of course.

Here's the breakdown:

Front bundle: PhD Designs Hispar -46C down sleeping bag, Outdoor Research Helium bivy, Thermarest Ridge Rest pad. Everything is rolled together so when I want to take a nap, I can just pop open the compression straps and crawl inside. When packing up, it can be quickly rolled up and bungeed to the rack if I truly need to get going in under two minutes. Later, after my body warms up, I can re-compress the bundle as needed. The quick pack-up and minimal fuss is the main reason I wanted to go with a front rack rather than strapping the bundle to the handlebars. I also dislike having so much bulk attached to the handlebars, pressed against the shifters and brake levers. Beat designed this rack and milled the platform himself. It attaches to the fork with straps, and has proved itself to be solid.

Frame bag: Can hold one to four days of food. It has a separate compartment to keep readily accessible tools, such as a knife, multi-tool, fire-starters, and bike pump. I'll also use the frame bag to store my foot and saddle sore repair kit, first aid, toiletries, a few spare parts, tubes, batteries, spare headlamp, and electronics (basically an AA battery charger for my satellite phone, and iPods.)

Rear stuff sack: PhD Designs Hispar down jacket, down pants, and down booties. All of the fluffy stuff in one place! If I need to take a trailside break to make water or repair the bike, I can pull all of this stuff on and pack it up again quickly. I am likely going to replace this green sack with a heavier duty 13-liter dry bag, because these bags tend to develop holes and I fully expect it to rain at least once during the trip. The sack doesn't need to be all that big, but again, I don't want to fuss with a tight-fitting compression sack.

Right pannier: MSR Whisperlite Stove, 11 oz fuel and fuel pump, quart-sized pot, collapsible cup, spoon, satellite phone. Easily accessible on top: Goggles, windproof balaclava (designed by Beat), fleece buff, vapor-barrier mittens, spare windproof mittens. If needed, I can stuff my Skinfit hybrid jacket on top. This is the lightweight mid-layer I plan to wear most of the time, unless it is very warm.

Left pannier: Wiggy's waders; baggie with spare fleece socks, Drymax liner socks, and underwear; Mountain Headwear Ghost Whisperer jacket (a lightweight rain shell), Skinfit shell pants, Skinfit primaloft shorts, wind-proof knee warmers (designed by Beat), Skinfit Caldo Skudo jacket (primaloft), Mountain Hardwear Airshield jacket (very bulky. Also my favorite piece for just about all conditions. But the primaloft jacket on top of this will likely be needed in cold temperatures, and during low-energy times. I hope to only use the down coat when I am not moving.)

Not pictured: Pogies, 20-ounce fuel bottle (to be filled in the event I go on to Nome), Mountain Hardwear Fluid Race hydration pack with three-liter bladder (front pockets will hold meds and camera.) Base layer: Skinfit top, Gore Windstopper tights, Drymax socks/vapor barrier socks/Toestees fleece socks, Vasque Arrowhead boots, primaloft outer-boots (designed by Beat), Mountain Hardwear windstopper hat, and Skinfit primaloft mittens (if temps are above zero and my core is warm, I usually go bare-handed in pogies.)

I'm probably missing some things, but this is the gist of it. Here we are beneath the eucalyptus trees on an 80-degree afternoon in California:

The whole set-up handled very well on hairpin turns and steep climbs and descents. I pushed the bike up a few 20+ percent grades to simulate pushing in soft snow. The panniers have a low profile and I never bumped them with my legs, and the front bundle doesn't seem to affect handling at all. Beat's smartly-engineered front rack easily passed the horse-trampled trail test. We were bouncing all over the place and nothing came loose.

After my Alaska coast tour last year, I wrote about the liability of physical weakness and the need to shed weight from my bike. The truth is, I haven't discarded that much. I've given it a lot of thought, and there's really just not much I can shave from my gear and still feel safe heading into possible conditions that I have experienced: temperatures around minus 40, hard rain and 35 degrees, and 40 to 50 mph winds in temperatures near zero (people who say windchill doesn't count are so full of crap.) All of these conditions have different margins of comfort that I have found, and am not willing to breech given there are so many more unknowns (fatigue, distance, breathing troubles, etc.) So I remain satisfied with my gear decisions, and cautiously pessimistic about my strength, but I feel like I'm heading out there with correct expectations this time. Every mile I cover will be a gift. I'm very excited. 

I'm following the sun that's setting in the west

In my dream the world looks like the inside of television screen static, black and gray raging with the white noise turned up to 11. It's a night blizzard and for some reason I don't have a headlamp, but when I look down I can't see my legs because they're buried in a snow drift, and when I look up I can hear this ragged Darth Vader breathing. I pull down my face mask to gasp and have this sense that my lungs are filling with snow. There's nothing I can do.

The phone alarm chimed and I blinked in confusion for several seconds, the way you do when you've been jilted awake from one of those far-away sleeps. I had another nightmare about Alaska, my second in a week, so I suppose the pre-race panics are here. This one was even scarier than the first, which was an only slightly enhanced memory blip from my Iditarod race in 2014, looking down into the black infinity beneath thin ice on the Kuskokwim River.

As I rolled out of bed, I breathed the deep relief that comes after waking up from a dream about suffocation. Thick morning fog whited out the scenery beyond my bedroom window, but I knew that would burn off soon enough. It was supposed to reach the high 70s by mid-afternoon, when I'd likely been pedaling through the dappled sunlight beneath a redwood grove wearing my favorite Hoka T-shirt and bike shorts. Alaska panics could be pushed to the back of my mind for now; I'd already sent out my McGrath food boxes and compiled most of my gear. All I had to do today was this pretty easy thing — pedal my bicycle for eight hours over the hills and trails of sunny California.

I'm trying to decide whether to send out supply boxes to the villages along the Iditarod Trail this week. Doing so would be a way of hedging my bets that if I'm feeling healthy, and conditions seem favorable, I'll still have a glimmer of an opportunity to travel to Nome. Not sending boxes means I can't travel any farther than McGrath, no matter what. Deep down I know the second option is probably the call I need to make. But I've been feeling so good lately. Like I can do anything I set my mind to ...

C.S. Lewis is credited with the quote, "If one could run without getting tired, I don't think one would often want to do anything else." Sure, it's a musing in a fantasy novel, but it's one that, some days —some of the best days — almost feels achievable. Days like Saturday, when tires almost hover over the dirt, and the steepest hills seem to disintegrate beneath them, like clouds. Sure, I'm still sweating, my breathing is still labored, nothing is weightless, and perpetual motion does not exist. But some days, the miles come easy. The moving tunnel of peace surrounds me, and when 80 miles are up, I want to do another. When this happens, I always think, why not?

After the Tour Divide, I promised myself 'never again.' Fighting for oxygen drove me deep into weakness and depression, until I was mostly a shell, moving forward on the fumes of expectations and ghosted passion. This is not why I do what I do. I don't need achievement; it's meaningless if the experiences are gray and melancholy, something I'd rather push out of my memory than hold on. But I went back to UTMB, and then the Fat Pursuit, and actually most endurance efforts over the past year have brought the same struggles. I don't entirely know why. I do know that's not what I want. So why do I want to go back? Recently, I reached out to several people who I deeply respect for advice. Several touted the virtue of stubbornness. "But I am stubborn," I thought. "That's really the problem."

Liehann and I have ridden our "Big Basin Big Loop" a number of times over the years as a long training ride, and I felt nostalgic about the fact that this one was probably going to be our last. I tried to stay present and take it all in — the mossy banks of Gazos Creek, the salty headwind along the pumpkin fields of Pescadero, the roller-coaster Haul Road, the cool air beneath redwood groves that seem to trap a permanent twilight. If this has to be my last ride here, I picked a good day for it. This is the one I want to burn to memory.

The second to last climb is a little dull, so I slip into daydreams about packing for a tour across Alaska. All of my Nome gear will require the two panniers. The only things I'd leave behind if I wasn't going to Nome is a few extra layers and maybe the stove, so I should just take all of it. Maybe I should get a heavy-duty dry sack for my parka on the rear rack, because there probably will be at least one hard rain. Food, meds, and repair kit in the frame bag; stove, fuel, pot, waders, extra headgear, goggles and mittens in one pannier — the one opposite my bike-pushing side; excess upper and lower layers in the other. How many pairs of underwear should I take? I really hate not changing my underwear, but man, I won't be able to do laundry for 30 days. Am I really thinking about Nome? What is wrong with me? 

Liehann and I veered onto the Stevens Canyon trail an hour earlier than we expected — we'd really ripped this one up today. For a split second I mulled time-trialing up the Bella Vista Trail the way Liehann always does, but the last thing I needed was to instigate a race with someone who's faster than me, not to mention tempting fate with high-intensity efforts and hard breathing. I've felt a bit of a cough coming on, and it makes me nervous. Beat has been sick for the past two weeks and is currently on antibiotics, and he's worried about slipping back into pneumonia so close to our Alaska trip. Happily he's been feeling a little better, but also nervous about spending a fair chunk of these past few months down with his own respiratory illnesses, not training. As long as he's healthy during the Iditarod, I don't think missed training will make all that much of a difference for him. He's strong whenever he needs to be. I wish I had that kind of faith in myself.

On this day, at least, I felt as strong as a bull, and supremely happy, even though we missed our traditional Black Mountain sunset because were too fast and too early. So happy that I sang out loud while screaming down Montebello — a song that doesn't have a name, by Metric:

We got the sunshine 
We got the shade 
We got temptation 
We got it made 
We got rewarded 
We got refused 
We got distorted 
We got confused 

I want it all 
I want it all 
I want it all 
I want it all

ITI training, week 17

Monday: Road bike, 2:46, 33.8 miles, 3,620 feet climbing. I was back at sea level and beginning to come around from my cold, so I decided to aim for 20 to 25 hours of saddle time as a "peak" week of endurance training, three weeks before the start of the ITI. On Monday I rode Highway 9 to Page Mill, a quick but tough route that helped me clear out what I hoped was the last of the sinus gunk.

Tuesday: Weight lifting at the gym, followed by a trail run, 55:12, 5.4 miles, 887 feet climbing. I did three sets, 12 exercises, 12 reps, managing better with the extra weights I added last week. The trail run was uneventful. I descended into Wildcat Canyon but did not see the mountain lion that has been spotted a couple of times in the past few weeks.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:17, 28.2 miles, 4,545 feet climbing. I pedaled up Black Mountain and did two loops of Bella Vista and Indian Creek, one of the steepest segments of dirt nearby. The 1x11 gearing on the Eriksen is perfect for a snow bike, by which I mean it's low. The 900-foot ascent of Indian Creek was a fairly comfortable spin at 3.3 mph. That's a good gauge for churning through soft snow, where ideally I could stay in the saddle and maintain 3 mph, while expending less energy than I would pushing the bike at 2 mph. Snow biking is all about power output. Cyclists with a good amount of wattage move much better in soft conditions — comparable to a speed boat skimming over choppy water. I am more like a bogged-down row boat. What I lack in power, I try to make up in mental fortitude. And when I lack in fortitude, I only hope I can find the fumes to keep moving forward. Energy efficiency helps.

Thursday: Road bike, 4:23, 50.5 miles, 6,219 feet climbing. This was a most wonderful ride from home to the entrance of Big Basin Redwoods State Park and back. Some maintenance neglect on the Specialized Roubaix led to seat post slippage. The result was a sharp pain in my lower back that occasionally radiated out through the top/side of my left leg. It seemed nerve related, and was tear-inducing at times. I could relieve it by raising my saddle, almost eliminating the pain afterward. The second time I did this, after the seat post slipped down again, I raised it so high my feet could barely reach the pedals — toe pedaling. But it did help a lot. This pain only seems to happen on my road bike, and I may just avoid riding it for the rest of the month. I really need to practice with the Eriksen anyway.

Friday: Trail run, 1:12, 6.7 miles, 1,536 feet climbing, then weight lifting at the gym. Daylight limitations meant I had to run first. I dislike lifting when I'm fatigued, but it's probably a better gauge of my endurance. I made it through two sets and decided to go home and rest up for the big weekend I had planned.

 Saturday: Fat bike, 7:08, 58.5 miles, 8,773 feet climbing. Eriksen and I set out to climb all the hard hills we could reach in seven hours — Fremont Older, Bohlmon Road, Sierra Azul, Black Road. I hit a nice stride in Sierra Azul — not breaking any speed records of course, but feeling comfortable while spinning and finishing the ascent feeling strong. Black Road was tougher as I started to believe I was near the top three miles too early. When the hill kept going, it broke my focus and made me feel grumpy. I had to stop and eat one of those Clif Pizza Margherita energy food packets. These are just terrible — a thick paste that tastes like lukewarm Ragu mixed with peanut butter. No. Just no. But I gave it a try. I'm trying to finish up the random energy food items in our cupboard, which is a little silly because we have a truckload of food for our ITI boxes moving in as I write. After I choked down the brown paste, I embarked on the grin-inducing descent of the John Nichols Trail, where a mountain biker asked if I was riding an e-bike.

Sunday: Road bike, 9:06, 106.2 miles, 10,259 feet climbing. I got back on the Roubaix for a grand Sunday tour, hoping that a clean and re-greased seat post would resolve the slipping issue. The sharp pain in my lower back still returned, but I could alleviate it by stopping to stretch every hour or so. This is why I'm not riding the road bike any more this month. (I will miss you, Sworxy.) It was a beautiful day, although almost too warm, and windy. I'd accumulated fatigue over the week, and this ride definitely felt like more of a grind than the others, but didn't necessarily get harder as the hours piled up. I always maintain this delusion that I can float like a little feather on my road bike, but it actually does not pedal itself up the hills. Jerk.

Total: 28:49, 277.2 miles ride, 12.1 miles run, 35,839 feet climbing. I'm pleased with the numbers this week. I managed nearly 30 hours on the move even though it was a fairly busy week of non-bike-related tasks. The 35,000 feet of climbing is my highest yet in this training block — even more than I got that week I rode the 100 miles of Montebello. When it comes to pedaling or running up hills, I'm pretty strong — although I remember I'm near sea level and it's warm and this is still nothing like Alaska. I had no breathing problems all week. After doing a lot of gasping last week while I had a cold in Colorado, this was a relief, although I'm still concerned that any compromises in my respiratory system can drag me down quickly. I'd still place my fitness confidence on the lower end, but at least my legs are working well. 

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.