37

I'm spending Aug. 20 in that sensory deprivation portal that is trans-Atlantic travel. It's half past noon here at the Munich airport, so I think it's my birthday in most places in the world. Nothing like sleep deprivation and lots of coffee to spur a ruminative blog post.

I feel like the universe came down a little hard this year after the hubris of last year's birthday post, where I declared that everything was only getting better with age. 36 hasn't exactly been my year of great health, and yet there's still no hard evidence that my relatively minor issues are age-related or even lifestyle-related. Sometimes people's allergies worsen and they develop asthma in their mid-30s. Sometimes people take several wrist-damaging falls on their snowboard as a teenager, and 17 years later finally incur that last damaging hit that leads to debilitating carpal tunnel syndrome. These things happen. It doesn't necessarily mean I have one foot in the grave.

These health issues did lend some valuable perspective. With my breathing problems, I occasionally feel like a 70-year-old smoker, so now I value good days so much more than I did before. Earlier today ... er yesterday ... right before we drove to the airport, Beat and I did a quick run up the west ridge of Bear Peak. It can be a very short route from our closest trail access — fewer than three miles round trip — but with a segment that gains nearly 700 feet in 0.3 miles, it's a great test of fitness. On Friday morning, the air was cool, misty, and almost autumn-like. I was taking it easy — my heart rate was moderate, breathing steady and relaxed, no gasping. We spent a few minutes at the top gazing over the fog-shrouded prairie. This easy effort turned out to be my PR on this segment that I've run more than a dozen times — sometimes breathing so hard that I became dizzy and had to sit down. Good results on runs or rides no longer seem to indicate how hard I'm working, but rather how well I'm processing oxygen on that particular day. Still, good days are now outnumbering the bad, and I feel more confident every day that my treatments are working (or at least providing an effective placebo effect.)

Because of recent asthma malaise, I've failed to fully acknowledge just how thrilled I am with the results of the carpal tunnel surgery I had in June. I think most people don't realize that carpal tunnel syndrome can be a disabling injury when it becomes severe enough, and my case went from zero to severe literally overnight. I had CTS for all of three months, and during that time I lost most practical use of my right hand. I also developed constant low-level throbbing pain that occasionally escalated to electric shocks. Now that the pain is gone, it's interesting to look back on those three months and realize how much it impacted my daily life. A lot of people live with chronic pain, and I always wondered how they could possibly cope. I know CTS doesn't come close to the worst or even typical level of chronic pain, but it did expand my perspective on living with pain. It's surprisingly easy to absorb it into day-to-day life, until you don't even notice how it affects your mood and daily decisions. No doubt I was developing into a less enthusiastic and more surly person until pain was rather quickly whisked away. I complained during recovery because it wasn't instantaneous, but it was fast enough that I noticed the difference. Now, just two months later, I'm pain-free and back to driving, hand-writing, normal typing, riding my bike, and scrambling class-five rock slabs. I owe it all to CTS surgery. Yay modern medicine.

It also was interesting to quit cycling for four months — my longest break since I a knee injury forced me off a bike for three months in 2007. Cycling is most definitely my "flow" mechanism, and losing that while uprooting everything to move to Colorado was more upsetting than I care to admit. Returning to cycling amid these recent breathing troubles and the stress that causes has been even more disappointing. I find myself avoiding cycling just to avoid the stress. It will be interesting to see where this relationship falls after another month of no cycling, as I'm unlikely to gain access to a bike in Europe.

And now I've spent all these words blathering about my health again, when I meant to write about the two major things that actually happened to me this year — moving to Colorado with Beat, and fulfilling a long-time dream of riding a bike to Nome on the Iditarod Trail. The seeds for this dream sprouted more than a decade ago, and occupied more space in my head than I care to admit. But it seemed impossible then, it seemed impossible every year since, and it seemed the most impossible when I stood at the starting line on Knik Lake. I'd just had too many setbacks in preparation, my training seemed inadequate, I had asthma concerns then, and the crash that left my hand mostly immobilized happened on the first day. That fact that Nome was so impossible, and happened anyway, became a magical experience. The incredible memories from the Iditarod balance out anything negative that happened this year, and then some.

And of course there's Colorado. I'm excited to be here (or there, I suppose, as I'm in Munich right now.) I still dream about returning to Alaska, and I'm not sure that desire will ever go away. But Beat and I are happy to be anchored in Boulder, where we find the best of most worlds — a beautiful place to reside, people who share our values and passions, private space, trail access out our front door, a 25-minute but nicely scenic commute to town, access to good health care, desirable and lucrative work for Beat, mountains and more mountains. I suspect the climate and possibly altitude of Colorado has contributed heavily to my asthma woes, but I'm still optimistic there's a way around all of this. Beat says he doesn't miss the Bay Area at all. I do, just a little, if I'm being honest. We made some great memories there. I miss the trail-running community, and friends, and the redwoods. And I miss Montebello Road — my go-to road bike climb. I want to return to California in November for the 100 Miles of Nowhere. Beat thinks I should substitute Flagstaff Road. But he doesn't understand. It's not the same.

My work is going well. I contract for an Alaska newspaper publisher who recently acquired the Homer Tribune — the weekly newspaper where I worked in 2005-2006. It's a little to surreal to return to the Tribune after a decade, still working with two people I worked with back then, and most everything about it is pretty much the same. Community news is a passion of mine. I believe it's vitally important, even though the tough economics of producing newspapers pushed me out of the business and then out of Alaska. This publisher has made it work, and I'm honored to play a small part. It keeps me connected to community news and connected to Alaska. Someday I will visit Barrow, and Dillingham, and Unalaska ... since I've been editing and sometimes writing about these places for three years now.

And, speaking of the Homer Tribune, the book I wrote about Homer is doing reasonably well. Between Kindle sales, paperback sales, and the Amazon lending library, I've distributed the equivalent of nearly 5,000 copies of "Becoming Frozen" since its Aug. 17, 2015, release. This is the first time I enrolled in Amazon's lending library, and I'm impressed with the program — basically, readers pay a flat rate and authors are paid a small amount for every page read. So it's low-risk for readers, and authors only get paid if people actually read their work. No tricky marketing schemes or $25 hardback duds here. It's the great democratization of the book publishing industry. Yeah, it's probably a good deal for Amazon as well. I still think everybody wins.

I like the idea of aiming to produce a book every year to increase this baseline, which is a bit like having a salmon wheel picking up fish for you when you're not even working. I have a few more ideas for autobiographical projects that may be entertaining enough to snag page reads in the lending library. It's clear I enjoy working in autobiography — not because I think my life is so uniquely interesting or worthy of intensive documentation (although I thrive on intensive documentation all the same), but because as a writer I aim to depict authentic experience. Some writers do this well through fiction, but it's much harder, and that's one of the reasons I mainly read nonfiction. So far, my ventures into fiction have been lackluster, and my efforts with biographical nonfiction have been somewhat frustrating (the book I co-wrote with Tim Hewitt was a great experience. I am having more issues with the Ann Trason project, which I don't really want to delve into right now.) I'm sure I'll branch out eventually, but right now I still have a few more stories to tell.

So, finally, the next book ... it's close to done. My editor has most of the copy and I'm planning on an Oct. 1 release. Here's the working cover:

This book is the about my March 2016 ride across Alaska, and all of those setbacks leading up to it. Thematically, it's a perfect sequel to "Be Brave, Be Strong." I've always wanted to develop a photo book, and I'm finally doing it with this one. It's a full ~70,000-word narrative with more than 200 illustrating photos. Such an endeavor is not super-cheap to produce, but I'm planning to sell the full-color signed paperback for $29.95 directly through my store. This will likely be a limited release, and the retail/Kindle version will come a bit later. If you are interested in pre-ordering the photo version, there's more information at this link: http://www.arcticglasspress.net/agp/?p=216 

So that's my long-winded, jet-lagged birthday update. I'm really looking forward to 37, and if all goes well, more of this:

Thanks for checking in.

Outside looking in

 Recently I had an enlightening e-mail conversation with another cyclist about self-defining tenets and the unsettling experience of losing these pieces of our identities. People who identify as athletes are endlessly vulnerable to health setbacks, injuries, changes in circumstance, and aging — while clinging to the belief that "there are no limits," "you can do anything you set your mind to," "you just have to work for it."

Reconciliation of desire and reality seems to be the key — of course there are limits, but our experiences are beautiful regardless. Over the years, I've observed this process in friends and acquaintances. There was always some hubris in believing it wouldn't happen to me, or if it did, I'd be fine because I was already secure in my belief that there's so much more to life than scaling mountains and riding bikes. But now I'm in a summer of discontent, losing fitness in spite of my best efforts, avoiding mountains because I've lost so much faith in my abilities, and imagining what life might actually look like on the other side.

It's interesting to consider the notion of "letting go," even if I haven't arrived there yet. People around me still insist "you'll get it back," and for the most part I still believe this, too. My recent bout with carpal tunnel syndrome provided its own perspective — I was rapidly losing function in my right hand, I was constantly in pain, and it felt like a permanent condition. If it wasn't for surgery, it likely would have been a permanent condition. Instead, it was a surprisingly simple fix, and two months later, my hand is almost back to a hundred percent — or, at least it would be if I was more diligent about strengthening exercises. Maybe in two months more time, I'll be breathing just fine, I'll spend long days outdoors while feeling great the whole time, fire will again rage where right now there are only fumes, and I'll wonder why I ever lost the faith.

For now, I still have good days and bad. The good days are starting to outweigh the bad. On Friday I embarked on an incredible bike ride — incredible only because it was the first ride since winter where I finally felt reasonably strong, didn't crash, didn't wheeze, didn't stop to take puffs from my inhaler, and propelled myself through forty miles of interesting scenery. I pedaled past beautiful rock formations on Magnolia, side-eyed strange characters in Nederland, stole glimpses of big mountains on the Peak-to-Peak Highway, breathed crisp air on the Switzerland Trail, and tucked into a screaming descent toward the plains on Sugarloaf Road. It was a satisfying ride, and reminded me that my identity isn't tied up in being an athlete. It's tied up in loving the outdoors. My vision of the "other side" doesn't contain imagery of working out in gyms and indoor activity. Instead, I imagine painting landscapes and going for walks — if necessary, finding less taxing ways to enjoy the outside world. Still, if I can engage my body in exhilarating activity while moving through the world, that would pretty much be having it all.

Of course, on Saturday I went for a ninety-minute run that went so badly, Beat had to come pick me up in the car before I made it home. This gasping dizziness I occasionally experience is exactly why I'm not willing to take any big chances right now — even hiking up a fourteener seems risky. So when our friend Chris Plesko invited us on a scrambling excursion in the Flatirons on Sunday morning, I dug for any excuse to get out of it. "My hand is still too weak." "What if I get dizzy on a wall?" These were legitimate concerns, but ultimately I decided to join.

Chris guided us on a short practice climb on the First Flatiron, and then we hiked over the the Second Flatiron for a classic route called "The Freeway." This 600-foot slab ascent is rated 5.0, and thus was one of my first forays into fifth-class terrain — but it's been a long time since my initial top-rope outings in Little Cottonwood Canyon back in 2002. What's beautiful about this route is that in addition to confidence-inspiring natural features, there are plenty of exits. It's a great route for beginners, which Beat and I undoubtedly are. We're both tentative on exposed terrain and I'm prone to vertigo, but Chris was a helpful and patient guide.

Near the summit, we arrived at a needle that required a four-foot jump onto a forty-five-degree slab. I couldn't bring myself to make the leap, so Beat and Chris offered their shoulders so I could lower myself down. In the process of putting all of my weight on a few curled fingers, my right hand cramped up badly and never recovered. There was one more pitch after the jump that was the steepest pitch of the climb, and I was reeling with muscle cramps in my hand and a beginner's unwillingness to trust friction to hold my feet. Chris offered a lot of support and I'm grateful for his guidance. This was a solid venture out of my comfort zone, and it was very satisfying to reach the top. Scrambling "The Freeway" and riding from home to the Switzerland Trail feel like big victories near the end of a rather disappointing summer.

Maybe I'll get it back, but even if I don't, life is still awesome. 

Forcing my way through August

I was 1.5 miles into a bike ride on Wednesday when I stopped to take a couple of puffs from my inhaler and pull a buff over my mouth. It was 89 degrees with a strong wind. Dust was swirling through the air, which has become such a trigger that I've learned to viscerally react to it as though it were poison gas.

"I should probably turn around," I thought. But it was a rare occasion when I finally talked myself into getting on the bike. The previous days, there had been excuses. "I have too much work to do. I need to go to town today, so I should just run Sanitas. I did so well running up Bear Peak yesterday, so I should do that again."

As I lingered on the gravel road pullout debating how I could justify cutting this ride short at mile 1.5, another insidious thought popped into my mind:

"What if I'm becoming someone who just doesn't like riding bikes anymore?"

Yeah, so, that ... my fitness right now is poor for several reasons, and getting back into cycling after four months off has been tough. I know how lame it is to avoid something just because it's tough, but for so long the effort of cycling has felt so natural. Now that it's not, I've become bewildered and frustrated. I'm not having fun so why should I bother? It's interesting to observe these knee-jerk emotions through the scope of my wider experience.

With my current breathing issues, I have good days and bad. Over the weekend I did two runs up Bear Peak that went quite well. I've been monitoring heart rate to assess exertion levels versus shortness of breath symptoms, and both times on Bear Peak my heart rate hit the high 170s before I felt winded. On Sunday, I joined Beat for a two-hour ride that started horribly but improved toward the end — strangely, on the steepest pitch of Flagstaff Road, where my lungs opened up and my speed actually improved over flatter sections. On Monday I ran a five-mile loop over Mount Sanitas — which starts 2,000 feet lower than my Bear route — and became wheezy when my heart rate hit 151. I took a few inhaler hits and managed the rest of the run okay, but never saw anything near 178. During the Wednesday bike ride, I was also in the low 150s when I felt overly winded and needed to stop just two minutes into a climb.

So, it's been a little all over the place and I can't really blame biking. It's just disappointing to have such low motivation levels and find myself making all kinds of excuses for activities I used to love, in beautiful and exciting new places where I'm lucky to live — just because I don't feel great when I'm doing them.

For that reason I forced myself farther into the Wednesday afternoon ride, climbing and descending seemingly endless steep dirt roads while gasping through snot and tears. Oozy face is another reaction I have to allergies. Really, my sneezing, watery eyes and congestion were never this bad in California, even ignoring more recent asthma issues that also affected me there. Something here in Colorado just really doesn't like me. And I assuredly don't like it. I wasn't having fun on this ride, and wanted to quit. But that question — "What if I'm becoming someone who just doesn't like riding bikes anymore?" — was more disturbing than my symptoms, and propelled me forward.

I dropped toward Gross Reservoir as thunder rumbled overhead. This storm moved in quickly — just a half hour earlier the sky was blue. Clouds opened up and for five minutes it rained hard, tamping down the dust and cooling the air. It continued to sprinkle, and for the rest of the ride I felt considerably better. Drawing cool, moist air deep into my lungs felt incredible — I could actually feel a substantial difference between breathing deeply, and whatever it is I do the rest of the time. It's as though I subconsciously stifle my breathing when there's "poison gas" in the air, taking shallow little breaths that leave me feeling oxygen-deprived.

Anyway, between monitoring the pollen forecast and my heart rate, detecting absolutely no difference when altitude changes, and the considerable positive effect of rain — I'm now 95 percent convinced that my breathing issues are allergy related. Either that, or there's a strong placebo effect in believing they're allergy related. I'm now 14 days into my new allergy treatments, which need time to take effect.

I also only have one more week to endure August in Colorado. Beat and I leave a week from Friday for our annual trip to Europe. It will be quite interesting to test my fitness there. Beat is again racing both PTL and TDG, but I don't have anything planned this year. It will be the first time since 2011 that I don't have some crazy mountain race on my calendar (I have finally for the most part conceded that crazy mountain racing isn't really my thing, even if I were healthy and fit.) I was going to join an English acquaintance for a fast-packing-type hike around last year's Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc course. He recently sustained a serious knee injury, so we had to cancel the trip. I have been quite disappointed about it, even though I'm not sure I'm fit enough to attempt this 104-mile route in three to four days (the UTMB limit is 46 hours, which I discovered is a tight cutoff for me on this steep and often technical route. 72 hours when you're planning to sleep is not much more.) Still, it was the endurance element of this trip that really had me looking forward to it. Admittedly my friend did most of the planning and I don't have much to go on if I decide to head out solo. I'm still considering it — just download my GPS track and maps from last year's race, bring a sleeping bag and bivy sack in case all of the refuges are booked up, and hope for the best. After three years of trying (2012 finish on a shortened UTMB course, 2013 DNF in the PTL, and 2015 DNF at UTMB) I have yet to make a full loop around Mont Blanc, and I swear this will haunt me until I finally do it. But my odds aren't great this year either so ... we'll see.

Of course I'm still excited for this trip, even if I just dawdle around on day hikes. I'm hoping that by having no crazy mountain races in which to horribly fail, I will be stronger and more stoked when I return to Colorado in September. At that point, I need to really focus on winter training if I want to have any hope for my hardest endeavor yet — the Southern Route of the Iditarod Trail.

First, I need to get farther than 1.5 miles into a bike ride without feeling like crap. I remain uncertain, but cautiously optimistic.

Rollins Pass

 It's been a bad week for breathing. Just about on cue after I had allergy testing done last week, the weather service released day after day of allergy alerts, warning of very high levels of grass pollen. Of course I don't know how closely related my breathing difficulties are to my allergies, but despite new medications, it's been a low-functioning week. Two miles into a bike ride on Saturday, I experienced something close to an asthma attack and cut it short. The same happened two miles into a run on Sunday. This was after turning down invitations for fun mountain adventures because I didn't think I could handle anything more than a four-mile run (turns out I couldn't.) Who am I becoming?

The emergency inhaler helps temper the urgency I feel when I over-exert myself. But it doesn't quite open up my breathing. I still have that tight, breathing-through-a-straw sensation to a certain degree, and I don't seem to process the oxygen needed for even moderate aerobic efforts. If I become dizzy once, it's difficult to recover. When I speak of over-exerting myself, I basically mean exerting myself. Walking is fine. Running has mixed reactions. Biking, for which I'm out of shape and can't regulate my efforts as well, has been the most messy.

Although I feel somewhat assured that my rapidly declining fitness is linked to allergies that I am both working to treat and waiting to go away, I can't be certain. Lately, being outside leads to feeling bad, which is a strong de-motivator to engage in activities I love. It's a little scary, to be honest, and may have resulted in some crying in the shower after a horribly failed Sunday run. But there's also some acceptance about making it work if this is my new status quo. I realize that unless I feel a real risk of passing out (not usually), I can still muddle along in the outdoors.

 There's a long jeep road to Rollins Pass that I've looked forward to riding for months now. It's one of the few places nearby where one can ride a bike on dirt over the Continental Divide. Although I'd previously visited Rollins Pass on foot, I relished the beautiful views and was excited to return. Since there was some improvement to my breathing on Monday and Tuesday, I took an opportunity on Wednesday to take my long-neglected mountain bike on a tour.

 The road to Rollins Pass is winding and gradual, but also quite chunky. Finessing around all those rocks keeps speeds low, which also keeps exertion down. It's a pretty good route for an asthmatic person who's just getting back into biking after four months. The long, long railroad grade eventually climbed to a railroad tunnel that had partially collapsed. There was a nice trail around it to the left, which I didn't discover until I returned. Instead, I hoisted my bike up the slope to the right, where the descent was actually a bit gnarly. It involved skittering down on very steep, loose dirt, wedging my shoe against a rock for leverage and then nudging the overturned bike downward. There was an unnerving drop-off just a few feet away.

 From there, the track continued climbing up large chunks of loose gravel, which had the effect of riding on rollers that continually spun me backward. I walked most of this to avoid hitting the red line, but it was still hard. I'd taken a few breath-catching breaks earlier in the ride, but my breathing actually opened up as I climbed above timber line. Riding this ridge at 11,700 feet, I continued to feel stronger — even risking those deep, lung-filling breaths, which felt amazing. Perhaps all I need is more of this clear, thin, relatively pollen-free mountain air.

 Return on the old railroad trestles. I love old mining roads and mountain railroad grades. Maybe I'll make a future project out of touring a winding network of these roads across Colorado.

 The perfectly nice trail around the tunnel, which I missed the first time. This short piece of singletrack renewed interest in riding Colorado Trail. But no, I don't love rocky technical riding or mountain hike-a-bike (especially the downhill variety.) I would like to hike the Colorado Trail someday, though. Maybe fast-pack style if I ever get my fitness back.

The tunnel as seen from below. The descent down the eastern side Rollins Pass is tedious — a continuous grade perfect for coasting at about eight or nine miles per hour, but rocky enough that you can never really open it up. So basically I sat on a bike not pedaling for ninety minutes, while trying to protect my still-tender hands, arms, and shoulders, but taking a bit of a beating despite my best efforts. Not unlike riding a slow-moving jackhammer. I'm sure better riders blast down that road without fear of hitting a rock at the wrong angle or skidding out on the chunder, but I am not really there right now (nor do I think I ever was.)

Still, I enjoyed this ride and think I should do more of this, rather than fret about whether I'll ever be fit enough to race again. 

More on being allergic to summer

Beat's hummingbirds. There's so many that we've been going through 1.5+ liters of sugar water per day.

 The asthma doctor had great reviews and seemed very nice, but I could tell that he wasn't necessarily going to be sympathetic to my cause. He worked through the usual questions, but a slight frown appeared on his face as I explained my "problem."

"I just get winded so easily. Sometimes while walking up my stairs at home, I have to slow because my breathing feels so constricted that I become dizzy. I do twenty-mile runs, feeling like I can barely breathe for most of the time, holding back so I don't have an attack. Yet I don't feel tired or sore after I stop moving, so there's no indication that I'm overdoing it. I use my emergency inhaler at least once for most of my workouts. I think it does help. It was never like this a year and a half ago. Not before I had pneumonia last summer."

"You do twenty-mile runs?" he asked.

"Well, yes," I said. "I just have a lot of trouble with more intense exercise. Even moderate intensity. I really start to feel bad."

I could only guess what the doctor was thinking. Clearly I'm still capable of doing things that 95 percent of the population doesn't do, and that no one really needs to do, so what's the problem? A lung function test showed my lungs are operating at 102 percent of the average for someone my age and weight. A chest X-Ray turned up normal. My resting heart rate is high (78! High 70s are what I've seen a few mornings in a row when I checked first thing. In California, my resting heart rate was always in the high 50s / low 60s.) But my blood pressure is good.

I got the sense that I might get shoed away with only a renewed emergency inhaler prescription, but I pressed for a skin test by expressing interest in starting allergy shots after I return from Europe in September. I had one done last October in California, which was informative but somewhat unremarkable. This Colorado-based test was impressive enough that the nurse demanded my phone so she could take a picture.

Those middle rows pretty much say "grass is poison to you." The rest can be translated as "You're mostly okay with indoor allergens such as mildew and dust mites. You could languish away in a moldy basement for the rest of your life and be fine, but don't go outside!"

Anyway, the doctor agrees that I'm a likely candidate for allergic asthma that's mainly induced when I am exercising outdoors. He said it would be a good idea if I returned to using the maintenance inhaler I used from February to April, as well as a steroid nasal spray for my very bad nasal congestion. I'm glad to try these treatments as I believe they will help me feel better when exercising, although of course there are still many unknowns. I may not have asthma. For several reasons I hope I do, because although asthma can be a life-long disease, it is also treatable. What isn't necessarily treatable are birth defects like a patent foramen ovale (a hole in the heart, which one blog reader told me may effect as much as 20 percent of the American population, but who often experience no symptoms until they go to high altitudes, to which they'll never adapt), as well as lung scarring and other obstructions that can't be detected by an X-Ray (although my lung function is good.)

So ... there is hope! I recognize that I am quantifiably healthy and can't complain too much about this condition. Right now I am optimistic about medication, still looking into allergy shots, and also moving toward acceptance of working with whatever fitness I have if these treatments don't help. I also remain optimistic that mostly what I need is for summer to go away, and I'll quickly build strength the way I did last fall and winter (with relapses into asthma symptoms that I believe were directly related to respiratory illness.) There's still time to launch into "training season."

The plan is to get back on the bike tomorrow. Honestly I'm a bit scared of my bike right now — not only because of the weak arm/steering issue, but because you can't hide from more intense efforts on a bike. Running, you can always slow to a plodding walk if you need to, but keeping a bike upright on a steep hill requires a minimum of effort, even with a granny gear. It seems this minimum of effort puts me in the hypoxia cave. But yes, back on a bike tomorrow and most likely a long run into the high country this weekend.

I'm excited! Even if I am starting to think of summer the way other people view winter — an uncomfortable time to be endured until friendlier weather returns.

Adventures in hypoxemia

 I'll be honest. I thought getting back on my bike was going to be a more joyful experience than it's been. On Monday I set out for a four-hour ride that felt wonderful, at first. But as the miles wore on, I slipped into indifference, which deteriorated further into a dark mood not unlike despondency. I was pretty bummed out. Why? I had no idea. The ride had gone reasonably well. I wasn't particularly strong, but I didn't struggle, either. My hand didn't hurt at all. My breathing was steady and the faucet in my face turned down a few notches even though I've been off antihistamines since last Wednesday. It was a beautiful if slightly warm day, and my route was full of new and beautiful scenery. So what was wrong?

Shortly after returning home, I checked the measurements on our pulse oximeter. My blood oxygen saturation was at 88 percent, with a recovery heart rate of 115. After just a few more minutes that number rose to 90 percent, and within a half hour it was back at my more typical resting measurement, 94 percent. My mood had vastly improved as well.

 In general, blood oxygen levels below 90 percent are considered low. During exercise, dips below 90 percent can indicate a maxed-out effort, which is typically what forces people to slow or stop because they're "out of breath." I've experienced this, but I also seem to be adapting to lower oxygen levels. Now I wonder how much time I'm spending in the 80s, without realizing it. I don't feel great but I also don't feel terrible, so I keep going. But it can't be good. Less oxygen is never good.

After the weird bike ride, I set out today to test my blood oxygen levels during a six-mile run to Bear Peak. I realize this is an unscientific experiment, but I thought it would be interesting to compare the numbers to how I felt:

I checked the oximeter ten or eleven times during the run, and took photos of the readings. For some reason a dark strip obscured the screen in most of the photos. I'm not sure why. So I'm only posting the photos where I remember the numbers. This is from mile 1.5. Oxygen saturation was 89 percent, heart rate in the 150s. For the most part, I felt fine.

 This was the lowest reading I saw, and only briefly, about halfway through the steep climb. Mile 2.8. Oxygen saturation 86 percent. I was beginning to feel dizzy and would have stopped soon to catch my breath anyway. I don't remember my heart rate at the time.

 At Bear Peak, after resting for about two minutes. Mile 3. Oxygen saturation 92 percent, heart rate 136.

Shortly after returning home from the six-mile run. Again, I felt a bit down in the dumps immediately afterward. But this run was only 90 minutes long, so time spent at low oxygen levels was minimal. I perked up quickly. (A cold soda helped.)

Blood oxygen saturation is typically lower at high altitudes, so my resting readings of 94-96 percent are right around normal. Still, I worry about those dips during exercise. Operating at lower blood oxygen may be harmful to my organs and brain. But I'm already working at what I consider moderate intensities. My heart rate would indicate this as well. If I go much easier, I'll have to give up cycling and hill-climbing altogether. Maybe become one of those Nordic walkers clicking along a flat bike path with trekking poles.

Anyway, I am going to see an asthma doctor on Wednesday. Since I recently moved, I'm basically back to square one in regard to testing for allergies and lung function, then moving forward from there. I suspect these tests will check out as normal, as I don't have issues while resting. Exercise still seems to be where most of my breathing difficulties arise. So it may take a while to weed out all of the potential causes for shortness of breath and find any real solution. It does bum me out to realize that I can't be "happy" while exercising because I'm running low on oxygen. And it bums me out more to wonder whether hard efforts might have long-term health implications, and thus become something that I need to avoid.

In the short term, I'm considering working on breathing techniques to maximize my oxygen intake and CO2 exhalation. A combination of altitude, allergies, and past respiratory illnesses may all play a role in my problem. I feel like I did well when I was using a daily maintenance inhaler (I haven't since April), so I'll bring that up with my new doctor. I'm also looking forward to the departure of grass pollen and other allergens that are clogging up my sinuses to such a degree that I haven't had a sense of smell since early June.

On a positive note, after four months off a bike, I was able to ride for four hours on Monday and my butt didn't hurt one bit! It's my one superpower — iron butt — but it rarely lets me down. I'll get this breathing thing figured out. I may start posting about it more often, mainly because it's helpful to have that record to refer back. 

Not-so-triumphant return

On Monday morning, I pumped up two completely flat tires, added lube to the dusty chain, tightened the stem, installed pedals, and sat on a bike saddle for the first time in four months. Although tentative as I rolled out from my driveway, a smile spread across my face as I coasted down the first hill. I was riding my bicycle. It's a simple but fathomless joy that I think only cyclists and 6-year-olds understand.

The smile admittedly faded some as I ground the pedals up a three-mile climb, with dust swirling in the hot wind and my underdeveloped quads straining under the workload. My right hand only recently became useful again, so my whole arm all the way to the shoulder is significantly weaker than the other. I've improved my grip with hand exercises, but that doesn't do much for biceps and triceps, which were burning by the time I reached the next descent.

My hand surgeon said I should be able to start riding again six weeks after surgery, and so July 18 was the date I'd been looking forward to since June. She told me to stick to flat pavement at first, but there's only a few miles of pavement close to home, and absolutely nothing is flat. Still, the gravel road climb went okay, and my grin returned on the second descent.

"I can probably ride a few miles out the trail."

The Homestead Trail is actually just an old doubletrack with a few eroded ruts, but for the most part it's smooth, evenly graded, and as non-technical as a "trail" can possibly be. I took that "yay bikes" selfie on the climb, and started downhill feeling rather pleased with the comeback ride. My wrist didn't hurt at all, there was no numbness, and I'd received the best confirmation that surgery worked. I was healed!

Old habits returned and I accelerated quickly on the descent, eyes wide and grin spreading when suddenly the bike flipped end-over-end. I still don't know why I crashed. There was nothing on the trail to hit. My best guess is that my brain hasn't adjusted to my arm strength imbalance, and I made some tweaky move with the steering that launched me over the handlebars. Or I'm just woefully out of practice. Whatever the reason, I was crumpled beneath my bicycle and struggling with my stupid bad arm to lift the damn thing off myself. Just like that, all of my joy flipped a complete 180 to crushing bewilderment.

This was one of those stories I wasn't going to tell anyone, because it was such a devastating emotional blow at the time. I had to tell Beat because my arm was torn up with new trail rash and there were several new bruises to add to the patchwork across my legs. But I didn't want to admit this to anyone else. I've had an inordinate number of running crashes in the past few months, and then there was the return of breathing difficulties, and now that I can finally ride a bike again, well, I can't even do that right. I pretty much suck at everything. Why do I suck at everything? I sat on the dirt for several minutes, crying and berating myself. I knew this was childish and unreasonable, but sometimes it's better to just let it all out, especially when there's no one else around to witness embarrassing meltdowns. Physical pain does help release the emotional stuff.

Now that it's five days later, I do feel better about it. I haven't gained much confidence, but I realize it's not going to come back instantaneously. Four months is a long time, especially since my last cycling experiences were in Alaska, and now that I think about it, my last dirt ride also ended in a crash (when the front rack came down on top of the wheel one week before the Iditarod.) I took the mountain bike out again on Wednesday and stuck more closely to pavement — specifically, the climb up Flagstaff Road. With 2,000 feet of climbing in 4.5 miles, Flagstaff closely resembles the profile of another road I used to ride regularly in California, Montebello. Flagstaff does differ in that it's more gradual at the bottom and becomes unconscionably steep for the most of the last 1.5 miles, but I figured it was a good place to compare performances. Well ... I don't really want to talk about that either. It was a little pathetic. There were some low-oxygen dizzy moments. Temperatures were in the low 90s and my face was oozing because I'm off antihistamines ahead of another skin allergy test next week. But I did it, and I didn't put a foot down. It's got to get better, right?

After Wednesday I needed a break from the ego bruising (plus my shoulder and arm are quite sore), so I've been running since then. I will get back on a bike soon enough. The universe approves, as evidenced by this double rainbow over our backyard.

South Boulder Peak, perfectly framed by the rainbows. I love afternoon thunderstorms — as long as I'm somewhere safe while they're happening — so I'm enjoying the arrival of monsoon season.

On Friday I traveled down to Colorado Springs to give a short talk about winter bikepacking during a "Bikepacking 101" event at Cafe Velo. My friend Dave Nice planned the event, and there was a great turnout. It was fun to chat with folks about cycling in Alaska, a subject of which I never tire. Several folks came up afterward and said they enjoyed hearing me talk about it so exuberantly, even though to them it sounded grueling and horrible. People have said this to me in the past. I once gave a video interview for an exercise science course at Stanford, and still hear from the instructor about how much her students love the segment. Joy is infectious. It's what sustains me when I'm down on myself for clumsiness and wheezing, counting the days until winter.

Anyway, since I was driving all the way to Colorado Springs but didn't have much extra time, I figured I should check out the iconic Manitou Incline. The incline is an old cable car track with the rail ties still in place, forming a staircase that gains 1,900 feet in 0.8 miles. I was not all that impressed with the steepness because in Boulder we have rocky trails that are just as steep (Fern Canyon), and most photos I've seen of the Incline were not that interesting. Still, when in Colorado Springs ... it seemed like one of those things I had to try once. I had to sit in Denver I-25 traffic and then pay ten dollars for parking in Manitou Springs, which made me grumpy. But all of that melted away once I started marching up the steps.

View from the top — actually, it was quite scenic and I was surprised. The climb was fun as well. Some of the steps are knee-high, but for the most part the steep ascent is evenly graded, which assists in steady breathing and focused forward motion. I took it fairly easy and stopped to take a couple of photos, but this would be a fun spot to return for PRs. Too bad I live two hours away.

Let's see how I can embarrass myself this week. It can only get better, right?