Thursday, December 15, 2016

2016 Iditarod playlist

Earlier this week, an acquaintance mentioned he was putting together a Spotify playlist with music that I cited in my book, "Into the North Wind," and wondered if I had a few more to add. It seemed like a good idea for a blog post, a kind of follow-up to my "Iditarod playlist" of 2014. As I mentioned then, I enjoy listening to music during long solo efforts, and generally the reasons are the opposite of overcoming boredom or shutting out the world. I see music as a means of connecting my often drifting mind with the present. Music also disrupts negative thought loops, and keeps me cognizant of beauty when tedium and fatigue sink in. I keep the volume low and believe I hear most of what I need to hear (such as an approaching snowmobile or dog team. Dogs are pretty quiet, but I can hear them.) However, I usually only listen to music when I'm feeling good — it tends to spark anger or annoyance when I'm not.

As usual, I downloaded a bunch of music before the race, and much of what I listened to was new to me at the time. My use was actually somewhat limited over those 17 days. The majority of the time, I either didn't bother or preferred silence. But there still seemed to be at least one song that resonated every day, and this is that list. 

 Sunday, February 28: Knik Lake to Skwentna. "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron. Trails were a morass of slush and ice, rain was falling, and I was a bundle of stress, wound so tight that the only emotion that resonated was absolute dread. I took small comfort in imagining the first time I pedaled into the Susitna Valley, when everything about it was still unknown.

"I am not the only traveler,
who has not repaid his debt.
I've been searching for a trail to follow, again.
Take me back to the night we met."

 Monday, February 29: Skwentna to Puntilla Lake: "Artangels" by Grimes. There were hills along the rolling climb to Puntilla that literally dropped me to my knees (when I fell as I tried to nudge my bike up a near-vertical slope.) For unknown reasons, I was giddy for most of the punishing nine-hour slog between Finger Lake and Puntilla. As usual when I'm in a good mood, singing pop music outloud is extremely satisfying.

"I don't need no medicine.
Gonna dance all night.
I'm high on adrenaline.
That's right, that's right, that's right."

 Tuesday, March 1: Puntilla Lake to Egypt Mountain: "Long Night" by Guster. Although I didn't even stay up late (in the sleeping bag by 10:30), this is the night that darkness seemed to close in completely. An ongoing thought pattern during the trip was amazement that, after all of my failures and struggles, I could still move freely through these forbidding places.

"How many times I've wished for change 
Gave up, gave in, and called it fate 
Repeating all of the same mistakes 
Wasn't ready for what I'd find.
Whatever it is has turned the knife,
It was a long, long night."

Wednesday, March 2: Egypt Mountain to Nikolai. "Red Shifting" by Helio Sequence.  Music with a surreal quality and the lyrics "Let it bleed, let it bleed, let it all come out" seemed perfect for the "hump day" of a long effort — the day that most of the aches and pains come to a crescendo before slipping into more muted equilibrium.

Thursday, March 3: Nikolai to McGrath. "Shine a Light" by Banners. This "day" actually happened between 1 a.m. and 10 a.m. I left Nikolai without really conceptualizing that I still had eight hours of darkness ahead. However, in many ways, Alaska is at its most beautiful at night. Frost swirled through the air at -10F, northern lights flared overhead, and my dim headlamp traced miles of wolf tracks through the Kuskokwim River Valley.

Friday, March 4: McGrath to Carlson Crossing. "Perfect Holiday," by Big Data. I was both thrilled and terrified at the thought that I was leaving the last strands of familiarity to venture into a 200-mile stretch of unknown, unpopulated wilderness. I was also becoming increasingly worried about my right hand, which had lost so much strength that it was becoming difficult to zip up my coat. This song signaled the joy I felt and the comfort I craved.

"On my perfect holiday,
I won't need my hands to say,
I'm breaking out. I don't care.
That's my holiday."

Saturday, March 5: Carlson Crossing to Innoko. "Into Chicago" by Ace Reporter. In this song there's a line that probably says, "I thought we would die, somewhere in an echo," but I heard it as "I thought we would die, somewhere in Innoko." I never stopped believing that Innoko would kill me. A year earlier, when Beat passed through this region, there was three feet of untracked snow, and temperatures neared 50 below. My passage was much friendlier, a cause of much bemusement. Eventually I made minor changes to the lyrics of this song and sang it out loud frequently:

"I'm oblivious, trust me. 
I am surrounded by squalor. 
There's no bridge across overflow, 
and it freaks me out.
I have a list of confessions.
I confess I don't read them.
I have the qualities of a lazy mind,
Someone who plays at life. 
And I'm alive, but I'm quite surprised!
I thought we would die, 
Somewhere in Innoko."


Sunday, March 6: Innoko to Poorman, "Perfect Vision" by Icky Blossom. Occasionally I would imagine myself in an alternate universe — sitting on a couch, staring blankly at a television, and daydreaming about this strange reality that I was actually in. A dreamy song about "nothing to do but get high in the afternoon" allowed me to travel between these universes freely.

"A winter reprieve 
Pushing on me
Keeping right there
Keep me aware 
Snow on the ground
All over town,
All over town,
My bicycle is spinning around."

Monday, March 7: Poorman to Ruby. "Ansel" by Modest Mouse. This was my shortest day, time-wise, of the entire trip. It was also the one in which I was the most exhausted. This fatigue brought back strong associations with the Tour Divide, and thus an album I listened to on repeat during that ride — "Strangers to Ourselves" by Modest Mouse. This song, which is a true story about Isaac Brock's brother dying in an avalanche, always resonated because it evokes the uncertainty in all things.

"On gears around an uncaring sun
It doesn't know what it gave
As the bone moon winds 'round again
Again this allows one sphere's heart to pump
Pumping waves of hearts that come and go
And then come and then ..."

Tuesday, March 8: Ruby to Koyukuk. "Good for You" by Darlingside. This is a beautiful song that describes a sense of place. I was more or less alone across the Yukon River, and evenings brought an exquisite loneliness. I would think about "home." Colorado, California, Utah, and even this very spot in Alaska that I was seeing for the first time — a white plain stretching toward a pastel horizon.

"I stood above the Rocky Mountains,
Where Colorado touches New Mexico.
And I could see a hundred miles,
But I was many thousand miles from home."


Wednesday, March 9: Koyukuk to Kaltag. "Slow Down," Icon For Hire. I moved a lot slower on this day than my first on the Yukon, and it's always difficult to tell whether a hard day is due to snow conditions, or whether it's "me." I spent far too much time fretting that I didn't have the physical ability to propel myself to Nome, and pretending otherwise was a dangerous path. Concentrating on my breathing always helped, as did a reminder that "tomorrow holds no promises, except the ones we've made."

"Slow down. Just breathe.
All we have is all we need."

Thursday, March 10: Kaltag to Unalakleet, "Fantasy" by MSMR. The ride over the Kaltag Portage was my favorite day of the trip, and quite possibly my favorite day on a bike, ever. It's still difficult to describe why that is, but it was an incredible collision of beauty, awe, and joy.

"If I could force my heart, my eyes, my mind,
and eyes to get in line.
Maybe I'd find something real.
Not a fantasy so divine."

Friday, March 11: Unalakleet to Shaktoolik. "Stay Alive" by Jose Gonzalez  This is a song from the "Walter Mitty" soundtrack — it's probably not surprising that I identify with a meek character who lives a vivid fantasy life. This was a day that reminded me how powerless I was in this place. As I walked my bike along the blue ice of the Shaktoolik peninsula, incredible wind pummeled me from the side with such force that I could scarcely stay on my feet. I skittered along while wrestling with the bike to keep it from lunging toward the sea, and could relate to the need to "do whatever just to stay alive."

"There's a rhythm in rush these days.
Where the lights don't move and the colors don't fade.
There is a truth, and it's on our side.
Dawn is coming, open your eyes."

Saturday and Sunday, March 12 and 13, Shaktoolik to Koyuk. I didn't actually listen to my iPod on these days. I was distracted by dread, wearing too many layers of clothing to mess with earbuds, and anyway it was impossible to hear anything over the roars of 40mph wind gusts. But I do remember looping through songs in my head. One of them was "High" by Young Rising Sons.

"If this is low, I'm looking for high-igh-igh-igh 
Just let it go enjoy the ri-i-i-ide 
Without the low there ain't a high-igh-igh-igh."


Monday, March 14: Koyuk to Elim. "Tomorrow" by A Silent Film.  After the sea ice section, I spent the rest of the trip mildly sick (or congested at least) and very tired. I sought the boost of positive affirmation.

"Before you fall asleep tonight
Before you close your hundred eyes
Pray for a chance to prove yourself tomorrow."

Tuesday, March 15: Elim to White Mountain. "Hopeless Opus" by Imagine Dragons. For about an hour before sunrise, the wind was almost calm, and I pedaled away from Elim over a bumpy jumble of sea ice, singing this song at the top of my lungs. It was a good theme song for the day — upbeat pop with more subdued lyrics about a broken person trying to overcome themselves.

"I've got this place that I've filled with empty space,
And I'm trying not to face what I've done. ...
I'm in this race and I'm hoping just to place
So I'm trying not to face what's become of me."

Wednesday, March 16: White Mountain to Nome. "Dressed in Black" by Sia I've made a tradition of pressing "next" on the iPod when I have just a few minutes left to go in a race — from many of the 50Ks I've run all the way to this 1,000 miles to Nome. The random choices don't always make sense, but this one was perfect. Perhaps because I've spent so much time alone on this trail, I often think of the Iditarod as a sentient being — a kind of angel or demon that rewards and punishes me in kind. In the past I've regarded it with music about the idealism of starting anew ("Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens, 2007) and an angry breakup ("Happy" by the Wrens, 2008.) I don't claim the despair described in this song, but I do relate to a benevolent force that quelled my fears and made me laugh.


"I was hopeless and broken, 
you opened the door for me 
Yeah I was hiding and you let the light in 
and now I see 
That you do for the wounded, 
what they couldn't seem to, 
you set them free."





Sunday, December 11, 2016

Week 8

 I admit that discouragement about my fitness continues. But I don't really want to write about that anymore. So this week's training log includes my favorite moments from each day.

 Monday: Mountain bike, 3:39, 28.5 miles, 3,748 feet climbing. I was pedaling through Salina, a small community that was devastated during the 2013 floods. Fat flakes of snow pummeled my face as I churned through a thin veneer of powder atop patchy ice. I hadn't expected snowfall, and was riding my mountain bike with studless tires. Although I was slipping and skidding up the steep road, I paid more attention to the buildings — some relics from mining days, some boarded up, some rebuilt after being knocked off their foundations during an unfathomable deluge of water. Sandbags still lined the base. I always admire the lives in these hardscrabble towns, even when I understand the proximity to urban Boulder.

Just as I was recovering from a particularly awkward slip, I looked up at an older man walking down the road. "You sure are intrepid," he said.

"What to you mean?" I asked, assuming this was a veiled insult about the stupidity of riding a bike on this icy mess of a road.

"Just biking in the snow, that's tough," he said.

"Oh, it's not so bad," I replied.


Tuesday: Rest

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:33, 13.7 miles, 2,372 feet climbing. Temperatures were in the single digits, and I surfed an untrammeled blanket of snow down to the shoreline of South Boulder Creek. It felt frigid in the canyon, at least ten degrees colder, and I stopped to pull a buff over my face. This spot was exquisitely quiet. I could hear distant squeaking — deer, perhaps — and the creek burbled in a hushed echo of springtime torrents. Sunlight cast a patchwork of glittering snow and blue shadows. I felt content, understanding that winter's beauty will always outshine my meek efforts.

 Thursday: Run, 1:38, 5.7 miles, 1,394 feet climbing.  Weightlifting, 0:45. I intended this to be a gym-only day, but the morning was so beautiful that I just had to go outside before my trip to town. I gauged the weather by stepping outside, and warm sunlight increased my excitement. So I hurried to put on a hat, mittens, tights, a long-sleeve shirt, and my "brand new" Icebug shoes that I bought in 2015 but haven't yet tried. Also in my excitement, I failed to check the temperature, which was a mistake. It wasn't nearly as warm as I guessed — 16 degrees, not exactly "no jacket" weather. But I ran so hard that I didn't really notice the chill until I was crawling up the west ridge of Bear Peak, which was still pristine more than 36 hours after the storm. I lost the trail and wandered into the steeper rocks. It was here, clinging to burned tree trunks while kicking "steps" into the powdery snow, that I realized I was quite cold, and started to shiver. I still had to pick my way carefully down the mountain, losing feeling in my fingers and toes. Once I'd returned to the flatter trail, I ran as hard as I could to generate heat. It actually worked, and I was comfortable (but very thirsty) by the time I made it it home.

 Friday: Fat bike, 3:41, 26.7 miles, 3,160 feet climbing. I recently made acquaintance with another fat-biking endurance cyclist here in Boulder, and she and I met up for a ride on Friday morning. We kept a good conversational pace up Fourmile Canyon, but once we reached the snowy Switzerland Trail, Cheryl put on the high-burners. I kept stopping to let air out of my tires — to make it easier on myself — as she powered through the crusty snow. On the wind-swept ridge, we stopped to have a snack. Gazing out at rolling, forested slopes, I thought this place reminded me of a spot I used to ride to in California, a lookout over Big Basin State Park. I've been haunted by my own nostalgia lately, for reasons I don't understand, but it incites sadness at the most unlikely times.

"I always love to come here," Cheryl said, and her voice brought me back to the present.

"It is a beautiful place," I agreed, and refocused on horizon. Suddenly I felt completely at home.

Saturday: Fat bike, 3:59, 22.5 miles, 3,045 feet climbing. Beat and I joined friends for a night at a cabin near Rollinsville. They were dragging sleds in the vicinity, and Beat and I set out for a ride on forest roads. Temps were on the warm side — 35 degrees — and it was snowing. I was struggling and doing everything I could to pretend I wasn't struggling, but it felt like I was slowly melting into the ground. The best moment came toward the end, when I was quite nauseated, and we stopped at a store on the highway. I sat outside in the swirling snow to quell this feeling of dizziness. Five minutes later, Beat emerged with a Pepsi for me. He's very sweet like that.

Sunday: Rest. I had another four-hour ride planned for this day, but we woke up to 8 inches of new snow, and I backed out. I don't have an excuse. I'm not tired, sick, or injured. Discouragement is really all I can claim. I recognize I need to either get over this, or embrace it. Ultimately I think it was a good idea to hit the reset button on this physically taxing week.

Total: 17:17, 5.7 miles run, 91.5 miles ride, 13,718 feet climbing. 
Wednesday, December 07, 2016

5 degrees in paradise

One of the reasons we moved from California to Colorado was to live among winter again — to sit by a wood stove and sip hot chocolate, watch snow fall outside the window, and justify having a sauna in our back yard. In eight months, Colorado has given us little tastes — May snowfall and October cold. But today was probably the first day of "real" winter — several inches of new snow fell as overnight temperatures dipped below zero. In the spirit of the "nearly wordless Wednesday" blogging tradition, this is a photo post. 

 Early morning light filters through fog over the backyard.

 Weather station shows 0.9 degrees.

 Beat begins his morning commute to work. It proved tougher than he anticipated.

 A few hours later, I set out for an afternoon ride. Temperatures had warmed to a balmy 5.4 degrees.

 Walker Ranch.

 Relentless climbing, rewarding views.

 First tracks.

 South Boulder Creek. It felt very cold here.

 Climbing away from South Boulder Creek was hard.

 Fading to cloud.

 Hints of sunlight.

 After an embarrassingly short distance, I realized three hours had passed, so I stopped for a snack.

Steam rises from Gross Reservoir.