Hard love

What love is this that beckons us into these burned hills, where matchstick spruce crouch away from a subarctic wind? How do we love these capricious trails, even after miles of clumped sugar snow swallows our momentum like an endless runaway truck ramp? How can we adore every steep climb? Every thirteen-hour slog just to reach a place to sleep? Or the ice particles stuck to our faces at twenty below? What is this love?

It was inevitable that Beat and I would end up in the White Mountains. With Beat fresh off his Iditarod effort and me wanting "easy as possible" to best manage my thyroid symptoms, we looked into available cabins. March is a popular month in this recreation area. Even during the mid-week, we only found openings at the cabin furthest from the road system (Windy Gap) and another off route up a mile-long wall (Eleazar's). It would amount to 80 miles of hilly trails, with Beat pulling a sled and me riding a bike. We'd already heard recent reports of slow trail conditions, so I figured the bike would allow me to travel 1.5 times Beat's speed, at best. But that was enough time for longer rests. Beat justified the 80-mile hike by reasoning that he was already back in training. He recently secured a spot in the White Mountains 100, which is happening in two weeks.

The weather was forecasted to warm up on Wednesday, but temperatures plummeted again on Tuesday night. We hedged our bets with a later start on the 40-mile day. Our car's thermometer registered 36 below as we drove past the low-lying Chatanika River. The hilltop trailhead was -8, but the warmth was relatively short-lived. After six miles of rolling along a broad ridge, the route plummets into another low-lying area, Wickersham Creek, where temps were still in the -20s. Descending the "Wickersham Wall" at these temperatures feels like plunging into a glacier lake, ice-cream headache and all. My body was all over the map with thermoregulation. I would sweat while wearing minimal layers, then suddenly feel a chill and continue to shiver after I bundled up. Then the heat would suddenly return. After a few costume changes I decided that as long as my feet and hands felt warm, I'd just ignore the chills and go with the lighter option. 

Running hot and cold should have been an early indicator that this wasn't going to be a great day for me. I've had plenty of "bad" days this winter that I attributed to allergy shots, altitude, or mild illness. But as I learn more about Graves Disease, I think I do have days when my hormones are more out of whack than others. This wasn't a good day to be off balance. I had dozens of miles to travel, and the sugary trail wasn't giving up a millimeter of momentum. Riding felt like churning through wet cement. My heart pumped as though my blood was full of sludge. My breathing worsened, so I took more breaks. A few times I leaned the bike against a tree and sat directly in the snow until my butt went numb. I thought about taking a beta blocker pill to shut down the adrenaline and calm my heart, but worried that I wouldn't be able to continue riding afterward. I wanted to ease up the effort, but it seemed impossible to move any more slowly.

All of these solutions were overcompensating, of course. It's not like I was having a heart attack. But I was overdoing it. I know that. I do well with two-to-four-hour efforts. Even my endocrinologist said exercising shouldn't be an issue as long as I take care not to push myself, and as long as I avoid stressors. A few seconds of road rage would be worse for me than days of pleasant biking. But these long efforts — especially the kind that are challenging no matter what I do — need to be deferred until I'm healthy. 

It's difficult not to be greedy, though — to long for the limestone spires that rise above Fossil Creek, which you can only see if you're willing to venture thirty-plus miles away from the nearest road, which itself stands alone in an expansive and often inhospitable wilderness.

It's difficult not to be greedy for that sensation when, after 12-plus hours of slogging until a crushing darkness arrives, you arrive at a cabin. It's small and simple, but it's a place where you can spread your sleeping bag across a wooden bench, lie down, and breathe the rhythm of satisfaction and relief.

It's difficult not to be greedy about ice cream cones, carried for twelve hours and deep-frozen by the air outside. I barely had time to start a fire and hang up my gear before Beat arrived at Windy Gap, about 40 minutes after me. He put in a hard effort, and looked ragged. We barely got the ice cream down before we both passed out.

Ice cream, Mountain House, Fireball hot chocolate, and a full night of sleep did wonders. The following day, I felt a lot better. Just like that. The weather had turned gloomy, and flurries of snow fell through a thick haze. Since we established that my riding pace was about the same as Beat's walking pace, we agreed to meet up after 15 miles to drink hot chocolate in the brisk wind.

Although I felt markedly better, I didn't want to push my luck. So I walked the hills and otherwise puttered along at an enjoyable pace. Sucker holes revealed hints of blue, and a "sundog" rainbow arced through the sky.

A calmer heart and better breathing made a world of difference. I felt relaxed and full of joy. There was no place in the world I'd rather be. Friends have suggested that it would be better for healing if I'd spent this month lying on a beach. They're probably not wrong. But if it was a crowded beach, I'd become stressed. If it was warm, I'd be sweaty and miserable. We all have the places we go to feel alive. Places where the air tastes like cinnamon and mountains stretch beyond the horizon. I love the White Mountains. I know they do not love me back, that I'm surrounded by a thousand things that could kill me, and that my body isn't well enough for this place. But a life without White Mountains is not a life I want. So what do I do?

The final mile to Eleazar's was a grunt, ascending 600 feet on soft trail. My meditative joy had faded, and I was ready to be done. Just like that. My shoulders burned as I pushed the bike, and I invented games to avoid staring at my GPS the entire time. My iPod was playing, so I vowed that after one song, I could look at the distance. One-tenth of a mile. Damn it. Another song finished, and only another tenth had passed. After three-tenths of a mile, I tried to focus on being more present. Spruce trees looked like little dogs begging for treats. Hare tracks mottled the snow. The last hints of daylight turned the sky violet and gold. "I even love this climb," I told myself.

Eleazar's was a nice cabin — stocked with firewood, matches, and propane for a brand-new lantern. The cabin sits on a bluff high above Wickersham Creek, but sadly it was still too cloudy for aurora viewing. I started a fire, moved armfuls of firewood inside, gathered fresh snow for melting, arranged my meager belongings, and waited for Beat to arrive. After a day mostly traveling alone, it was a spirited reunion — Beat ranted about the crappy trail. I quietly insisted that if a hiker thinks it's bad, imagine how a biker feels. Beat lamented his poor training. I lamented my crappy body. Beat asked me if I saw the sundog. I asked him if he saw the 7-year-old girl driving a snowmachine. We shared kisses and ice cream cones, then fell asleep on hard benches. I'm definitely not of the school that believes all good adventures need to be shared, but I was grateful Beat came back from the Iditarod Trail early this year. 

By morning the sky had cleared, and it was warm — 8 above. I wanted to stay at Eleazar's all week, doing all those mundane tasks again and again. But it was time to return to Fairbanks.

We only had 12 miles to travel, and though it took four hours, time went by quickly. Physically I felt good and the weather was beautiful, yet I was still a little melancholy. I didn't know why. Disappointment about my limitations? Guilt about taking this trip? Wistfulness about leaving? Lately my emotions haven't made as much sense as they used to, so I cling to what I know. I love the White Mountains. And I'm grateful for every chance to come back. 

Subzero respite

After he left the Iditarod Trail, Beat decided to spend another week-plus rambling north with me. Because I dropped out of the race only two weeks prior, there weren't many plans to work with. We were both feeling disappointed and moody, and uncertain how much more time we should burn in Alaska. Beat ultimately decided one more week would be good for him. I'm mostly incapable of giving up this place if I don't have to, but I was uncharacteristically unexcited about embarking on adventures. 

Our friend Kate lives on a homestead that borders the eastern boundary of Denali National Park. It's an enviable spot on a lake surrounded by sharp peaks, with the closest tiny towns still twenty-plus miles away. The neighbors have been there for generations. Despite the stereotype, they're friendly to outsiders who show up in rental cars with no engine block heaters (we were invited inside when we knocked on the wrong door, given a brief history of the homestead, and warned that our vehicle might not start in the morning.) These are the type of Alaskans who think riding a bike on the Iditarod Trail is normal, and who clear the ice to play hockey on Sundays, even at -40.

Kate graciously let us spend a couple nights in a cabin, and I was able to do a little work and get out for a 20-mile ride on a mushing trail out the Yanert River. Physically I have not been feeling strong, but if I keep my breathing in check — which I've learned actually means keeping my heart rate in check — I can muddle along just fine with no ill effects. Getting outside for an hour or three does wonders for my mental state — my focus seems to only get worse the longer I sit in disjointed contemplation. Until my health improves, I think this will be my mode of operation — going out for easy outings earlier in the day so I can work better in the afternoons. 

It was a gorgeous day in Denali, but cold. At 10 a.m. the temperature was still 35 below. I went outside to adjust some things on my bike, and broke a plastic zip-tie like it was glass. The pogies had gone rigid and the frame bag felt brittle. I stood outside for several minutes in my T-shirt, breathing in sharp air with subtle hints of cinnamon, relishing the tingle on my skin, and waiting for the cold to slam down like a lead blanket. I *love* that sensation, I mean, when I'm warm to start and know there's no danger. That level of cold quickly plunges to the core, at once filling me with exhilarating panic while beckoning me to its sleepy depths. After a few short minutes, I darted back inside the cabin and shivered contentedly.

I still waited until well after noon to embark on the ride, because that level of cold for hours is not so fun. I'd bundled up too heavily and ended up stripping down to a single jacket layer, and for a while no hat or gloves. Temperatures were still in the negative single digits at best, but I have been running quite hot lately. It's probably my thyroid. Strangely I still sleep cold and become chilled easily, but when I'm exercising, even fairly low temperatures start to feel intolerable (until they're not. I'm definitely not thermoregulating on an even basis.) But this subzero ride felt wonderful. Grinding along on a fairly slow trail, I managed to motor a ways out the Yanert before it occurred to me that the length of my ride would make me feel bad if I didn't turn back soon. But I could see the bend of the wide river, leading into the craggy peaks of the Alaska Range, and that faded desire for adventure finally returned. It took all of my strength to turn the bike around. Mostly because I really don't have a lot of strength.

By Tuesday we were in Fairbanks, and the temperatures were still 35 below in the early mornings, rising to just below zero by afternoon. I enjoyed another easy-going 20-mile ride from Goldstream Valley to the top of O'Conner Creek Trail. I'll admit to missing training, even the pretense of it. Although I haven't felt that fire for a while, even the hope of finding it gave some level of satisfaction. Dawdling around for my mental health isn't the same, but of course it's better than the alternatives. It's still Alaska, and still beautiful. 

And it didn't even rain

When I purchased a ticket to Juneau last week, I envisioned having a cab drop me off at the end of North Douglas Road, where I would sit on the cold gravel beach, watch wisps of clouds tumble down forested slopes, and relish the 38-degree wetness that was sure to rain down for the duration of my short stay. I don't mean to overdramatize my rather mild health condition; I'm just attempting to explain how how my feelings have been driving my decisions. For a few weeks I've been slipping further into emotional malaise. I'm inclined to blame hormones, because there's no rational justification for feeling so down. Still, I can't get excited about, well, anything. After I dropped out of the Iditarod, I knew I could still spend a month viewing beautiful scenery in Alaska. I mustered anticipation and made plans, but felt surprisingly blasé about them. Part of me wanted to stay in Colorado and spend a month watching Netflix. What is wrong with me?

Instead, I went to Juneau. Yes, Juneau is a good place to go and be sad. I remember it well. The short version of my history with Juneau is that I lived here from 2006 to 2010, and worked for the local newspaper in an increasingly demanding and demeaning position. After my former relationship ended, I kept a tenuous grip for another year until the rain and isolation drove me away. On my life's timeline, Juneau was brief but impactful. I’ve visited three times since I left seven years ago, and each time I settle into Juneau like a worn coat. The town fits so well that I become alarmed when I realize I’ve forgotten the name of the corner store, or wander up a street to see different bars and restaurants taking the place of favorite haunts. Seven years later, there’s still a part of me that never left.

I arrived Tuesday evening to the beginnings of a storm that dumped more than 18” of snow. Wednesday morning was a chaotic swirl of white and gray, so I strapped on snowshoes to hike up the Dan Moller Trail to Mount Troy. I must have hiked or ridden a bike up this trail a hundred times. Maybe it was never a hundred, but it feels that way when I wend around familiar corners.

Right now I’m happiest when I’m walking. Especially the kind of walking involved in a snowshoe slog, which strains my muscles but not my heart. The rhythmic motion allows me to slip into relaxed thoughts that are difficult to achieve elsewhere (my recent mental state fluctuates between brain fog and a strange hyper-attentiveness that still fails to focus on any one thing.)

As I climbed higher into the fog, my snowshoes sank into knee-deep powder on top of a bulletproof crust. "If I was up here yesterday, I could have ridden Pugsley," I thought. That was genuinely a thought that I had, when I was in Anchorage yesterday and haven't owned a Pugsley since 2012. When I snapped back to the present, I thought, "Damn, I really do have dementia."

Happily, for the rest of my stay in Juneau, I didn't have to spend too much time alone with my weird brain. Although I only had three full days, I still managed to visit a number of old friends. On Thursday, winds had hit gale force, and blizzard conditions discouraged the ascent of any mountains. My friend John suggested snowshoeing to Eagle Glacier, a trail I had never traveled. Soon after the hike started, I realized why. For most of my time in Juneau, I was almost exclusively a cyclist. Eagle Glacier trail is often a technical jumble of rocks and roots skirting the crags that line the Eagle River. It wouldn't have been fun with a bike. Under thick tree canopy, the often thin layer of snow only served to mask the obstacles, not cover them. After enough stumbling and snagging on branches, I just took the snowshoes off.

Somewhere in that blurred background is Eagle Glacier. And somehow it had taken us three and a half hours to hike six miles. We managed to get back in two and a half, so I suppose broken trail really does make a difference. I felt better at the end of that six-hour slog than I had in a week. More clear-headed, more upbeat. Nothing like self-medicating the malaise with exercise.

Thursday was the day Beat dropped out of the Iditarod. He scratched at Puntilla Lake and flew into Anchorage before I'd even returned from the hike. The story is his to tell, but he's also been feeling less strong since we moved to Colorado. A lingering cold left him struggling and not enjoying a single step. By mile 160, all he felt was dread for the upcoming miles. On the wind-blasted trail to Ptarmigan Pass, a lost snowshoe prompted him to turn around. After he found it, he just keep going back to the checkpoint. Although I knew on a logical level why Beat left the race, on a personal level it was difficult to understand. There is nothing more I want than to be on the Iditarod Trail right now — pedaling, walking, having to focus only on forward motion. I know that my physical state is poor for such an endeavor, and my mental state is probably worse. Still, the desire lingers. Thoughts of the terrible wind and subzero cold just made this desire burn stronger. What is wrong with me?


On Friday I went for a short hike with my ex-boyfriend, Geoff. We don't keep much contact anymore, so it was nice to catch up. He's been dealing with strange health issues for five years now, and the sum of them really look like an autoimmune disease. Geoff has become one of the headline cases for overtraining syndrome among ultrarunners. Given his symptoms, I don't buy into that community-driven diagnosis. Training may have set off whatever he has (just like sickness and overexertion during the Tour Divide may be what triggered my thyroid disease.) Still, Geoff spent years searching for a cause, and never found answers. Since it just happened to start while he was winning races, overtraining it is. Right now, he's happy to live and let live — getting out when he feels good, and staying still when he does not. I admire that attitude. I was working toward acceptance before I was diagnosed with Grave's Disease. The treatable nature of this condition should have given me hope, but instead I was pulled away from acceptance and back into uncertainty. There's hope, of course; I just need to find it.

The weather had cleared, which often brings terrible Taku winds. Geoff suggested trying for West Peak, starting just one canyon over from the avalanche gully that the city was bombarding with howitzer blasts. Meanwhile, 50mph wind gusts raced down the ridge as we climbed above treeline. We trudged and crouched as clouds of spindrift swirled around us. All that time, Geoff told a story about helping rescue friends on that same mountain, when the wind was so bad that they couldn't return on their own. After about twenty minutes we both said, "screw this," pretty much at the same time, and turned around. I thought about the ITI racers on Ptarmigan Pass, and how slogging through 50mph wind gusts was exactly what I'd been wistfully pining for. But it's not the same. It's difficult to describe why the journey is not the sum of its parts, the parts alone are not necessarily meaningful, and it's just not the same thing. Plus, wind sucks. 

Sadly, I had to leave early on Saturday. So I took the rest of Friday afternoon to wander around town before catching a musical ("West Side Story") with my friend Brian. The frigid wind blasted down Basin Road, prompting me to bundle up. It was 15 above, but that's cold when you're in Juneau.

Alaska's First Road. Of course it would go up this narrow, winding canyon with steep dropoffs and avalanche gullies at every switchback.

Walking up the Perseverance Trail, I looked toward Mount Juneau and had another moment where I couldn't quite remember what year it was. As it slowly came back, I thought, "It didn't even rain."

It may be another few years before I return to Juneau. The Mendenhall Glacier may have receded above lake level by then, the heavy rains may shift to spring and autumn will become warm and dry. Everything will have changed, but it will still feel like an instant.

The 2017 Iditarod Trail Invitational

The 2017 ITI started at 2 p.m. Sunday at the edge of Knik Lake. I was there, but rather than standing next to a loaded bike and bubbling with nervous excitement, I was on the sidelines. I've mentioned this before, but I'm pretty bummed about missing the race. I need to get over it. I'm in Alaska, enjoying gorgeous scenery, and visiting friends. To be honest, though, the prospect of an Idiatrod Trail adventure is one thing that's kept me optimistic through all of my issues over the past few months: Anxiety over the world's current state of affairs, increasing brain fog, poor writing efforts, and diminishing physical capacity. Now that I know the likely cause, I have a potential solution to my issues. This is reason for optimism, but I still have the anxiety and the brain fog without the release of physical activity and joy of adventure. I've been taking it fairly easy. This just makes me feel worse. 

I learned last week that I have Grave's Disease. It's an autoimmune condition that's thought to affect people with genetic predisposition, and possibly triggered by bacterial and viral infections. Like most autoimmune conditions, it will never go away on its own. Diet and a few lifestyle changes are on my radar, but Graves Disease requires treatment, one way or the other. The initial path is to experiment with medications. My hormone levels tested high enough to justify an aggressive dose of methamizole, which I've taken every morning for a week. The drug supposedly has some nasty side effects, but those haven't yet hit. To be honest I don't feel any different yet, but it's a hopeful path even if not ideal. 

Those last two paragraphs were difficult to write, and I'm am struggling to go back and read them. My brain fog is actually pretty bad today. One of the effects of hyperthyroidism is difficulty focusing for more than a few seconds. When reading, I scan through a line on a page, lose my place, and fail to find the next line. By the time I've gone searching for it, I mostly forget what I'd already read. This struggle with reading is recent and intermittent, but it freaked me out to an extent that I didn't tell anyone or even conduct a Google search — "I'm losing my ability to read" — for fear it would make it so. I worried that I was losing my mind. Maybe early-onset dementia. And that would be so, so much worse than losing my physical capacity. 

 Well ... I really didn't start writing this post to complain about my health issues. But it seemed prudent to given an update. I believe this is getting better. I'm having a bad day today, possibly because my general anxiety is up. It's inevitable when Beat starts the Iditarod. This is Beat's sixth year on the Iditarod trail, and his fifth attempt to Nome. He's seen and survived just about every fearsome possibility. But I can't help myself. I worry about him. And it sets off these lousy hormone issues that wreck my brain and my body.

But everything is fine, of course. Beat is out there plugging along and mostly enjoying himself, although the first days are always hard. He's still recovering from a cold that prompted him to bring a small pharmacy with him to the start. He frets about congestion and foot pain. Actually, he's like this initially every year, before he settles in and develops that groove that's always made him unstoppable.

 I've been involved with the Iditarod "family" for nine years now, and the pre-race activities are always a fun reunion. In this photo Beat is talking to Loreen Hewitt, who is vying for the 1,000-mile hike this year after reaching Nome on the Northern Route in 2014. She's nearing 60 and still perfectly healthy for such an endeavor. I'm terribly jealous.

Beat doing his best "Blue Steel." Behind him is Tim Hewitt, who is riding a bike this year. Tim seemed to be heavily regretting this decision while eating pre-race lunch at Knik Bar. So far trail conditions appear to be softer than recent years, but rideable. Tim is anticipating awful trail conditions beyond McGrath, which is why he's packing those snowshoes. I tried to talk him out of bringing them, then changed my mind. I've tried it, several times, and concluded that it's more annoying than helpful to push a bike in snowshoes on bad trail. Snowshoes don't help a biker in deep snow, either, because the bike still sinks, and then the front wheel has to be lifted from a higher angle. (I can only lift my own bike by getting underneath it, so the last thing I want is to be higher than the bike.) However, snowshoes could help if Tim snowshoes hikes ahead and effectively breaks his own trail, in which he could then push his bike. That's a nightmare scenario as well, but then again all scenarios are nightmare scenarios in three feet of new snow, like they dealt with in 2015.

 The start, with Pete Ripmaster forging ahead in the lead.

 Beat, looking much more relaxed than he claimed.

 The field crossing Knik Lake. There are 20 runners out of the field of 82 this year. The majority are participating in the 130- and 350-mile races. Six or seven plan to go beyond McGrath.

A half hour after the race started, I set out on the old Fatback bike (I brought this bike to Alaska rather than risk theft of the race bikes.). Admittedly my comfortable "non-strenuous pace" only netted about 4 mph on the mashed-potato surface, so I rode a little harder in order to catch up to Beat before hours had passed. I caught up to the only 1,000-mile skier, Moses, at 3-Mile Hill. His sled was absolutely massive.

 Another runner on the trail. Temps were warm — around 29 degrees, and the weather was cloudy with light flurries. Pretty blah weather. But better than the first day last year (when it was 38 degrees and raining.)

 Catching up to Beat, finally. This is likely to be the last time I see him for a month, if all goes well.

Bye Beat! I'm planning to spend this time in Alaska, although I still need to decide exactly what I'll be doing. I travel to Juneau tomorrow, and I'm looking forward to returning to this isolated city where I lived for five years, which in my memory will always remain the best and worst of all. This time will be great to reconnect and reflect, if I can get my brain back. If things are going well for Beat and my anxiety goes down, I think that will help.

Too much is not enough

A crushing heat wave settled in this week, melting the last of the ice from the small ponds in our back yard. For the first time in three months, I knelt beside the pond and sprinkled fish food into the water. Two-dozen goldfish swam to the surface and sluggishly nibbled at the flakes. I watched with fascination. They spent three months hidden beneath a thick sheet of ice, in a pond so small that I wondered if it could freeze solid, and I hadn't fed them since November. Yet there they were, as healthy as ever. I felt strong appreciation for these hardy little fish, matched in an instant by disgust in my own fragile body.

Shortly afterward, I slathered my arms and legs in sunscreen and went for a walk. That's what I've been doing since I found out about my wonky thyroid levels: going to the gym, and hiking — short distances and nothing strenuous. Strangely, or maybe not strangely, I've been feeling symptoms to a deeper degree. Knowledge has made my head even more foggy, my body even more jittery. I think this escalation of symptoms is psychosomatic, so I stare at my hands, willing them to hold still. They never do.

Seventy degrees felt unconscionably hot, and I'd lost my will to even bother. Still, as it always has, hiking does improve my mood. I hiked my way through a difficult breakup in Juneau, back in 2009. At the time I was fairly certain I would be alone for the rest of my life, and embraced mountains as a solid if indifferent companion. Maybe I'll hike my way through this most recent breakup with my health. (I know, poor health is likely temporary, but it never really seems like it in the midst. Just like solitude at the end of a relationship.)

I have been sad about dropping out of Iditarod. I know, of course I know, that it's such a small loss in the scheme of world events and even my own life. I want to believe this emotion is not my own, but the dastardly work of wonky hormones. Right now, though, it feels like a threshold crossed. The end of something.

Sweat beaded on my skin as I picked my way through tangles of fallen trees to South Boulder Peak. Implausibly, given that it's been virtually summer for at least two weeks, the ridge was still coated in ice. I continued anyway, even after a man coming down the mountain warned me that the trail was too treacherous. I didn't feel like being careful, so of course I fell. A few yards later, I fell again. Blood glistened on my shin. I was angry, with myself of course, and plopped down on a boulder just fifty feet shy of the actual top.

The afternoon was so warm that I could stop as long as I wanted. So I sprawled out and turned up the iPod. Earlier in the week, I realized my playlists were hurting my feelings, so I refilled one with music I mostly listened to before I started endurance racing. Near the top of South Boulder mountain — just far enough from the actual peak to concede I hadn't fully climbed it — I nearly dozed off listening to early-90s Catherine Wheel songs:

"Always, Always.
Bye bye long day.
I need to sleep so much.
Nineteen hours straight.
Too much is not enough."

Again I thought about those tough little goldfish, who I think I've grown to love, and how they survived the winter without any help from me.

"It's going to be fine," I said out loud, sitting up. "Shake it off, shake it off." My hands were still quivering. I felt a little bit dizzy and hand't brought any food with me. It crossed my mind that I could take an unlucky slip at just the wrong place on the upcoming, treacherously icy downhill, and that could be the end. It was just as plausible, maybe even more plausible, than my heart stopping in the Alaska wilderness. Life is fragile. Maybe I have an autoimmune disease and maybe my lifestyle is to blame, but I don't regret a thing.

The downhill hike passed without incident. Still, I remained little out of it. As if in an instant, the sun began to set. Beautiful pink light filtered through the trees. 

"Needle stings and blisters breaking.
 Swinging moods and conscious fading. 
All the things you dream while spinning 'round. 
Always it seems to bring you, bring you down."

Thyroiditis

Bear Peak, during a Sunday hike. I had new info about my health, and felt both better and worse than I have in a while.

Just over two weeks ago, I was having dinner with friends in Fairbanks a few hours before heading to the airport. We were at a Thai restaurant with harsh lighting, and I was describing my exercise woes to friends I hadn't seen in a while. The quick explanation is: "I can't breathe when I exert myself, really, at all. It doesn't take much before I start gasping and become dizzy, and sometimes I have to sit down. I used to be able to run entire 50Ks with an average heart rate in the 160s, and now I rarely hit that number before I'm breathless." Corrine, who is a family doctor, looked over at me and said, "You know, your thyroid looks enlarged."

That set off a series of medical visits, and the latest was to an endocrinologist today. I'm very lucky to have good health insurance (thanks Beat!) and medical providers who sympathize with my desire to participate in the ITI, so they fast-tracked me through several tests ahead of the race. This much now is known — I have an autoimmune disorder, currently guessed to be Hashimoto's Thyroiditis but possibly Grave's Disease or both. My immune system is attacking my thyroid, which in turn is flooding my body with hormones that stress it out, all of the time. Hyperthyroidism. It's bad — my heart is stressed, muscle tissue is breaking down, I'm nervous and dizzy, my mind is foggy, and I'm frequently short of breath.

It explains quite a bit. The exercise intolerance is only part of what's been worrying me, but I haven't mentioned my other issues to anyone, for fear that I was losing my mind. Bouts of anxiety at odd times. Waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and shaking. Sudden tremors. Staring blankly at a computer screen until my vision blurs and I can't quite remember how to read. Occasionally feeling like my heart is racing out of my chest while I'm wheeling a cart around Safeway, and wondering if this is when I'm finally going to have the heart attack I've been half-expecting. If this is all the result of a wonky thyroid that can potentially be fixed — and not early onset of heart disease or dementia — that would be fantastic.

What's not fantastic is the timing. If I'd caught this months ago, I might be in a better spot right now. But it's now ten days before the start of the ITI, my body is still flooded with thyroid hormones, and my heart is in real danger. Dehydration and fatigue could set off a thyroid storm that could quickly become life-threatening were I not able to seek immediate medical attention, which would be difficult if I was, say, somewhere remote like the Alaska wilderness. Heart damage is likely. Heart failure is a possibility. It's not remotely worth the risk.

So I have to drop out of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. This has been more distressing than I expected, given how uncertain I've been about the race, because of how bad I feel during and after heavy exertion. The decision is still sobering. It's not fun to know that my body is broken. As I told my friend Corrine, I almost preferred it when I believed my symptoms were psychosomatic, something to overcome with the power of positive thinking. My mind has been drifting to increasingly dark places recently, and I'd been counting on the rejuvenating power of the Iditarod Trail to reset my head. Now it's just me and my anxiety and my inability to concentrate, walking as slowly as possible because I've become frightened of my own heart.

But I can believe it will get better. Beat certainly believes it. He's already threatened to sign me up for coaching so I can crush the Tour Divide in 2018. This makes me laugh. But to feel normal again — just normal, like I used to feel before summer 2015 — would be amazing.

Thyroid wasn't even on my radar three weeks ago, but obviously I've done a lot of Internet reading in the past week. This is a great essay from the Guardian by a novel writer with Grave's Disease: (Link here.) Her hyperthyroidism is clearly much worse than mine, but I related to many of her experiences. A sentence in her lede especially struck me:

"All this I recall with wonder, for that moment has crystallised in my memory as youth’s last day before, at the age of 34, old age struck me like a brick in a sock."

I too have a moment when old age struck me like a brick in a sock. I was 35 years old, and it was a hot June day in 2015, somewhere in southern Wyoming. I looked across the beige desert and felt nothing, knew nothing, saw nothing. I was sick, yes, quite sick with bronchitis. And I was fatigued from this difficult multiday mountain bike race, the Tour Divide. But there was something else, something deeper, pulling me inward. I knew it then, but I didn't understand.

Here's hoping medication can reset my body. If I do in fact have two different autoimmune disorders, they're going to be that much harder to manage, and then surgery may be necessary. Hopefully I'll know more in the next few days. 

Another week

I stopped posting my weekly training logs at the end of December, after deciding that they were more demoralizing than motivating, and "training" was probably hurting more than it was helping. I'm still getting out 15+ hours each week, lifting twice a week, and generally doing what I was doing before. And ever since the Fat Pursuit, I've felt progressively better. I still have occasional battles with shallow breathing, and realized that I might be overcompensating by taking it too easy. For the most part, thought, things have been going well.

A long-time blog reader recently contacted me about my "Running on 3 Cylinders" post, and completed the car analogy. I laughed at his observations:

"A car analogy is apt since we humans are a thermodynamic (a heat engine) — funny, we convert our fuel about just as efficiently. Going on with the car theme, a gasoline engine needs three things in the right amount and at the right time for oxidation (combustion) to take place (spark, fuel, and air) since you have plenty of spark (that’s kinda of understatement) and it seems plenty of fuel (Sour Patch Kids comes to mind) your oxygen intake is constricted as you have documented. So I think you're firing on all cylinders but just running low on HP (like a restricter plate in Nascar.) Your torque curve is still awesome (anaerobic muscle contraction.) Your aerobic respiration threshold is probably lower in your power curve for the time being, but training at altitude can increase your VO2 Max."

Anyway, it's been a great week of low-horsepower non-training. On Monday I was still in Fairbanks and trying to catch up on some work, so I went for a lunchtime run. My friends live at 1,500 feet, where the temperature was 5 above zero. I set out wearing a single layer — luckily packing several more — and descended 800 feet into the Goldstream Valley. After about a mile on the lower trail, my legs and shoulders went numb. "Maybe it's not 5 degrees down here," I thought. Actually, it was -15. This photo happened after I put on more layers, than loped along for two more hours. Toward the end of an attempted loop, I failed to find a trail connection and decided to "shortcut" back to the road. Turns out waist-deep snow is no shortcut. It took about twenty minutes of lunging like a seal before I swam to safety. Note to self: This is even more difficult with a bike.

On Wednesday I was back in Boulder and submerged in a weather pattern I'm told is very atypical for the Front Range — as in once-in-a-decade atypical. Heavy inversion with fog and freezing rain, with temps dropping into the teens in the valley and soaring into the 40s above 9,000 feet.

I set out for a mountain bike ride and ended up at 8,000 feet on Sugarloaf Road around 4 p.m., where temperatures were in the low 20s and it was raining. Actually raining. It was a light, misty rain, but it froze to everything it touched, including me. That 3,000-foot descent on black ice was a sphincter-clencher, even with studded tires, and I was so very very cold. I could have brought more layers, but what do you even wear for freezing rain? I just gritted my teeth and bore it.

The freezing fog did make for some beautiful scenery. It was still hanging around on Thursday when Beat and I went running at Walker Ranch. The temperature was about 15 and there was light misting ice in the air. 

I wore Icebug shoes, which have built-in carbide studs on the soles. I learned too late that they weren't going to cut it on hard ice, which covers at least 60 percent of the Walker Ranch trail right now. Despite being careful, I still skidded on a steep descent and fell hard onto my right knee and shoulder. It was incredibly painful, and I writhed on the ground for three or four minutes while calling out Beat's name — although he was too far ahead to hear me. After I pulled myself up, I continued to wobble in place until a deepening chill forced my hand, and I was able to limp out without incident. The knee was swollen, but the brunt of the impact happened below the joint, where a big goose-egg bruise formed. It hurt, but at least I wasn't injured.

By Friday the fog cleared out and temps warmed up substantially. Yes, I was disappointed.

Riding Friday and Saturday on ice, slush, and mud.

On Sunday, Beat and I went snowshoeing on Niwot Ridge. Beat towed his heavy sled and broke trail. As usual, I just tried to keep up.

The wind was incredible — gusting to at least 50 mph on the ridge. It was strong enough to push me backward on the snow crust as I flailed and fought to retain forward motion. Breathing proved difficult — the headwind seemed to rip the breath from my lungs, and I had one episode where I couldn't stop gasping. Then I started crying, because this kind of thing scares me, every time. This was always my fear during the Iditarod last year, because these episodes appear to be self-perpetuating, and strong winds make it hard to control anything.

Later, when I turned my back to the wind and lowered my head to buffer the blast, this particularly strong gust tore the sunglasses right off my face and whisked them into oblivion. #$&! you, West Wind.

Still, it was a useful outing — particularly for Beat, who had an excellent quad workout, and learned that he doesn't like flexible poles. I gained more insight into my breathing episodes with a hope that I'll better learn to control them (avoiding the shallow breathing and hyperventilating.)

It's interesting approaching this year's Iditarod. I have all of the same fears, and more, now that I have a slightly better idea what I might face out there. Still, I can't wait to be out there.