Finally launched some training

Here I am on another Monday morning, face scrunched like child called upon to answer a math problem as I try to conjure article ideas for a proposal. When nothing comes, I migrate over to this blog, which is better than Twitter, right? 

"Your problem," I tell myself, "is that you don't think like a normal person. You have only a vague concept of what other people find interesting. I mean, you're still blissed out about dragging a sled over bare gravel. Who does that?" 

 On Sunday, Beat and I finally got out for our first sled-drag of the season after giving up on snow. Sure, it's been snowing in and around Boulder since September, but subsequent days of 60 degrees means it never sticks around long enough to plan an excursion. I'm still riding my regular mountain bike without studded tires because snow and ice is absent nearly all the way to the Continental Divide.

Below is a photo I took last Wednesday in Golden Gate State Park at 9,500 feet, when I was coasting along on my bike. I felt so strong that I became mildly suspicious about Beat installing an electric motor when I wasn't looking, to help me feel better about myself. (Several months ago, he made a similar move with a power meter. It's a fun data-collecting tool, I admit, but usually it makes me feel worse about myself.)

For this ride, though, I recorded my highest long-ride power reading yet, without applying even close to the usual perceived effort. Yes! Back on the upswing! Just like that, the daunting world takes on a notably brighter hue for no reason besides a better balance of hormones. This is another reason I believe my writing efforts have suffered in 2017, because I no longer trust what I feel or perceive. Whereas I used to ruminate on observations in nature and reach for connections to the wider human experience, now I just think, "Bah. Thyroid anxiety again."

Last Friday, out of curiosity more than anything, I paid for a blood test from one of those private online lab services. I'm nearing a point in treatment where my doctor will only request labs every two to three months, and I'll see her once a year. But, like a person who uses a power meter, I'm interested in the week-to-week fluctuations. I doubt I'll have these tests done often, as they're still $60 (as opposed to the $400(!) that my insurance company is billed and the $2.75 that I pay out of pocket.) But I may treat myself to an occasional blood test when I'm feeling particularly good or bad, or just different, to eventually piece together possible correlations.

Right now my numbers are quite good ... staying steady in the near-normal range despite having my medication dose cut in half. And I feel better, although I'm starting to have more of the symptoms that I tend to have when my T3 is on the low side — daytime sleepiness and feeling cold when I'm not moving, even when the wood stove is cranking and it's nearly 80 degrees in the house. But the other scary symptoms that I associated with times of fluctuation, such as hair loss and brain fog, are subsiding.

The lows definitely feel less intense and more infrequent, and I tell myself that my body is still undulating toward balance. Still, I can't help but draw patterns. Since I started treatment last February, there seems to be general two-month curves in my health:

February and March 2017: Bad.
April and May: Good!
June and July: Bad.
August and September: Good! Even better!
October and November: Bad. But perhaps not so bad.
December and ... January? Good! Perhaps this will be the best yet!
February and March 2018 ... Doh!

 An ongoing dream has reflected the nervousness I feel about February and March. In my dream, I'm about to set out on the Iditarod Trail. For strange reasons of the subconscious, I'm using a backpack (my old 50-liter Golite Jam to be specific) to carry my gear. But when I look inside my bag, it's nearly empty. Or a water bladder has burst and everything is wet. Or I've forgotten food. Actually, each time I have this dream, the gear faux pas is a little different. But every time, the conclusion I make — even while filled with real dread that follows me into the waking morning — is "Oh well. I'll make it work." Then I take off at a full sprint from the starting line, which is located at the Aurora Dog Mushers trail system in Big Lake, where I started the 2006 Susitna 100 (I just love this about dreams. So random.)

It's strange to have this same dream so many times, but it reflects the way I feel right now — I may or may not be physically prepared for upcoming winter races. I genuinely fear this potential two-month curve and the notion that even if there is no pattern, how I'll feel on race week is largely not in my control. But I'll show up anyway, and I'll hope for the best. 

 So Beat and I headed up Niwot Ridge for our first real training run of the season. The base dusting of snow that fell on Thursday had been mostly swept away, so we ground over sharp rocks, loose dirt, and roots. The scraping of plastic sounds terrible, but Beat designs sleds for this. Winter conditions in Alaska are so volatile these days that you go in assuming that the majority of your time might be spent on open tundra, scree, or glare ice, unless there's a big storm, in which case hip-deep snow isn't unthinkable. There's still enough snow that backpacks aren't practicable (despite my dream), but a sled needs to be robust enough to handle rough terrain.

So nearly snowless Colorado mountains provided realistic training conditions, although not exactly the traditional kind of "fun." My sled was considerably lighter than Beat's (he threw in 25 pounds of dumbbells for good measure.) But it was still 35-40 pounds, dragging like an anvil on high-friction dirt. This type of effort pulls hard on hamstrings and hips, which is why it's best to actually train with a sled — and start sooner than 10 weeks before the race. Still, I felt fantastic. I was working so hard that my mind was the tranquil surface of a sea, a blue slate masking the turbulent depths of an ocean. My breathing was steady and desperation was absent. Nothing could break my reverie, even as Beat occasionally turned around to remind me that we weren't actually having fun.

"When are we going to stop this charade?" he asked, standing on bone-dry, rocky doubletrack.

"Just a little farther," I panted.

Despite the terrible conditions, and agreeing from the start we wouldn't go all that far, we ended up at the research station on the ridge, 2,500 feet higher. The final mile was utterly brutal — tracing the punchy tongues of snow drifts into a frigid, blasting wind. A later check of the numbers revealed 55 mph wind gusts and an air temperature of 15 degrees, for a windchill of -10F. I didn't apply any more layers, but still felt mostly comfortable (except for my face, which a buff did little to protect from being pummeled by ice shards.) Waves of sastrugi were so wind-hardened that we barely left footprints, unless we were punching into knee-deep powder as sharp and fine as shattered glass.

At the research station, we ducked into a shack where a plywood bunk and a metal folding chair provided luxurious accommodations for lunch. Wind continued to rattle the thin walls as Beat told stories of all of the worst places he's walked in Alaska, where he huddled in the collapsed shell of a tent on Yukon ice just to get out of the wind. Even the most basic shelter has unmeasurable value when it matters.

Returning to the gale felt like imminent death, for a minute or two, until we donned our sleds and commenced rushing downhill. Our bodies adjusted, and contentedness returned. Humans are amazingly adaptable, even as we resist change at every turn. This gives me hope that, regardless of "patterns," I'll fare just fine with whatever comes my way. 

Here's to my yesterday

Last weekend, Beat scheduled work meetings in Mountain View, which also coincided with our friend Liehann's birthday. Liehann has a 5-month-old baby, so for a present he requested the "gift of time" — a day-long ride on his favorite route over the Santa Cruz mountains. His wife, Trang, contacted us and proposed we make a trip to the Bay Area to join him, as a surprise. I haven't been back to the Silicon Valley since we moved away 20 months ago, so I was excited about the prospect. I miss this place. It's not that I want to move back. Really, I miss all of the places I've lived, and many I've only briefly visited. Nostalgia runs through my blood like oxygen. Each renewed memory is a breath of fresh air. 

Trang picked us up at the airport on Thursday night, after telling Liehann she needed to "pick up your present." I'm guessing he thought it was going to be something really cool like a new bike, but he still acted happy to see us when we walked in the door. We immediately launched into the 90-minute task to convert Liehann's somewhat neglected bikes into workable machines. I claimed his Moots, which is just like my bike, only larger, with subtly different features. A poor choice of a cheap saddle notwithstanding, Stranger Moots and I quickly bonded. Within a mile of leaving Liehann's house Friday morning, I felt like I was riding my own beloved mountain bike alongside heavy traffic on De Anza Boulevard, just like old times.

My destination was Mount Umunhum, one of the taller summits in the Santa Cruz Mountains at 3,500 feet. It's home to a defunct air force radar surveillance tower known to locals as "The Cube." This peak was closed to the general public for decades because of hazardous material concerns and access disputes. But its distinctive landmark made this mountain particularly enticing. Whenever I rode through Sierra Azul, I would stare up at the looming monolith and ponder the possibility of secret trails. In 2013 I attended a Mid-Peninsula Open Space District meeting to advocate for bike access, and learned that MidPen was developing the area for a planned opening in 2017. "Ugh, we have to wait four years?" I remember thinking. And, "I hope I'm not still here in 2017." (I moved to California with low expectations, and my appreciation and love continued to grow throughout the years.) When Umunhum finally opened in September 2017, I scrolled through California friends' social media posts and felt tinges of jealousy.

Friday was a beautiful day for a visit. Temperatures were in the low 70s, and it felt truly strange to ride a bike through a space absolutely devoid of wind. Despite warnings about popularity and crowds, there was almost no one on the road or at the summit. The weirdness of The Cube did not disappoint. I hiked a spiraling trail to the true summit and sat on a rock, eating one of three Nature Valley bars I'd packed for a 55-mile, 6-hour ride. (I'd left the house with the wrong perception of Unumhum's proximity to Sunnyvale.) Then I hopped on MidPen's new trail for the long descent. It's a buffed-out wheelchair ramp ... and I loved it, so much. I do miss the flowing ease of California trails.

On Saturday morning we were up at the crack of dawn to squeeze in Liehann's long birthday ride before his friends arrived for dinner. As a new father who also recently took on a tough new project at work, his riding for the past several months has amounted to occasional commutes to the office. So you could say he was fairly undertrained, but enthusiastic. We set out for the route we often used while training for our long bike adventures, the "Big Basin Big Loop" — which Strava tells me I only rode 10 times during my five years in the region, but in my memory it's dozens. Morning temperatures hovered near freezing, and a thick coat of frost clung to grass in the shade. (Geez, there's more snow here than there is in Boulder, I mumbled at one point.) It was interesting to observe the altered shape of Stevens Creek Canyon after last year's flooding — not-subtle reminders that change is constant.

We stopped for lunch at the exact corner in Big Basin that at some point had been designated the lunch spot. Trang made delicious rice squares for snacks, and after grabbing a share, I somehow managed to forget all of the other food I intended to bring. The lunchtime assessment of my supply revealed I was working with about 1,000 calories, which probably would have been fine had I not already felt a bit depleted from not carrying enough food the previous day. I felt pretty silly about the oversight, and thought I could get by rationing my food. But after several more hours I felt dizzy, and swallowed my pride to beg for fruit snacks from Beat.

The hours ground on and the landscape became more dreamlike — probably because I was mildly bonked, and also fully saturated in nostalgia. The towering Big Basin redwoods ... the almost oppressive darkness and mid-day cold in the Gazos Creek forest ... the subtle aromas of coastal air along Cloverdale Road ... the strange pumpkin patch near Loma Mar ... the harsh contrast of light and shadow beneath the Pescadero canopy ... the disconcertingly blurry leaves carpeting Haul Road (okay, I was quite bonked by that point.)

Besides the bonk, I had a good day. For that I can probably credit the low altitude, although I like to think I'm gaining a better grasp on my breathing again. When my breathing remains steady, my muscles feel stronger, my head is clearer, and I'm an all-around happier person. Strava would again reveal that, no, I'm not quite as strong here as I was two years ago. Right now, though, there's more inherent value in simply feeling something resembling strength. After Beat gave me snacks, I felt like I could breathe fire and sprint up a mountain.

Beat pushed a tough pace for most of the 85-mile ride and Liehann held on like a champion, only slowing near the top of the grueling climb up West Alpine. He still agreed to a longer trail diversion to the top of Black Mountain, another favorite spot for Beat and me.

We were lucky to arrive right before sunset, and watch the sky light up over the Pacific. More snacks were consumed, and everyone was giddy.

As we rolled home in the fading light, Liehann demonstrated his impeccable luck by sustaining the day's first mechanical — a flat tire — on the only bike of his that sees regular maintenance. But it was quickly remedied, and we returned just in time for birthday dinner — an interesting fusion of French raclette, Vietnamese barbecue, and chocolate fondue for dessert. A great day.

Beat and I had one more day in town, so on Sunday we set out to visit the 1,200-year-old Coast Redwood called Old Tree. Although not necessary, we like to start this pilgrimage from Long Ridge, and descend deep into the frosty canopy of Portola Redwoods State Park. This afforded my third view of the Pacific for the weekend, and my third gasp at the sweeping expanse of blue. We often describe ourselves as "mountain people" or "ocean people" and I'm definitely the former, but miss the ocean all the same.

This quiet grove is one of our favorite spots in the region. There's a reverence surrounding Old Tree, that unspoken wisdom of the ages extending beyond our meager lifetimes. I love touching the gnarled bark of Old Tree and imagining the centuries it has witnessed, the storms and fires and floods it has endured, and the unlikely way it survived the aggression with which humans reshaped this land. Sometimes I trick myself into the superstition that I can stand beneath this 300-foot-tall giant and absorb some of its power of rejuvenation — a kind of healing wish. Always I see in Old Tree some hope for the future, that even as everything changes, beauty endures.

The run (cough, hike) out is a rewarding slog — a redwood forest obstacle course punctuated by a steep and sun-exposed fireroad climb that always feels like the surface of an oven, even in December. After 15 miles of this, my quads were nicely battered — and as has been the case recently, I was ecstatic to feel the effects of hard efforts that have nothing to do with my lungs. Almost unintentionally, it turned into a hard-effort weekend and a "best of" tour of my old stomping grounds. I hope to carry all of this good energy into the near future. 

Pretending it's not December

'Tis the season — that time of year when everyone (meaning a small sampling of friends and acquaintances) is planning 2018 outdoor adventures and races. I see their posts on social media and admit to feeling a small sting of resentment ... "Oh, look at you with your high confidence in a predictable fitness arc built on training and preparation ..." 

Beat has been sending me links to enticing events, but I've resisted the temptation to sign up for anything past next March. The sting of 2017's disappointments and failures is still fresh, and my body hasn't given any consistent indication that it's going to cooperate for me next year, either. I feel like I should continue working on acceptance and nurturing other interests rather than beating my head against the same wall. 

Of course, I'm as bad as the sugar addict who swears off sweets in the morning only to eat a giant cookie for lunch (which, incidentally, is something I would do.) This resolve to not sign up for any more races completely ignores the two huge events I'm supposedly training for right now, which are happening in just over two short months. ("80 days!" someone posted. I prefer this characterization because 80 sounds like a comfortable buffer of days, while two months sounds soon.) What gives me any confidence that I'll have what it takes to survive the Iditarod or White Mountains 100? Nothing, to be honest. Besides, I suppose, the reality that I've done it before. 

My most recent thyroid numbers have fallen into normal range. In theory I should be feeling better. I am, I suppose, but my breathing is still on the rough side, and there hasn't been much pep in my recent efforts. On the positive side, my weight-lifting has rapidly improved in the past few weeks. I almost feel like a real athlete again every time I hit the gym. This leads me to believe my body isn't consuming muscle right now (which is something hyperthyroidism does.) It also sparks a temptation to just go full gym rat and forget all of the running and biking. Of course, I'd probably last three days before missing the outdoors so terribly that I'd come crawling back, in the literal sense. I am a addict. 

The rough breathing is probably tied to multiple issues and won't be easily solved. I've had multiple discussions and tests with my endocrinologist and asthma doctor, and they both agree that I have allergic asthma. Asthma has nothing to do with my thyroid, although these numbers affect my heart rate and therefore breathing, and the autoimmune responses may be connected. This autumn has been particularly bad for allergies, with little moisture and lots of wind. I let myself believe that if winter would just come, everything would be all right. I'd be relieved of this dust-filled air. I'd actually be able to drag my sled, and put my recently boosted strength to better use. And if my sluggishness doesn't improve, it won't matter because winter is guilt-free slog season. So I continue to hope for snow, even as the high-pressure ridge lingers. 

The snowless late autumn even extended to Utah, where I managed a couple of fun outings between the Canyonlands backpacking trip and returning home to dusty Colorado. My dad and I hiked to the ridge above Desolation Lake, with views toward Park City. It was 63 degrees when we left the trailhead, and 37 and snaining when we returned three hours later. Sadly the cold front didn't stick around long enough to bring much precipitation.

On my way home I opted to drive I-80, mostly to take a quick jaunt up the west ridge of Grandeur Peak on my way out of town. This is perhaps my favorite hike from the Salt Lake Valley, because it's short enough to wrap up in a couple of hours, and although it gains 3,500 feet in just over two miles, it somehow feels more gentle than other routes of similar steepness. From the peak I could see the beginnings of a smoggy inversion, and felt grateful that I was leaving town. Salt Lake is my hometown and I still think it's an ideal place to reside; however, I suspect that I no longer possess the lungs to tolerate the awful air quality of a Salt Lake winter. If life brings me back here, I may have no choice but to become a seasonal gym rat.

Looking east at the Wasatch Mountains. No snow, no snow, as far as the eye can see.


The week in Boulder was very warm, with temperatures rising into the low 60s. It was almost enough to make me forget that the calendar had rolled into December, which is also good for my denial that there are only 80 days until the Iditarod. Then a snowless front moved through, and suddenly it was cold. I understood this on an intellectual level, but it was still a shock to the system. Wednesday presented an opportunity for a six-hour solo ride — still one of my favorite ways to spend a half day regardless of how healthy or fit I'm feeling on any given morning. Wednesday morning also brought temperatures in the low teens, and a 15-20mph west wind for exhilarating subzero windchills.

"Better put the pogies on," I thought. Then I proceeded to severely under-dress, because I don't even understand what subzero windchill feels like anymore, given my last ride in 60-degree temps. From the outset I felt awful, with that wind needling into my core until my knees and shoulders ached with cold. My hands and feet were dead slabs of meat. It was stupid, but I was convinced I just need to ride harder to warm up, even as the cold wind drove dust particles into my lungs until I was coughing up gunk and sucking water to spit it out (that is, until my hose froze, and then I didn't have water for four hours.)

It was all so stupid is because I was carrying multiple layers in my backpack. After two hours of purposeless suffering, I stopped to put them on — every last piece, even though I knew this may mean more suffering when it came time to descend 4,000 feet into town. Encased in a virtual space suit, I almost instantly felt better. Windchill was the sole cause of two hours of misery. I'd say oh well, live and learn ... but apparently I never do.

It was a great ride in the space suit, though. The lower mountains had received a dusting of snow overnight. I churned up Caribou Road until the powder was too deep for my semi-skinny tires, did a little snow dance while unsuccessfully trying to thaw my water hose with my hands, and started the long descent into Boulder. Wearing wind-proof layers, with the piercing gusts at my back, I felt like I was floating through a bubble of silence and warmth. As it turned out, descending was somehow warmer than climbing. Next time I will just start out my rides in the space suit.

Beat and I are now headed to the Bay Area for a weekend, so my pseudo-summer will extend further yet. Although our time there is short, I'm really looking forward to visiting old haunts ... both for nostalgia, and to compare my current fitness on routes I did regularly two years ago. I suspect I will love the first and mourn the second, but knowledge is always better (unless I'm counting days until the Iditarod, in which case I'd really rather not know.)