How I intend to spend my mid-life crisis

 In one more week, I'll be 40 years old. As the black balloon birthday approaches at breakneck speed, I also came down with a mild case of post-adventure blues, courtesy of the Summer Bear. Hammering solo through two sleepless nights drained more out of me than I cared to admit. My hormones were depleted, and tinges of sadness trickled into the void. As a general insomniac, sleep deprivation tends to cause more sleep deprivation, and by Tuesday I was in full zombie mode. So on Wednesday, I returned to the gym. I hoped a good session would help work out some of the crimps in my back and shoulders, left over from aggressive bike-pushing. But more than that, I really look forward to visiting the gym these days. Yes, it has air conditioning, and there's that. But also, there are few places I find such definitive purpose right now — in quantifiable ways I see myself building strength, and this sparks hope.

Lat pulldowns are the quickest cure for bike-pushing aches, and adventure planning is the quickest cure for post-adventure blues. It had to be right quick, too, because I needed an adventure in time for my birthday. I couldn't let 40 come and go without doing something. The week of my actual birthday is already booked, and this coming week I could only squeeze in a day or two, preferably close to home. Without too much rumination, I got it in my head that I needed to aim for four 14ers. I climbed three 13ers for my 39th birthday, and it was a formative and rewarding experience. So four 14ers for 40 just made sense. Never mind that, with the exception of the Decalibron (yawn), bagging four such mountains is no small effort. Especially given my tentative situation with my MCL, where abilities are still being tested. Chossy rock scrambles, steep slopes covered in loose talus, and boulder hopping would be several steps too far in anything but small doses. So I needed mountains with Class 1 to easy-2 approaches, which usually means climbing all the way up and then descending all the way down a popular mountain on its main trail. Finally, I settled on four peaks in the Sawatch, where a 33-mile route with close to 12,000 feet of climbing would suffice. Even if I spread that over two days, it's a big bite compared to any other foot effort I've made in more than three months. And I've only been legitimately free of injury for about three weeks.

So, let the training begin! I climbed the west ridge of Bear Peak on Thursday, logging an encouragingly fast time. On Friday I waited until 11 a.m. to start a run up Santias, set out on the fully sun-exposed ridge when it was 92 degrees, and completely cooked myself before I was even halfway up the mountain. It was bad. I stumbled onto the summit and sat down, feeling terribly woozy. My vision was blurring, my heart was racing, and when I held my hand to my face, I could see that it was trembling. That's when I noticed my shoulders were quaking, too. "Oh shit," I said out loud. Heat exhaustion? Not a serious case, but absolutely, this was a mild bout of heat exhaustion. I crawled into a pathetic square of dappled shade beneath a scrub tree, and after 10 minutes decided it would be best to just get myself off the mountain as quickly as possible. As quickly as possible turned out to be the slowest I've ever descended Mount Santias, but I did make it down. Humbled.

Things did get better. On Saturday I allowed for a short and relatively mellow bike ride to test out my new helmet, after the Summer Bear put the terminal dent in one I've been using for nearly five years. Beat found a deal for both of us to acquire the Giro Aether MIPS — lightweight, excessive venting, and superior protection, based on a number of reviews. Light roadie helmets are best for my propensity to ride long with a sensitive neck, so I'm a fan. On Sunday, I ran 15 miles at Walker Ranch and Eldorado Canyon. It was relatively uneventful, which is exactly what I was hoping for.


Monday rolled around — my last chance at a training day before a short taper. (Ha!) I was going to return to Sanitas, but the trauma was still fresh enough to recoil at the thought of running that sun-blasted ridge again. The sky was blue and the forecast was refreshingly thunderstorm-free — and it was supposed to be 65 degrees at 10,000 feet versus 90 in town. Beat had spent Saturday night on an all-night training run around Buchanan and Pawnee Pass with his PTL partner Daniel, and I was envious of his mountain adventure. So I made a last-minute swerve to pack up my hiking backpack and head over to Brainard Lake for a jaunt up Mount Audubon.

 I felt good, encouragingly so. My knee wasn't sore or unstable in spite of the Summer Bear, followed without much rest by my highest-mileage running week of the summer (27 miles! Woo!) I was sleeping well again, and felt fully recovered.

 The wind above treeline was intense, blowing at least 40 mph most of the time. With an ambient temperature that was probably in the low 50s, the windchill was impressive. It felt legitimately cold. I relished in the thrill of shivering and goosebumps, and put off adding more layers for a long time. I eventually did pull on a hat and shell, after I'd reached the summit and my ears and fingers had long since gone numb. But before that, as I climbed into the blasting gale, I was mostly lost in a different world, only popping into the present to make mental notes of places I passed.

"The wind training here is probably just as good as Niwot, although I'll have to cross-check the slopes for avalanche exposure."

"This would be a decent place to hunker down and bivy."

"St. Vrain would be great for a long snowshoe loop."

I was thinking about the way this landscape would look in the winter, long after the lakes are frozen, the rocks are covered in snow, the windchill becomes more terrifying than thrilling, and any attempt to climb a 13,200-foot summit would be a whole lot more difficult than a four-hour hike in the summer. I find this is mostly what I think about right now — wistfully, when I have heat exhaustion, and a little more anxiously when I'm faced with the realities of a chilling gale in August. But it's my whole preoccupation: Winter training.

 As my black balloon birthday approaches, so does an important six-month deadline — the one I set for myself when I put my name on the list four months ago. "You have to decide for sure by the end of August," I scolded myself. I could get away with base-building before then, but training would have to begin in earnest when the event is just six months out. Now the date approaches. And it's time to take a dump or get off the pot, so to speak.

So what did I sign up for?

A thousand-mile walk along the Iditarod Trail, all the way to Nome.

Yes, I said walk. Ever since I completed the route with a bicycle in 2016, I've been certain that the Iditarod Trail on foot is something I wanted to do. The ultimate challenge. A most pure and raw way to experience a pure and raw place that I love. I was briefly planning to walk the route 2017, but then my health fell apart drastically, and I was diagnosed with Graves Disease. I managed a trial run in 2018, a walk to McGrath. This meager effort tore me apart so completely that I'm still trying to process the experience. I've been chipping away at writing a race report for the 2018 Iditarod Trail Invitational, if only to make sense of what happened, and to justify reasons why I could be better next time, if I allow myself a next time. But writing about it only leads to the same conclusion — "Walking to Nome is impossible."

 Here's the rub — one has 31 days to complete the 980-or-so-mile route. Thirty-one days is the race cutoff, yes, but it's also a necessary deadline to beat spring. Having spent most of March 2019 residing in Nome, I can say with some certainty that even 31 days isn't going to stay ahead of the more dangerous aspects of the melt, which arrive earlier every year (the Bering Sea shoreline broke up on March 15.) But for optimistic purposes, let's give ourselves 31 days. That's 31 miles a day, dragging a 50- to 60-pound sled, in all weather, in all conditions. One rest day, one day where storms inhibit progress, just a sprinkle of bad days here and there increase the mileage requirement substantially. And this isn't like running a 50K every day. The weight of the sled, weather challenges and variable-but-always-resistant snow conditions make it closer to hiking four 14ers with 12,000 feet of climbing.

It's not just the math that keeps me up at night, but the realities that math will bring. The necessary sleep deprivation that will drive me to those dark, discouraging places in the depths of my mind. Dealing with debilitating fatigue during storms and sketchy ice crossings, when I most need my wits to be sharp. Actually pushing limits for a month. A month! Just 1.5 days of Summer Bear gave me a terrifying taste. And the solitude — the deep and seemingly eternal solitude. This actually is one of the draws for me, but also by far one of the scariest aspects of walking to Nome. The entire field of the ITI will be ahead of me, the dog sled race will pass me by, and then I'm going to be all alone out there. Utterly alone. Encased in a depth of solitude and necessary self-sufficiency that few can grasp in the modern world.

Some will ask if Beat is planning to walk to Nome again. He is. But we won't plan to stick together. It's not what I want. The short answer is that Beat's pace would kill me, and if I forced him to stick to my pace, we might end up killing each other. I joke, but the whole reason I want to do this is for the unprecedented solitude and self-reliance. If I planned to have a partner, I'd rather that partner be my bicycle. Beat I can plan an actual fun adventure to do as a couple. I'm thinking, if I survive, New Zealand will be my demand for 2021. ;-)

But it's only been two years since I dragged my sled 312 miles in 8.5 days, which math says is just under 37 miles a day. That effort just about killed me, and the thought of trying to keep it up for three times as long is ... well ... it's impossible. As far as I know, the walk to Nome has been completed by only two other women in under 31 days. The first, Shawn McTaggart, competed the Southern Route in 2013 in 30.5 days, and the Northern Route in 2014 in 28.5 days. Loreen Hewitt, at age 58, set the record on the Northern Route in 2014, 26.25 days. I had the pleasure of accompanying Loreen for much of the route to McGrath when I first walked the short distance in 2014. I was able to observe her patterns and get a sense for her strategy. I know enough to know that Loreen is an incredible athlete, with endurance I can't match even though I'm 18 years younger than she was then. Also, her pace would kill me.

Still, I scheme. I imagine what my training will look like — strength training, and lots of it. I read reports about fastest-known-time attempts on thru-hiking routes, to get a better sense of what others do to push themselves to the limit day in and day out, without the benefits of a bicycle. And now I need to decide. Either I put my intentions out there and train as though I intend to achieve them, or withdraw my name from the roster and shrink back to lesser ambitions. I hoped the Summer Bear and its test of fortitude would help me decide, but it didn't. Perhaps four 14ers on my tentative two feet will do the trick.

The walk to Nome is impossible, though. It's still impossible. It will always be impossible.

I'm pretty sure I wrote this phrase in one of my books, but the fact that something's impossible has never been a good reason not to try.

Til the morning breaks

Few will understand the desire to straddle a bicycle in an unfamiliar place just a couple of hours before sunset, with every intention of riding 200 miles solo through remote country over two full nights, anticipating nothing at the finish besides a few handshakes and hugs, along with bruised legs, a dented helmet, macerated feet and dozens of mosquito bites. I'll never be able to explain it. I can only direct my thousand-yard stare toward the horizon, purse my lips at the intimacy I suddenly share with the dark contours of distant mountains, and repeat lyrics still echoing through my addled brain.

"What an empty, gorgeous place." 

But why go there when it's too dark to see much, enduring all of these rock-strewn trails that you've never found to be particularly fun. And why push into such deep fatigue that you've resorted to talking to yourself, scolding the inner toddler who always wins when the barriers are broken down?

"Because that's where the magic happens."

The Summer Bear looked like an ideal recipe for a small helping of magic. The event is the brainchild of Jon Kowalsky, a Steamboat Springs real estate agent who has worked hard to cultivate the winter endurance racing scene in Colorado. His Winter Bear was once a ridiculous thing that — mostly through attrition, I imagine — was whittled down to a 45-mile route on groomed snowmobile trails for its third year.  Through that fun event six months ago, I connected with several like-minded adventurous folks in Colorado. Many were on board for Jon's summertime freebie (meaning there was no fee to enter, but the field was capped) — a 200-mile self-supported race through the relatively remote forestland of northcentral Colorado. For months we only knew the general distance and elevation gain — 23,000 feet. The route was kept a secret until July 28, less than a week before the August 2 start. I learned relatively late that the race would start in the evening, at 6 p.m.


My own preparations for Summer Bear were somewhat lax. It's been a few years since I've taken cycling all that seriously — really, my 2016 ride to Nome was a pinnacle, and everything since just doesn't carry the same level of inspiration. It's easy to ride bikes for fun and adventure, but harder to push myself, especially since my health went downhill during that same time period. My health is now largely revived, and new ambitions are steamrolling toward the present. Regardless of the mode of travel, I needed a renewed test of mental fortitude. For that reason, I quietly planned to ride the route straight through, with only two predetermined stops that I hoped to hold to less than an hour each. The 6 p.m. start meant I'd almost certainly have to ride through two nights, which was its own intriguing challenge.


I loaded up my now-eight-year-old Moots soft-tail with equally dated bags — although I do like to brag to cyclist friends that my bags were all hand-sewn by the owner of what is now a major bikepacking brand. He even scrawled "Jill-Proof" in pencil on the interior of the frame bag, as I have a reputation for being hard on gear. The bags withstood the test of time, but my bike gradually fell into unnoticed disrepair. Beat has done a whole lot in the past few weeks to bring it up to date — installing a nearly new fork from one of his bikes, new saddle, new pedals, new brake pads and shifter cables. Two nights before the race I asked him to give the bike a once-over, and he found the chainring to be in such a sorry state that he went into his workshop and machined a titanium ring on his CNC mill, at midnight. With a new chain and cassette as well, Mootsy felt like a whole new bike.

The race launched from a private ranch along the shoreline of Steamboat Lake, a gorgeous setting where we could park our cars for the weekend and hang out when we weren't cycling. Quite the luxurious accommodations for a free race — Jon called it his "bachelor party," and was among the 18 riders at the start. I'd heard there would be 40, so I was surprised by the small field, but it was a solid group of endurance enthusiasts. Among the field were finishers of the ITI 350 and Fat Pursuit 200-miler, the woman's winner of Winter Bear, a race organizer from South Dakota, and a local woman who regularly podiums at major mountain bike races. There were relative novices as well, including my friend Betsy, who just wanted to ride her fat bike farther than she'd ever ridden it, and have fun. I felt in my element. 

It was an adventure from the start, as we jumped into the grass to go around a truck that had jack-knifed across the road.

Having spent only an hour or so reviewing the track after we returned from Ouray, I knew little about the course or what to expect. Jon used the phrase "lost singletrack" to describe parts of it, which I interpreted as "overgrown trail that I'll probably have to hike." Some grades topped 20 percent, and 23,000 feet of climbing in 200 miles was generally steeper than my usual rides around Boulder, which are already quite hilly. I anticipated a fair amount of downhill hike-a-bike, as I'm a lousy rider on loose rock, which puts me at a strong disadvantage in Colorado. I made my goal 36 hours — breakfast at Brush Mountain Lodge at mile 102, dinner at my car at mile 133, and a hopeful predawn finish. As it turned out, my expectations were fairly spot on, and yet the race was still so much harder than expected.

The route was clover-shaped with three distinct loops beginning near the ranch. The first loop was fairly uneventful. I went out at a conservative pace, sandwiched somewhere between the lead group of hard-driving racers and the folks who were planning to camp during the first night. The first climb was nice and steep, a thousand feet in three miles, and I broke enough of a sweat to spend most of 40 minutes with one eye clamped shut. I thought it was a good preview of the course, but I was wrong. This was a baby ascent. Nothing at all.

By 2 a.m. I found myself in blissful solitude. The fast racers were now far ahead, the campers were camping, and I was alone for miles, flying solo on the fast-rolling hills along the border of Wyoming and Colorado. The road dipped steeply toward the Little Snake River, and it was there I came across the lights of a cyclist hiking uphill toward me. It was Graham, previous finisher of the ITI 350, currently training for the thousand-mile ride to Nome. The New Zealander was wild-eyed and shivering. He told me he crashed into an antelope. He saw the animal grazing on the side of the road, and instead of running away, it took a run at him, collided, then darted off. Graham was tossed over the handlebars and ripped up his arm on the rough gravel. His derailleur was mangled. He removed it and tried the single-speed conversion, but the shortened chain jumped a cog and was jammed in place. His bike was unrideable. We were 13 miles from the nearest paved road and any hope of cell reception. Graham told me he got a non-emergency SPOT message out to his wife, so I wished him best of luck and continued west. I felt guilty for leaving him stranded while visibly injured, but there wasn't much I could do to help, and I know Graham is as tough as they come. He was fine, of course, and snoozed roadside for a few hours until his wife came to pick him up in the morning.

"Next year Jon should change the name of the race," I thought. "The Kamikaze Antelope has a nice ring to it."

The route dipped south, back into Colorado, and I made the long climb on County Road 1 just as the pink light of dawn crept across the horizon. This was my third visit to this segment of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. My first was ten years ago now, at sunset. Back then, I had no idea what I'd find out here. I was racing my first Tour Divide, recently single and terribly lonely. I stopped at every house along the road — there are two or three of them — and gazed longingly at lit windows, imagining the happy families residing inside. After nightfall, I arrived at a house with festive Christmas lights strung along the roof, but dark windows. Still, I lingered roadside for a long while, then continued pedaled into the dark. Fifty meters up the road, still in earshot but only just, I heard a quiet voice call out, "Jill?"

Kirsten, who had been watching my Tour Divide tracker, pulled me off the lonely road that fateful June day in 2009, back when I was not aware that her Brush Mountain Lodge was a place. She fed me cherries and showed me a depth of kindness, expecting nothing in return. And each summer she's done the same for hundreds of cyclists on the GDMBR. Still, she seemed to remember me well. She remembers our late night chatting about world news in 2009, which was the best cure for loneliness I could have possibly experienced. She remembers when I showed up broken with bronchitis in 2015. She remembers seemingly everything, and told me she is writing a book about the cyclists she has met. I can't wait to read it. It was fun to show up at 6:30 a.m. to a table full of Bear racers, eat a huge plate of breakfast sandwiches that she whipped up in no time, and talk about the Tour Divide drama of 2019. Kirsten regards me as one of the "old-timers" of bikepacking. I felt honored, and unworthy. But she has a way of making everyone feel like they're someone special.

Brush Mountain Lodge is regarded as "The Vortex" in bikepacking lore, so I was both surprised and not surprised to see the entire lead pack lingering at the breakfast table. They had slept a few hours, sure, but it was weird that I wasn't farther behind. A couple more in the mid-pack went into the bunk room for a rest, but I wasn't feeling sleepy, and it wasn't my plan anyway. The sun was out, the sky was bright, and I knew storms were on their way in the afternoon. Best to put in miles while the going was good.

The Summer Bear route turned off the GDMBR for a whole lot of bonus climbing, first on a steep forest road under the hot sun that really hurt with a stomach full of breakfast, then a seemingly endless traverse on faint double track as it dipped in and out of mosquito-infested drainages. At least the trail crossed through beautiful meadows full of wildflowers as it administered the pain. Then, many hours later under what were now darkening afternoon skies, I was back on the GDMBR, basically at the bottom of the long climb up the Watershed Divide, not far from Brush Mountain Lodge. WTF? It started raining just as I commenced the ascent, walking a bunch of the slimy mud and stumbling over loose babyhead boulders, just as I remember doing in 2009 and 2015. I met a couple of northbound GDMBR cyclists with medium-sized dogs in trailers, and warned them about the steep descent. They told me I was only the second racer they'd seen, and the first (likely Perry) was only a mile or two ahead. This was strange, as I was pretty slow, but most in the leading pack couldn't have been so far ahead that they wouldn't have passed them on the long descent into Clark. But the Summer Bear didn't take the direct route to Clark. Instead, it turned the WTF factor up a few more notches, turning off the GDMBR for more climbing on a bumpy jeep road, just so it could descend a loose-rock fall line that was so steep I had to walk a fair amount downhill.


I made it back to camp at 3:30 p.m., which was earlier than my predicted time of 6 p.m., but I was still rattled by the sudden difficulty of the route. Later I would explain the nature of the Summer Bear in a way only Beat would necessarily understand — the first 100 miles felt like the Tour Divide, with a few bumpy ATV trails sprinkled into was was mostly steep but well-maintained dirt and gravel. The final 100 miles leveled much more Race Across South Africa absurdity — cattle trails, tiger lines and all. All of the hard stuff was in the back half. I had no idea what was coming for me in the night. Still, miles 103-133 had administered a little taste of loop three, and several tired leaders were still resting in camp when I arrived, including Hannah, the semi-pro MTB racer. I set to work and stuck to my plan, cooking up a Mountain House meal and coffee for dinner, knocking back a few more Starbucks Doubleshots, resupplying snacks, changing batteries, lubing feet and butt, changing socks and shirt, and adding my bivy bundle to the handlebars. While I didn't necessarily plan on camping during the second night, it's difficult for me to try anything scary without some sort of security blanket. Sleep deprivation scares me, because I've had traumatic experiences with it. I'm normally quite cautious in this regard.

On my way out of camp I passed Derek, who confided that he was thinking of quitting. "This isn't even fun," he said, rubbing his hands to indicate pain from the jarring descents. Quite a few riders were on gravel bikes, which I regarded as knives at a gun fight, but then again I'm known to heavily favor too much bike over too little. I bought ice and Gatorade at the Clark store, the headed into the hot evening for yet another 1,500-foot climb on 13 percent grades (yawn.) There I encountered yet another racer riding toward me. It was local cyclist John Lawrence, who I think was probably too familiar with everything ahead. He told me he was done, just too gassed for the climb.

The evening was gorgeous, with lots of rich light, sweeping views into the Zirkle Wilderness, and a smooth gravel road where I could sit relaxed in the saddle and look all around. This segment is where most of the upcoming photos come from. I don't have any from the night.


This is my happy place — tired, really tired, and completely at peace. In recent years I've read more on mental health issues, specifically anxiety, and suspect that endurance efforts are a form of self-medication for me. It's effective at turning off the chattering part of my brain, being present in places that are so much bigger than myself, being scared of things that are legitimately scary, rather than the phantoms and ghosts in my mind. It's a profound way to experience life as well — exploration, observation, understanding and reflection — rather than sitting in place and numbing my chattering brain with medication. Endurance racing has its risks and flaws, but it's such a vast net positive that I can't imagine giving it up anytime soon.

Anyway, everything was going really well. I've participated in enough endurance events to know this doesn't mean anything for the future, but I was still feeling strong as the sun set, and surpassed mile 160. I was surprised Hannah hadn't passed me yet, and wondered if I might be able to hold her off. If I kept moving ... maybe, just maybe. The route turned off the road and followed an overgrown cattle track. I wondered if this is what Jon described as "the least-ridden singletrack in all of Colorado." Personally I don't consider the fact that no one rides a trail to be a ringing endorsement, but I'd expected this terrain, and I was mentally prepared.

Indeed, the trail was an often a barely-there thing cutting a pencil-thin line through grass that was nearly as tall as my head. It was almost impossible to find the trail in the low light of evening — visibility actually improved when it was finally dark enough to switch on my lights. Still, I couldn't see the ground at all, and rolled into endless invisible boulders and logs. The overgrown trail was too narrow to hike-a-bike. So I had to just ride, knowing that I might hit an unseen obstacle with wheel or pedal and flip over the handlebars at any time. It had to be done. Luckily, I had sleep deprivation on my side. Riding sleep-deprived is what I imagine driving drunk must be like. You are likely a whole lot worse behind the wheel, but your inhibitions are broken and you feel unstoppable. In my case, lack of confidence is my biggest enemy, so false bravado is far more effective than any of my meager skills. I rode my mountain bike like I used to ride, before the infamous crash of 2011 that seared an enduring nerve pain in my memory, before the scars accumulated and fear wore me down. I found a song on my iPod that I found to be exhilaratingly motivating, and did that thing I sometimes do with a song on repeat for far too long, but it's working. "Bad Decisions" by Bastille.

You said that maybe this is where it ends 
Take a bow for the bad decisions that we made 
Bad decisions that we made.

And if we're going down in flames
Take a bow for the bad decisions that we made
Bad decisions that we made.

So we'll make the same mistakes
'Til the morning breaks.

The focus that the faint trail demanded started to become tedious, and I grew sleepy. After the trail spit me out on a jeep road, I decided to experiment with something the fast racers call a "shiver bivy" — basically a trailside nap, snoozing for a few minutes until the cold wakes you up. It's not real rest; it's only meant to keep the sleep monster at bay without wasting a bunch of time with a real bivy. I don't usually try this, mostly because it means waking up cold, and I'm scared of being cold. I feel I've had enough cold-weather experience to be legitimately frightened of cooling my body temperature at any time of year. But ... I was on a roll of succeeding at things that scared me. So I curled up on my coat with my head on my pack, pulling my sore legs against my torso. I think I actually did doze, for anywhere from 15 seconds to 15 minutes. And I indeed woke up shivering, and also feeling awful, like I'd been hit by a truck. I'm just not a napper. Shiver bivy was a mistake.

Newly nauseated and sore in all of the wrong places, I stumbled up the road. After a short stretch of steep climbing, the route crossed a thigh-deep stream and ended at a trail sign that seemingly led to nowhere. The sign contained a hateful name that I recognized from a ridiculous climb on the first night, "Wyoming Trail." I couldn't locate this Wyoming Trail, even when I turned my headlight on bright. Finally I noticed a faint bike track in the dust, and pointed my bike in a straight line until I hit the babyhead-strewn fall line, another 25-percent grade climbing toward the star-filled sky.

I would spend the next four hours covering eight miles of Wyoming Trail, wet feet burning with skin maceration, stomping through endless mud puddles, alternately shivering and sweating in my rain shell, resting every two steps because I was out of gas, forcing an M&M or two into my sour stomach and lecturing my legs to "find the energy." As I recall there were some rolling hills, and the descents were equally steep and loose, but I still had some lingering false bravado to try to ride. That is, until I skidded out on scree, managed to throw a foot down and stop, only to haphazardly run into a boulder when I started rolling again. The sudden stop tossed me into a slow-motion endo. My helmet cracked down with a loud thunk that I think was just an echo from my helmet light tearing away from the velcro, but the sound scared me something fierce. I was done being brave for the night.

Finally Wyoming Trail ended and I was back on a jeep road at mile 180. It was after 3 a.m. I couldn't quite recall the final elevation profile. I thought there was one more climb in there, but surely I had to be close to done. Sure enough, the route turned onto another ATV trail, all fall line and no switchbacks, strewn with loose boulders and tangled roots. By this point I was no longer remotely sleepy. My heart was filled with rage. "Jon should change the name of this race to something with more truth in advertising. Steep Babyhead Bullshit ... Bear."

Up and down, down and up. My legs still felt strong, but I was gassed in that way that allowed me to climb well for 10 or 11 pedal strokes, until I'd suddenly feel so faint that I feared I might pass out and fall off the sideslope into the black gorge below. I walked much of this section as well. I tried to hold my shit together. Really, I'd like to get through one race without a meltdown. That would be a true test of my mental fortitude. But I lost it on yet another 500-foot hike-a-bike descent. The narrow singletrack was rideable, but unforgivingly steep and loose, and crowded in with handlebar-grabbing tree trunks. I was making too many mistakes to take any more risks. I cried the entire hike down. The tears were a welcome release, the emotional equivalent of vomiting. Meanwhile, the adult inside me was lecturing, out loud, the petulant toddler who always emerges during these hard times. "You can cry, but if you're still crying at the river, you're going to have to stop and sleep." I didn't want to stop and sleep. I wanted to be done.

I stopped at the stream indicated on my map, gratefully filled my water filter bottle with cool water, and took my shoes off to soak my burning feet in the creek. I ingested a few more M&Ms. I was done crying. There was nothing around — utter silence. I'd expected to see city lights, but I wasn't anywhere close to the finish. Dawn light again appeared on the horizon. My GPS registered mile 183. Somehow it had taken me the entire night to travel just 20 miles, with a bike. I scrolled through my GPS and realized that in the next two miles, I would have to climb from 9,300 feet to 10,600 feet, with a bike. I honestly wasn't expecting any more climbing. Defeat crept into my heart, and then I remembered a helpful mantra from my friend Jorge, which I've adopted — "This will never end." When things feel awful, I tell myself they're permanent. If something can't end, then one must learn to live with it. Find the good. It's a Viktor Frankl "Search for Meaning" sort of philosophy that looks for purpose in all experiences. I like it.

So I started up the ridiculous jeep road, with grades that Strava would later register at 30 percent. My shoulders and arms ached too much to effectively hold the bike from rolling downhill, so I tried lifting it onto my backpack. But with the added awkward weight, my shoes (good trail-running shoes, old original Montrail Mountain Masochists) had no traction on the loose dirt and rocks. I slipped and fell onto my knees, which was alarming given my recent MCL injury, and knew I couldn't manage a carry. So I rolled the bike into the field and hiked cross-country — still steep, but at least the tundra wasn't a minefield of tripping hazards.

My pace dropped below 1 mph. Two steps, rest. Two steps, rest. This is never going to end. Find the good. What's the good? Crimson light stretched across the horizon. The views went on forever. There was no one else around. Why would they be? If you ever want to be alone for most of 36 hours in the Colorado mountains on a weekend in August, I recommend the Summer Bear route. I mean, I don't recommend it. But I do.

"What an empty, gorgeous place."


Emotions were still running high, and I feared I might break out in tears again, but only because I felt such a renewed since of peace. I told myself this wasn't going to end, and suddenly I didn't want it to. I was grateful for the opportunity to experience this high plateau at first light, a time of day I rarely experience because I am so far removed from being a morning person that no sunrise is worth waking up for. But staying up all night, making mistakes until the morning breaks ... that I can do. This little knob is probably Farwell Mountain. Yes, it's spelled that way. But I liked to think of it as my "Farewell Mountain." Thank you, for this gift.

Of course, both the morning and the moment had to end, and it was time for what was truly a last descent. True to form, Summer Bear kept things painful by descending the loose jeep trail followed by jarring river rocks all the way to the valley. I rolled back to the ranch at 8:34 a.m., for a finish time of 38 hours and 34 minutes. I was greeted enthusiastically by two guys who arrived during the night, as well as Jon, who like most of the field had decided to stop before the monstrous loop three.

I hadn't encountered a single human all night long. As the hours drug on at 2 mph, I began to wonder where everyone went. In the daylight I could see only two bike tracks, and wondered if there were truly only two racers in front of me. As it turned out, there were only two, but one had cut the course. I was the second official finisher, out of just four. I was the sole woman finisher. Hannah didn't leave camp, and my friend Betsy and two others stopped together at The Brush Mountain Lodge Vortex. I was surprised that the finisher rate was quite so low, but I think everyone underestimated The Bear, even Jon.

Am I proud I slogged it out? Yes I am. Did I pass my mental fortitude test? Mostly, although I'm not proud of the meltdown just because things were a little hard, nor do I think it was necessary to move quite as slowly as I was moving while I was battling my inner petulant child. I give myself a B+. Good enough to move on to the next level.

I'm excited.

Neverending Ouray

They say no one escapes the Ouray 100 experience — not runners, not volunteers, not even the race director, an impish and ambitious creator who, while attempting to plant a radio repeater on the top of Mount Abrams, ended up spending an unplanned night in the woods and missed the start of the race. 

As a mere crew person, my moment came while descending the Million Dollar Highway just after 11 p.m. Friday — in my car, mind you. An incredible storm raged overhead, streaks of lightning and sheets of rain so thick that the fastest setting on the windshield wipers couldn't keep up. I'd just watched Beat and two other runners set out in this storm, bound for exposed slopes of Richmond Pass. I'd also watched a number of runners drop out of the race at Ironton aid station, spooked by lesser storms that rumbled across the region all evening long. The worst arrived just after sunset. Several spectators joined me at the shoulder of the highway, jaws slackened as an ominous black fog boiled upward from the valley. I didn't have my camera on me, and the light was bad anyway, but I now wish I had a photo of this moment. "It's The Nothing," I thought, and recoiled with a chillingly visceral reaction to pop culture reference that hadn't occurred to me in years. Funny, the images that remain in memory. The more vivid the imagery, the more difficult it becomes to separate fantasy from reality. 

Like many children of the 80s, I loved the macabre fantasy films that were all the rage at the time, with their terrifying puppets and traumatizing storylines — "Labyrinth," "The Last Unicorn," etc. My favorite was "The Neverending Story." I frequently watched a version that I recorded from television on VHS, pausing the tape to cut out the commercials. It's been about three decades since my last viewing, so my recollections are vague, but the gist of the story is that human imagination is dying, disappearing into "The Nothing" — an electrical storm that swallows our fantasy world and leaves a void in its wake. Growing up in mountain climate of Salt Lake City, thunderstorms ranked among my deepest fears, even as a child. I was an animal-lover who found the murderous wolf in the film to be compelling, even cute, but The Nothing — that was stuff of nightmares. 

I watched my love walk into The Nothing, and then headed back to town to catch a few hours of sleep before our next connection. The Million Dollar Highway, often regarded as one of the scariest paved roads in the United States, cuts a narrow path over the Uncompahgre River Gorge — there's hundreds of feet of dropoff on one side, no guardrails or shoulder, and a sheer cliff on the other. Once you start down the gauntlet, there's nowhere to stop or turn around. With visibility as poor as it was, I had been thinking about pulling over to wait out the rain, but suddenly I was in the narrows, and it was too late. Powerful waterfalls cascaded over the cliff and created veritable rapids on the road, roiling whitewater over cobbles and sand deposited by the storm. The pavement was littered with these rocks, some fist-sized, and in the headlight beam could see more tumbling down the cliff. As I crept through the cascades, I could hear pebbles hitting the roof of the car, like hail. Another image flashed through my memory, a scene in The Neverending Story when big rocks blew away. I wondered when my Nothing would come down. If the flash flood didn't sweep my car off the edge, surely we'd be crushed by a boulder. That would be just my luck. I'm not even partaking in a dubious adventure this time; I'm just on the periphery, experiencing my worst childhood fear. 

(Addendum: Here's a YouTube video illustrating what this scenario would look like during the daylight, in what looks like lighter rain and smaller waterfalls.) 

But let me back up. It's summertime in the San Juans, where, if places could be bipolar, these mountains would be an ultimate case study. Heart-rending in their beauty one moment, heart-stopping in their ferocity the next, sometimes literally the next heartbeat. Beat was preparing to run a race here, the Hardrock 100, but it was cancelled due to record snowpack. So he returned to another that he swore he wouldn't do again, an unmasked monster with 42,000 feet of climbing in 102 miles, which he managed to finish in 2018. The amount of time it takes to cover such ground puts anyone at the mercy of the heartless whims of these mountains, whatever that may be. To battle through this race once is a classic experience with the archetypal journey: exploring the heart of darkness, discovering one's true self, hopefully emerging victorious. To return is ... well ... probably foolhardy. 

Of course, this is just what Beat does. He's embarked on so many preposterous journeys that he doesn't even keep track anymore. And he'll never be satisfied with defeating a challenge; he always feels compelled to return, for his own reasons. So we were back in Ouray this past weekend for the 2019 Ouray 100. 

 We arrived in town early enough the evening before the race that I was able to get out for a hike up/jog down on the Portland Trail, which started just a few blocks from our hotel. My hiking and running efforts since my mid-May MCL injury have been uneven, to put it nicely, and I'm still having issues with pain and instability that my physical therapist insists are normal (I've cleared nearly everything I've attempted with her, as I do not what to have to deal with this indefinitely. Not that her approval is any guarantee, but believing in a voice of reason gives me comfort. However, I went a little hog-wild with the miles this weekend, and there are multiple reasons why that was unwise. It's just that these sinister mountains are so good at luring in victims.)

 This was a fantastic outing. The Portland Trail reminded me of hiking in the Pacific Northwest, lined with lush green conifers and ferns. I felt strong; it was admittedly quite fun to just float up a mountain without the burden of a heavy machine underneath me (really, climbing on a bicycle is my favorite form of motion, and it's usually faster than hiking, but that doesn't change the fact that it's often incredibly strenuous.) Suddenly, seemingly without effort, I was at a high point on the trail to Chief Ouray Mine, looking at my watch and realizing that I needed to turn around. By running downhill I was able to nearly stick to my timeline, and felt surprisingly secure doing so. However, tinges of pain in my knee bothered me during the night. Laying in the dark room, I made my decision — I'm just going to ignore this.

 The race began at 8 a.m. Friday, with volunteers directing the start because Charles the race director was still stranded somewhere high on Mount Abrams. It was an auspicious start nonetheless, with 90-some bright-eyed runners heading out from a playground at the town's center. Beat noted that there were few Ouray veterans — mostly rookies in this year's field. "They have no idea what's coming."

 Skies were already overcast, with a strong chance of afternoon thunderstorms. I wanted to squeeze in another hike, and opted not to waste any time by heading directly to the Old Horsethief trailhead, where I planned to climb as far as I could before thunder scared me down.

 The Bridge of Heaven is the final climb of the Ouray 100, miles 91 to 102, gaining and then descending 4,800 feet over those mere 11 miles. That's just par for this insane course, but the Bridge of Heaven in itself is not a small thing, and can be quite exposed above 12,000 feet. So I skedaddled as much as I could manage, so drenched in sweat that even my lower pants were clammy, which I've decided is a good strategy for me at these altitudes — to cover up my sun-sensitive skin and sweat out my clothing until it cools me down. As long as I have enough liquid and electrolytes to keep my system working, this has been effective. However, if the storms begin to move in and the air temperature plummets 20 or more degrees with high winds, suddenly being soaked is not so ideal.

 Thus I found myself on top of the Bridge of Heaven in record-for-me time, squinting suspiciously at the dark skies and shivering profusely. I set up for this selfie on the trail sign and accidentally knocked the Ouray 100 hole punch onto the ground. Due to wilderness restrictions, the Ouray course is forced to make a series of out-and-backs to high points. On a map the course looks like a deranged spider. This allows for the maximum amount of elevation change, as there are no flat connectors between the big climbs. It also requires these hole punches as proof of arrival. The small plastic device bounced several times and nearly rolled off a cliff as I chased it frantically, not wanting to be the idiot who lost the punch before the first racer even arrived. "There's no way this is going to survive the whole race," I thought as I scooped it up. Amazingly, this one did, although most others were lost.

 One selfie taken and core temperature dropping rapidly, I began racing down the hill as much as my braced knee would allow. The sun came back out for much of the descent, which calmed my anxiety enough to finally take a break at a trail intersection two miles and 2,000 feet lower.

 Here I followed a faint social trail to the edge of a short knife ridge. I was chuffed at my rare bravery in the face of exposure for crawling to the end of this ridge. But I did it in an ugly way, stooped over with four-point contact on the ground at all times, and thus decided this feat wasn't something to brag about (but here I am, mentioning it anyway.) It was nice to crouch at this overlook and gaze into the lovely town of Ouray, one of those places Beat and discuss among our ever-lengthening list of fantasy places to retire (for the record, the top places on my list are reserved for the Far North, and always will be.)


I decided to take the long way around on the New Horsethief Trail, with a fair amount of jogging to make it back to town in my allotted timeline — 15 miles and 5,000 feet of climbing in five hours. It was just barely enough time for a shower and a quick pack-up before I needed to head up the highway to meet Beat in Ironton. It would be another weekend of endurance crewing where there is only a handful of excess hours for either hiking, eating or sleeping, and you only get to pick one. Since I always choose hiking, the lack of the others often tires me out more than even racing does.


Indeed, as soon as I sent Beat off on his first Red Mountain loop, I decided I had at least two hours to spare for another outing. Moving slowly on sore legs, I only made it as far as the upper waterfall — another 4.5 miles, with about 1,800 feet up and then down. It was a lovely diversion.

 While shooting photos of the waterfall, I saw Brett Maune making his way up the slope. Brett is one of the understated legends in this sport. He's a multi-time finisher of the elusive Barkley Marathons and I believe still holds the course record. He has a number of thru-hiking accomplishments as well. For his successes, I don't think he has any sponsors and stays under the radar for the most part, for which I respect him all the more. Being a bit of a fan girl, I admit I shadowed him for a short time as he continued to climb. "It's so steep," he said meekly, and after that only spoke in low-rumbling groans. Racers were only about a third of the way through the course, and even Brett Maune was hurting by this point. No one can escape Ouray's heart of darkness.

 In the seven hours I spent at Ironton as Beat made the two loops, the evening was mostly pleasant with intermittent rain, and a few close thunderclaps — but nothing I considered too ominous. I was surprised as I listened to several runners hand in their bibs at the aid station, citing concerns about weather. "I'm not going to risk it with lightning," one said to a course marshal, who replied, "Well, then you signed up for the wrong race."

When the The Nothing moved in, the skies opened wide, and lightning lit up the clouds as sheets of rain pummeled and nearly collapsed the meager canopies housing the aid station. Nothing was left dry. I hid in my car, but finally decided I didn't care and stood around in my best rain jacket, using a borrowed umbrella to protect Beat's drop bag. I counted the seconds before every thunder clap, and never heard anything terribly close, but the lightning illuminating the darkness was dramatic. More runners dropped out. Beat prepared to head out and I was deeply concerned, but I know it's futile to project my anxiety on him.

"I have everything I need to wait it out if necessary," he said, indicating he would stay below tree line until the storm passed.

"Make good choices," I replied meekly.

The next morning appeared as though the storm never existed. Skies were clear and blue, the road was dry (but still littered with rocks.) The air was warm and calm. Only a few small dents on the roof of the car gave any evidence of the few seconds of terror I experienced. Beat also didn't have a bad experience. He and two others climbed together in the pouring rain until they reached the pass just after midnight, when the The Nothing broke apart and retreated, as quickly as it arrived.

 Crystal Lake is about two thirds of the way into the race, 66 miles in 25 hours. Beat looked strong, and although he said he was having stomach issues, he was still moving well. Similar to last year, I had two hours to spare after he left the aid station, and decided it would best be used climbing to Hayden Pass. Last year I was able to catch and pass Beat near the top. This year, I managed to climb the 2,300 vertical feet a few minutes faster, and did not see him.

 We all grasp for our own sense of accomplishment, and I was chuffed that I was able to climb Hayden Pass a bit faster than 2018, even though I was in better hiking shape last year, and didn't stop to chat with as many racers as I did this year. Lately I've been working on bolstering my self-confidence so I can again attempt something huge, which will never happen if I keep telling myself I can't. The bicycle training has been fun, but feeling strong while hiking means a lot to me, right now. And the strenuous bicycle training no doubt has helped with that.

During this climb, with my tired legs and wobble knee, I still managed the illusion that I was a warrior and nothing could touch me. I was amazed that such a fearsome night could lead to such a beautiful morning. And of course my mind wandered back into memories of The Neverending Story, which I hadn't thought much about before, but it really does serve as an allegory for the adults of my generation, the insubstantial and ever-fading GenX. The Nothing represented the loss of hopes and dreams, the vacuum that remains in the absence of imagination. The heroes of the story aren't raging against anything more or less than the dying of the light. The villains of the story are existential despair and those who would exploit that. The cute wolf even voiced this prominent dilemma of modern culture: “Because people who have no hopes are easy to control; and whoever has the control, has the power!”

The villain in my heart is this nihilism, a fear of nothingness so intense that I seek out these extremes, the inhospitable mountains with their bipolar weather and frozen tundra containing nothing that can sustain my life, just to assure myself that an incredible world exists beyond me and beyond all of the machinations of humanity, and it will go on. I go to these places, I shiver with the discomfort of cold wind and a primal fear of the darkening sky, and I feel a depth of peace. I know everything will be okay.

Meanwhile, Beat just kept marching along, unfazed by much of anything. My two hours of hiking passed and I made it back to town just in time to watch another bout of The Nothing move in, with intense winds that blew away tents and more drenching rain. It continues to amaze me how strong and steady Beat remains, and how seamlessly he can knock out these incredible efforts. I'd be thrilled if I could manage just a single Ouray 100 in my life. Even if I manage to make the math work out based on my own experience and training, my self-doubt will likely never let me try (what I wouldn't give to once again possess the hubris of my "mountain-running years" — 2011-2014 — although they were marked with enough trauma and failure that I can't fathom why I'd want to go back. I suppose the answer remains: "Rage, rage against the dying of the light.")

The morals of this story, I suppose, are: Beat is incredible, and knocked out yet another near-impossible challenge in 44 hours and 20-something minutes, one of only 18 to 30 finishers (the number I keep hearing is different) from a field of 95. Nature is frightening, but it's a force that will save us, not end us, even if it does, technically, end us. We all need to end somewhere. But the world goes on, and the story never ends.

🎶Ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah 🎶