ITI training, week five

Monday: Weight lifting at gym, followed by trail run, 0:55, 4.4 miles, 388 feet climbing. The weight-lifting session went well considering my shoulders and lower back were still a little sore after the 100 MoN. Just my usual 12x12x2 session with the same weights as last week. The trail "run," conversely, was quite bad. I had some digestive issues that necessitated walking uncomfortably to the outhouse, twice, within an hour. That's it — no more high-protein lunches just because I think I'm some sort of body builder now.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:50, 5.6 miles, 691 feet climbing. Because my Monday "recovery run" went so badly, I decided I was not going to hammer this one out. I managed to run a faster pace anyway — my second fastest on this loop at 8:48-minute-mile average. Running is like that, or isn't it? It still baffles me how so many runners train by pace — I feel like I can't hit a precise pace to save my life. Sometimes I run faster without trying and sometimes I run slower no matter how hard I try, and there's rarely a discernible reason. Note: Maybe light salad lunches make for happier afternoon runs.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:14, 29.4 miles, 3,446 feet climbing. Maybe twice a year, I decide to climb the Table Mountain trail out of Stevens Canyon. After I do so, it takes at least six months to forget how horrible that climb is, with its eroded rooty switchbacking singletrack followed by the near-vertical Charcoal fire road. Legally, Table Mountain is uphill only for cyclists, but for obvious reasons it's a coveted downhill trail (I've never ridden Table Mountain downhill. I'm law-abiding to a fault and wouldn't enjoy it anyway.) But I met a couple of mountain bikers who were planning to ride the same loop in the opposite direction. They had a lot of questions about the bike I was riding, which was Beat's YBB soft-tail fat bike. Embarrassingly I could not answer most of them ("what kind of rims are those? How much does it weigh? Is that an Action-tec fork?" Ummmm.) They were nice guys, and although they soon raced ahead, I still managed to reach the top of the loop, Turtle Rock, at the same time as them. Consider Table Mountain conquered, and yeah, I probably won't be back until spring.

Thursday: Morning, weight lifting at gym. Afternoon, road bike, 1:24, 18.6 miles, 1,771 feet climbing. I moved up 5-10 pounds on each of the 12 exercises in my routine. I'm trying to keep it consistently difficult to get through the set each time, and I have this imaginary trainer (Arnold Schwarzenegger type) that says (in more of a Hans and Franz accent): "Pump! Deez are da ones that count!" Anyway, I'm still having fun with the gym routine. Then a quick road bike ride before sunset because it was a beautiful day. I really enjoy this time of year, when the afternoon light is always so rich, and I have to put on a wind jacket and mittens to descend into dark forested canyons before twilight sets in.

Friday: Trail run, 1:40, 8.5 miles, 1,518 feet climbing. Another iffy-stomach trail run with an emergency stop, this time at Fremont Older park. On Monday I cooked all this chicken that I was going to eat for lunch during the week, did so on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, felt off each time, and decided to throw the rest away. At least I rallied for a two-mile spur to the scenic overlook, which is always worth the trip.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 7:55, 76.4 miles, 9,639 feet climbing. I proposed one of our favorite long rides — a loop through Big Basin and Pescadero state parks — and was surprised when Beat expressed interest after a month of recovering from pneumonia. Despite expectations that he lost some degree of fitness, he proceeded to set this blistering pace for the entire day. For as strong as I've been feeling this month, I could barely hang on. I'm still incredulous about this. Strava lets me keep track of these things, and this was my fastest Big Basin loop yet — usually rides on this route fall between 8:30 to 9 hours of ride time. Geez. I don't even want to talk about how I felt when I ventured back into running after emerging from my summer pneumonia fog. Let's just say my fitness base doesn't run nearly as deep. But we had a great ride, and it was fun to get outside with Beat again. My only issue was a knot in my right shoulder, left over from the 100 MoN.

Sunday: Trail run, 2:26, 13.4 miles, 1,896 feet climbing. Rain is the ultimate phantom here in the Bay Area. We can go five months without seeing a drop (I think we actually did this year.) When it does rain, a storm comes and dumps a truckload of moisture in the night, then it's gone by morning. I slept through a storm that deposited three quarters of an inch of moisture in the hills and woke up to sunshine. I probably would have had no idea it rained at all, if I hadn't set out for a morning run only to become mired in peanut butter mud. It was quite windy as well, with a few gusts nearly stopping me in my tracks — probably 35 to 40 mph. Still, I felt great on this run. Just loped along at an easy pace, dodging the worst of the shoe-sucking mud bogs. Everything felt fine. There was no real fatigue from the long ride Saturday. This is my aim with my winter training — to build up tolerance for extended efforts both in the saddle and out, as well as more strength. I think it's going well so far.

Total: 18:26, 124.4 miles ride, 31.9 miles run, 19,350 feet climbing. 

Never-fail getaway

 I felt somber this weekend, for the same reasons many people in the Western world felt somber. It's true I spend an average of an hour each day reading newspapers online, and I'm not blind to the reality that terrible things happen every day, everywhere. Like many people, I harbor deep-set information fatigue, and no longer react viscerally to most of what I read. When information does spark emotions, I question why. What is it about this particular story, and not all the others? It's true that if we all felt equally sad for all the sad events in a world of 7 billion people, we would lose our minds. Yet we do feel sadness for strangers, and sadness for implications for the future. I'm one of those who is constantly fighting to keep my own world view from sinking toward despair.

 This falls back to my love of the outdoors, without which I have no doubt I'd be a much sadder person. There are a number of psychological and philosophical implications that I don't want to delve into for this particular blog post, but I find it endlessly fascinating — and amusing — that simple movement through outdoor spaces is so highly valuable as an experience. I could disappear for hours into an echo chamber of rehashed information and reactive observations, or I could just get on my bike and pedal it to a quiet redwood grove, where sunlight never touches the forest floor in November, and listen to the crush of leaves beneath whirring tires and the almost harmonized burbles from a nearby stream. All I have to do is go there, and I feel happy. These are my two sides — the one that yearns for information with a desire to understand, and the one that yearns for quiet with a desire to simply be.

 The draw of the long ride was particularly deep on Saturday. After being down with pneumonia for more than a month, Beat expressed interest in joining. He still has several physical issues lingering from his illness, including a rib that possibly broke during a coughing fit, but his health has been on a steady rise for a couple of weeks now. I questioned whether he might feel too sore or tired after a month of relative inactivity, but for Beat, "lost fitness" no longer makes much of a difference. He actually can pick right back up where he left off, which quickly became evident as I huffed and gasped to keep up with him on the winding climb out of Stevens Creek Canyon.

Within our busy metro area, we've pieced together a 76-mile loop that is refreshingly remote. We pass no businesses (unless you count the Mr. Mustard hot dog cart at Saratoga Gap, and the forever-under-renovation closed store in Loma Mar.) Trails are never crowded and road traffic is light. After a dozen or so descents along the perimeter of Big Basin Redwoods State Park, I have yet to see another person on the Johansen fire road. The tree canopy over Gazos Creek is so dark in the winter that one could easily mistake noon for dusk. There is much to enjoy, far away from noise.

As evening approached, Beat admitted to feeling knackered but continued to charge up the Bella Vista trail at the same relentless pace. We arrived at Black Mountain just as the sun settled beneath a pink strip of coastal fog. An oncoming cold front had cranked up the wind, and we steeled ourselves with multiple layers as the light faded from coral to crimson, and finally violet.

We descended into the expanding darkness, into a place so ephemeral and yet so easy to locate — my moving tunnel of peace. 

ITI training, week four

Monday: Weight lifting at gym. This session went well. I was able to move up a bar in six out of 12 exercises. I'm thinking about increasing to three sets instead of two on my "gym only" day of the week.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:49, 5.6 miles, 707 feet climbing. Temperatures had cooled off into the 60s, and I had such a great run that I burst through the long-range goals I set for myself a couple of weeks ago. I ran an 8:43-minute-mile average and managed second position (out of 185) on a Strava segment that I targeted as a way to boost my downhill trail-running confidence: 6:20 pace! Whenever I run this fast, a little bit of vertigo kicks in and I begin to feel wobbly. I'd love to get past that, and "Hill Trail Descent" is a fun place to test my limits. Between that mild vertigo and my tight hamstrings, I have serious reservations about ever training to run "fast," but building up confidence is a good thing. Now I'm not sure where to set my goals for this weekly loop. First place on Hill Trail Descent is probably out of the question because it's held by a pro at 5:48 pace. Whatever speed goals I set, they're certain to fall apart as I increase the hours on weekend rides.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 4:40, 42.5 miles, 4,795 feet climbing. It was time to take in the Subaru for service. The dealership is super slow and it's also a quick hop over to the Los Gatos Creek Trail, so I love using this chore as an excuse to go mountain biking in Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. On this day I was determined to take on "Dog Meat," a climb that has been famous among local mountain bikers since the Santa Cruz Klunker days. It ascends 1,000 feet on one mile — *after* you have plodded up 1,500 feet on the steep Limekiln Trail — and averages an 18 percent grade with sections that approach 30 percent. The ultimate goal is "no dabs Dog Meat," and while I didn't think I had this in me, I was still buzzing from my strong run on Tuesday and determined to give it my best shot. It probably will surprise no one that I cracked early. Rain on Monday left the fire road in a strange state — sort of a gummy consistency with loose gravel on top. After I nearly tipped over riding, I struggled to push my bike up that thing. It did occur to me that Dog Meat would be the perfect place for future pushing practice. After I finally reached the crest, I still had many steep rollers to conquer along the ridge to Mount El Sombroso. Then, after several miles of descending, I made a strange decision to climb Barlow fire road toward Mount Umunhum. By the time I was finally coasting down the pavement toward Los Gatos, I was so completely cracked that I feared I'd done irreparable damage to my 100 Miles of Nowhere goal coming up on Saturday. Oh, Sierra Azul. So beautiful, so tempting, so evil.

Thursday: Hike, 3:07, 7.7 miles, 1,419 feet climbing. I had to head out to Lake Sonoma in the morning to meet Ann for some interviews. As such, I skipped the morning gym session, and felt guilty about this. But to be honest, I was quite sore after Sierra Azul — shoulder and calves, probably from pushing up Dogmeat — and reluctant to take any more chances with the long ride coming up on Saturday. Ann and I took a very leisurely stroll above Lake Sonoma, but it was admittedly a long time standing on sore legs, and by the end I felt quite tired. That night I was awakened by an excruciating cramp in my right calf, and the next day the muscle was so tight I could hardly walk.

Friday: Rest. I felt guilty about not going to the gym, massaged my throbbing calf, and nursed a cold dread about 100 miles of Montebello.

Saturday: Road bike, 11:50, 105.1 miles, 20,159 feet climbing. I already wrote a ride report about the 100 Miles of Nowhere on Montebello Road, but as a training ride I think it went exceedingly well. I had few issues outside mild chaffing, still-sore shoulders, and the fact that it was a progressively harder effort as fatigue set in. That calf cramp, which still hurt whenever I stepped off my bike to walk around, didn't bother me at all in the saddle.

Sunday: Rest. I still felt guilty about not going to the gym, but I was sore all over. And yes, a rest day was the plan, but I can already see that my self-induced guilt trips are going to come from slacking on gym sessions. Dog Meat proved that I still have a ways to go in the strength department. But Montebello proved that I am well-situated in the endurance department. All in all, an encouraging week of training.

Total: 20:27, 147.6 miles ride, 13.3 miles run, 27,080 feet climbing.

The beauty of riding nowhere

Each year, Elden the Fat Cyclist — world-famous bike blogger and fundraiser extraordinaire — hosts a charity event called the 100 Miles of Nowhere. He first formulated the idea while riding a virtual 100 miles on his trainer, and now challenges cyclists from all over the world to donate to charity for the privilege of riding a "nowhere" century of their choosing. Creativity is encouraged, and pretty much any crazy century that one could imagine has been done — 100 miles on rollers, 3,000 rotations around a driveway, masochistic hill repeats, you name it. 

Although I've been a regular reader of Fat Cyclist for a decade, support his causes, and enjoy pondering my own versions of a "nowhere" ride, I hadn't participated before. This year the event announcement went out just as I was beginning to formulate a plan for winter training. It just clicked. "I've been talking about 100 Miles of Montebello Road for three years now. I'm finally going to do it." 

Why Montebello Road? I think any cyclist who lives near hills has a go-to climb, and this is mine. Climbing on a bike is my favorite activity, so I ride here a lot. The name means "beautiful mountain" in Italian, and it's appropriate. Starting 3.5 miles from my home, Montebello Road snakes up a scenic hillside beside a small creek, shaded by oak and cedar trees, with occasional steep drop-offs that open up big views of the South Bay and Mount Hamilton. It accesses a few homes and vineyards before the pavement ends 5.1 miles and 2,000 vertical feet above Stevens Creek Reservoir. I enjoy this climb and it doesn't get old for me, even though I've ridden it well over 200 times since I moved here in 2011. Because I ride Montebello so much, I know every switchback and driveway. I know where the grade steepens and where it levels off. I know where the pavement becomes especially broken and I have to hang on for dear life. I notice when cracks widen and when new tarmac is laid down. I notice when chunks of the hillside and larger trees come down, even after the debris has been cleared away. I've had to slam on my brakes for deer, rabbits, rattlesnakes, coyotes, and even a bobcat. There aren't many surprises left for me on that well-trodden road. 

So why Montebello Road? Because even though I've ridden it so many times I know every pothole, it never gets easier. And no, I don't get faster, because it takes a hearty helping of oomph to push the pace for a five-mile climb that scarcely lets off the resistance. My legs are usually quivering by the final steep pitch. The descent, with all of its hairpin turns, steep grades and broken pavement, hardly provides recovery. I think one Montebello is plenty difficult, and two Montebellos break into mental-game territory. So of course I started to wonder, what would happen after five repeats? How about ten? 

A hundred miles of Montebello Road requires ten out-and-backs with more than 20,000 feet of climbing. One participant, Karl, commented that the elevation profile would look like a "sadistic comb," which was an apt description. In all of my years of cycling, I've never climbed that much elevation in a day. Beyond the personal record, a century on one five-mile stretch of pavement requires a whole new set of challenges. There is, of course, the "boring" factor in the repetitions. It's not only the same road ten times — it's the same road I see all the time. On a road bike you don't walk, ever, unless something has gone quite wrong. But the gearing is stiff enough that you always have to pedal hard just to stay upright. Even if your speed is dipping precariously close to three miles per hour, it's always strenuous. I mentioned the hairy descents. Where would I find my motivation when things started to hurt? When I could only slow down so much? When bailing was always as easy as turning around and bombing downhill to my car? In other words, this would be a great mental training ride for the big, physically draining, often monotonous days on the Iditarod Trail. 

When I posted my proposal online, I was surprised to see a lot of initial interest. There were nine "going" and nine "maybes" on my Facebook event page. A couple of ultrarunner friends who almost never ride bikes said they wanted to give it a go. Then Beat came down with pneumonia and Liehann was worried his three-week cough would deteriorate to something worse. One by one, all the others bailed. I can't say I was surprised, as it wasn't the most conventionally fun way to spend what turned out to be an absolutely perfect fall day in the Bay Area. I assumed I would be riding alone and failed to show up on time for my proposed 6:15 a.m. start. So I was embarrassed to pull up at 6:19 to find three cyclists who I'd never met geared up and ready to go. Karl, on the right, wanted to try to best his personal record on one lap, and Eric (middle), had time to try for five. Dave (left), said he was in it for the long haul. Great! Let's get it started. 

Karl and I rode together for the first lap, and then I stuck with Eric and Dave for the next four. It turned out to be a surprisingly social ride. Dave kept a strong pace and commented on the fourth lap that he was surprised it wasn't getting much harder. It was then I knew both Dave and I were in this to the dark and chilly end, because neither of us was going to back down as long as the other was still plugging along. Such is the wonder of human sociality, and the reason why races are so much more fun than solo efforts, and why we were so content to grind out Montebellos on Nov. 7, riding in spirit with as many as 500 other "100 MoN" participants all around the world. We're all striving together. 

Around lap six, Beat came out on his mountain bike to join for a couple of rounds of what would be his first real venture outdoors in a month, besides bike commuting. We also saw friends and acquaintances who were out for their own Saturday rides. Jan, who was just finishing up a 17-mile trail ride, and who has been helpful with tips for dealing with my recent breathing problems, just shook his head. I was buzzing with endorphins and could only reply with a goofy grin, "I just love this stuff. I really do. I don't know why."

Photo by Dave Thompson. I'm wearing my circa-2007 "original" Fat Cyclist jersey and riding
Beat's wonderful 2011 Specialized S-Works Roubaix. Yes, those are flat pedals. Stiff-soled, fitted shoes pinch
my toes and hurt like hell after a few hours. I can't even wear running shoes that actually fit — these are 1.5 sizes
too large. I know this is terribly uncool. I do not  care. If you ever experience frostbite nerve damage and put
your feet through 12+ hour rides, you  can give me a recommendation for clipless pedals.
Otherwise, I don't want to hear it. :P

On lap seven, I hit my wall. All the others had gone home and it was just me and Dave, and the mid-afternoon sunlight dipping low on the horizon. After a summer mostly out of the saddle my "iron butt" had gone soft and chaffing was developing beneath my cheeks. My hands and arms were sore from the descents, and I had to hold one arm behind my back whenever I could to relieve a knot in my shoulder. My quad muscles quivered on the steeper segments. I was certain cramps were coming on, which could only be followed by walks of shame, which could only be followed by bailing altogether. But I'd look ahead toward Dave and kept grinding, because this clearly was not as bad as the simmering anxieties would have me believe.

Dave remained ever stoic. Occasionally, when I could keep up with him, I learned more about his background — he'd lost a lot of weight, and designed and built a special tandem bicycle so he could ride with his adult son who is recovering from a brain injury. At the top, only slightly glazed eyes and flushed cheeks betrayed the appearance that this ride was far too easy for him. We'd stuff down some food — I ate string cheese, squeezable packets of applesauce, Rice Crispy treats, and sandwiches cut into quarters, and realized my diet now completely resembled that of a toddler whose Mom carried just enough snacks to shut her up in public. We'd wipe the sweat from our faces and put on jackets and gloves, because it was always cold on the way down. And then we were off, screaming toward the glistening sprawl of San Jose.

We strapped on lights before lap nine because we'd finally burned all the daylight. The sun set at 5:11 p.m. Climbing the initial steep segments, I thought, "Only two more Montebellos!" which ignited a grumpy backlash because two Montebellos is still a lot. So I looked inward, to a stark white landscape of somewhere in Alaska, perhaps the Yukon River, beneath an unobstructed sky pulsing with emerald light and stars upon stars. Then the wind was howling, and I was hunched over my bike in a whiteout — broken, humbled, and awestruck by the power of it all, by this expansive nothingness on the edge of nowhere. All in my imagination — and perhaps in my future.

We descended in fading light and climbed into the tunnel of our headlights. Dave's light dimmed to almost nothing, but instead of quitting, he shadowed closely behind me as we ascended the quiet corridor. I was hurting all over. It seemed every muscle had to work for this final climb, and my breathing had become raspy and shallow. In part, I believe shallow breathing has become a habit after months of fighting real obstructions and constriction in my airways. So I consciously focused on taking deeper breaths, thinking about all of my quivering muscles and the reality that they just needed more oxygen. "Breathe, just breathe," I chanted quietly, and thought that this was probably going to become my new personal mantra.

"We did it!" I proclaimed at the top. Dave smiled quietly; his lips were quivering. It was 45 degrees and a cold wind whisked along the ridge, heralding an oncoming storm. We both sucked down the last of our water — even in the cold darkness, one bottle was no longer enough. I descended behind Dave with my high-beam on, but he seemed to manage just fine with his flickering commuter light. We rolled back to the cars after 105 miles in 13 hours and 5 minutes, including breaks, and about 11:45 of moving time. You can say that's a long damn time for a century, but I think it's pretty good for ten Montebellos, which are actually nothing like a century.

As I drove away, I realized that while the 20,000 feet of climbing was quite hard, I barely noticed the repetition. Each climb and descent was its own journey, with different light, different conversations, different thoughts, different challenges.

Still, a repetitive ride does provide beneficial numbers for comparisons. These are the times recorded for each 5.1-mile climb up Montebello Road. It's interesting to see the consistency when I was feeling good, and also how it started to break down on the later laps. My "personal best" on Montebello is 39:08, but I generally ride in the 45- to 50-minute range.

Lap 1: 59:18
Lap 2: 52:05
Lap 3: 50:51
Lap 4: 50:21
Lap 5: 50:24
Lap 6: 50:19
Lap 7: 56:01
Lap 8: 54:43
Lap 9: 58:53
Lap 10: 57:26

Maybe it really doesn't get that much harder as you go. I just have to get out of my head once in a while. And remember to breathe. 

Ten years

My blog hits the decade mark today. Ten years! That's close to 145,000 years old in Internet years.

I wanted to do something to celebrate, so for today only (November 3), all of my books are only 99 cents on Amazon. Even if you don't own a Kindle, you can read the eBooks on any smartphone or tablet via the free Kindle app, available here. The books are linked below. Collect all five for $4.95! As always, I appreciate reader support.




It's strange to realize that I've been updating this blog for a decade. Back in 2005, I would have never guessed that I'd still be at this a decade later — still blabbing on and on about cycling, and still preparing for yet another preposterous snow-biking race in Alaska. My jaw also would have dropped if you told me that I'd be approaching five years in the Silicon Valley, yet still working for small Alaska newspapers, and that social media was now so fragmented that blogs had become a dying art — the long-form literature of 2015. Or, in Internet lingo, the tl;dr.

I'm grateful for the time I've invested into this blog — although it remains narrow in focus, it has become a fairly thorough record of my life. Seared onto the digital archive are thousands of observations and images that otherwise would have been lost to the noise of faded memory. Because it's public record, this blog also has connected me to an ever-widening circle of like-minded people all over the world. It's gotten to the point where nearly all of my post-college friendships can be traced back to this blog. (Take Beat, for example. I met him through my friend Danni in Montana, who I met through Keith in Banff, who I met because his wife, Leslie, read my blog and invited me to come stay with them before the 2009 Tour Divide.)

There's also my odd lifestyle to take into consideration. Although I was just starting to take an interest in endurance sports when I launched this blog, I question whether that would have stuck if I'd never established the connection to others, as well as an outlet for this ongoing narrative. And although I often wish my passions were less esoteric, and maybe more comfortable, I maintain the belief that endurance sports can reveal a lot about self, relationships, and the human experience. This is why I continue to write long-winded blog essays about outdoor adventure still — one decade and 1,877 posts later. There's still so much to learn. I take flack for this, of course, but I don't see my love of outdoor adventures as any different from feeling passionate about art, music, dance, philosophy ... Movement through the world is my form of expression, and writing is my attempt to make some sense of these tracks before they fade away.

It's clear that my life would look very different if I never started blogging. I actually can't fathom where I'd be right now if I never launched a free Blogspot site on November 3, 2005. Sometimes the smallest motions make the largest difference. Thank you for dropping by, and for contributing to the ongoing narrative. It's been a wild ride so far.

ITI training, week three

Monday: Rest, mostly. I did do a three-mile dog walk with Ann in Auburn.

Tuesday: Morning, weight lifting at gym. Afternoon, trail run, 0:53, 5.8 miles, 704 feet climbing. This was my second gym session, so I tried a routine (subject to many future adjustments) of 12 exercises, 12 reps, two sets. There were a few exercises in which I couldn't reach 12 reps the second time around, and lots of huffing and puffing, but I never forced it. I take each rep slowly and if I can't make the exact same motion I used on rep one, it doesn't happen. Eight hours later, I went for a run that was one of my best in months. Seemingly effortless but fast — I thought it would take me weeks to build toward a 9-minute-mile average on this loop, and I came close on Tuesday (9:09 m/m). I'm guessing that's an anomaly more than a trend.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:09, 30.9 miles, 3,619 feet climbing. There was a lot less post-gym soreness than last week, although my hamstrings were sore. I decided I'm not going to include lower-body lifts in my gym routine, even though I have tons of fun with the leg press machine. Anyway, I took Snoots out for a ride that included more than enough leg punishment — Bohlman Road, pretty much the steepest four-mile climb in all the land. I challenge anyone to pedal an obese bike up that mountain and see how they feel at the top. I was actually blissed out, because this climb hit that perfect pitch of an effort I almost couldn't handle, to the point where I drifted into a dreamy flow state, but wasn't so difficult that I fell through the bottom into a swamp of stress and frustration. My reward for such undeserved uphill fun was a fast descent through El Sereno, which features big views across the valley as you swoop around high-banked turns. What a great ride. I'm still buzzing about it.

Thursday: Road bike, 1:28, 17.4 miles, 2,401 feet climbing. Montebello Road, still a whole lot harder than I'd like it to be.

Friday: Trail run, 1:12, 6.8 miles, 904 feet climbing, then weight lifting at gym. I felt like I took it easy on the run, but it was hot — I had to change all of my sweaty clothing before I hit the gym — and then I felt awful. It wasn't sore muscles, really ... I just had no energy and couldn't make it through lifts that felt easy on Tuesday. I incorporated three new upper-body exercises, and by lowering weights eventually made it through all the reps. I don't plan to always run and lift on the same day — ideally, I would lift Mondays and run Tuesdays. But on Thursdays or Fridays I hoped to double up. Clearly I should always lift first, since that's the harder workout for me. That feeling of fatigue is a bit brutal and yet satisfying — it's the kind of fatigue that takes many miles of running or biking to experience. For this reason, I'm excited that I'm trying something new.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 4:57, 43.4 miles, 6,674 feet climbing. Still buzzing from my Wednesday ride and ignoring the frustrating activities that followed, I set out for a long ride on Saturday afternoon. It was a warm Halloween Day (probably hit mid-80s.) I took a loop from my house that I hadn't yet tried in full, but it's a perfect combination of truly punishing steep climbs and fun singletrack descents. (Strava map link.) Somewhere before Russian Ridge I ran out of water, and went about 45 minutes without fluid under the hot sun. Even thirstiness did not make me grumpy, as I was really enjoying myself. I can't express how grateful I am that my biking bliss has returned.

Sunday: Trail run, 3:48, 18.3 miles, 3,334 feet climbing. I spent the first five miles catching up with my friend Martina. She split off and I continued toward Black Mountain at a comfortable zone 2 pace, walking when necessary rather than spiking my heart rate. As I hiked, I became unreasonably annoyed at how drenched in sweat my shirt and hair were, and about the sunscreen-laced sweat stinging my eyes, and the fact it was 80-something degrees on November 1, and I hate summer so much summer makes me sick and slow why is it always always summer here ... (trailing off into grumbling.) Then I ate a packet of applesauce and felt a whole lot better. Heh. Most of that temper tantrum erupted from low blood sugar, but I do struggle mentally with just how many months of the year are full-on hot here. The Bay Area has a lot going for it, and I'm not unhappy with my location, but yes, it's a challenge. I'm like a winter-hater in Minnesota, except a lot fewer people can relate to how I feel. And I did run out of water, again, about three miles before a planned stop at a fountain. But I'd already had my temper tantrum, and running out of water was my fault rather than something I couldn't control, so I sucked it up and kept running.

Total: 15:29, 91.7 miles ride, 30.9 miles run, 17,635 feet climbing. These last two weeks have been fairly tough, in good ways. I've been sleeping well and feel energetic in the evening ... once these factors change, I know I need to dial something back. Beat is finally coming out of his pneumonia fog, although he may still be a ways out from feeling up to hard efforts. I'm proud of how well he's taking care of himself ... I certainly didn't do as well back in July.

I will take it easier next week ahead of 100 Miles of Nowhere on Saturday, probably not much running. But I'm especially excited about how great I felt on the bike this week. That is, with the exception of riding Montebello Road specifically, where jitters are getting the best of me. I haven't been this nervous about performance before a non-race in a long time. 

ITI training, week two

Monday: Road bike, 1:32, 17.4 miles, 2,424 feet climbing — I'm starting to feel a little stronger on my bike. But I'm still terrified about the deca-Montebello coming up on Nov. 7. Sadly, Beat was diagnosed with pneumonia this week. He hasn't been able to log any hard training in more than two weeks, so 100 Miles of Nowhere is definitely out for him. He's starting to feel better, but damn, it's been a rough year for our respiratory systems.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:54, 5.6 miles, 701 feet climbing — In an effort to inject a whisper of "speed work" into my routine, I'm going to make an effort to improve on my regular Tuesday run, a hilly half-pavement, half-trail loop. This pace is about 9:34-minute-mile average. I'm going to work on getting that under 9-minute-miles. Also, I'm hoping to break the top three times for a half-mile downhill segment called "Hill Trail Descent" on Strava. Currently I'm 6th out of 181 women. Isn't Strava fun? I think Strava's fun.

Wednesday: Fat bike, 3:29, 31.3 miles, 4,481 feet climbing — I took Snoots, our expedition Moots fat bike, out for the first time since last winter. Ah, I missed Snoots. She's so sluggish on pavement, and yet so airy on trails. I feel it's an indignity to take her on anything but snow, however, I need to get reacquainted with the nuances of fat bikes. A slog up Highway 9 was rewarded with fun rollers on Skyline Ridge and the always-gleeful John Nichols Trail descent just as the sun was setting.

Thursday: Weight lifting at gym. As this was my first time at the gym, I treated this as a practice session. I tried out all the machines at different weights until I reached my limit, then did a handful of reps two notches below that weight. After reading several texts on the subject, I've decided circuit training with machines will best fit my needs for now. In hoping to continue with 12 exercises, 12 reps times two, two times per week. But for just playing around, I was *really* sore the next day. Beat could make me wince just poking my shoulders. This is disconcerting, I have to admit.

Friday: Trail run, 1:28, 8.3 miles, 1,169 feet climbing. My upper body felt too sore for bike riding. Hmph. Running, I felt pretty good, albeit a little on the slugglish side.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 4:08, 37.2 miles, 5,376 feet climbing. Liehann set out for his weekly hill climb ride. He aims for four-hour rides, which is a good block of riding for me right now. We rode up Grizzly Flat and along Long Ridge, including my nemesis, the Sunny Jim Trail. I can't always climb Sunny Jim without dabbing, but I made it on Saturday. I also managed a Grizzly Flat climb PR, which tells me I'm probably stronger right now than I think.

Sunday: Trail run and hike, 5:30, 23.4 miles, 3,922 feet climbing. A out-and-back variation of the Cal Loop on the Western States Trail outside Auburn. I ran the first 14 miles at a fairly fast pace with Bruce and then hiked the last 10 with Bruce and Ann. As a workout, I think run/hike is a good format for my winter training, as I get a wide range of intensity plus longer time on my feet without the beatdown of a long run. In many ways, it's most difficult to stay in shape for long bouts of walking, yet this may prove to be a decent percentage of the "ride" to Nome, depending on conditions. Everything depends on conditions, which is what makes training for this event such a puzzle. I need to hedge my bets with a little of everything.

Total: 17:03, 85.9 miles ride, 37.3 miles run, 18,072 feet climbing.

Moving forward on the Western States Trail

This weekend I traveled out to Auburn to record a few interviews with Ann Trason. I've been wanting to work on a biography about Ann for two years now, but pushed the project to the back-burner last year when we reached what I felt was an impasse. I operate best as a visual writer, which requires a lot more details than a bullet list of of accomplishments with quotes from people who were on the periphery. Since I wasn't there to witness any of the events I want to write about, I have to rely on Ann for these details. It's a problem, because Ann feels mortified by even the idea of talking about herself. She's an extremely private person, and that's okay. But as self-effacing as she can be, I think she understands that she's led an extraordinary life, and has a story that's worth telling.

The only window I've ever found with Ann is when she's running — out on the trails, she lets the stories flow out, and they're wonderful. Somewhat belatedly, I realized that I need to carry a voice recorder with me when she invites me for a run, collect the steam-of-consciousness, approach her contacts with questions to fill in the holes, and then use existing archives to connect stories and facts on a timeline. The issue, of course, is carving out the time to do the journalistic detective work needed to reconstruct a narrative. And lately, there's also been the issue of injury. Ann recently had knee surgery and probably needs another. She hasn't been running, and without her outlet, the quiet settles back in.

Two weeks ago, Ann purchased her dream home: an airy 1940s single-level house with a large garden at the top of Robie Point in Auburn, California — mile 99 of the Western States course. Ann feels a deep connection with the Western States 100 race and trail, and understanding that connection, I believe, is one of the keys to unlocking her narrative. She's been able to walk longer distances recently, so she invited me to join her and a friend for a run/hike on the Cal Loop segment this weekend.

The plan was for her friend, Bruce, and I to run segment along the river to collect leftover ribbons from the 50K trail race she organized last weekend, then loop back and meet her as she hiked down from Foresthill. Bruce, an old-school ultrarunner who has been around long enough to consider Ann one of the "kids," pulled me along at what I did not consider a conversational pace, chatting up a storm about the sport in the early 1980s. He coached me on my downhill technique — "Run like you're running in place. Don't think too hard about it. Look ahead, don't look at the ground" — and then flew up hills as I gasped behind him and tried to ask questions when I could catch my breath. Here's a guy in his 60s who has been running long distances for 40-plus years, and still runs hard.

"What's the secret to your longevity?" I asked him.

"Don't think too hard about it," Bruce recommended. "Just run."

After 15 miles of running we caught up with Ann and hiked with her for nine miles. We told her we filtered water out of the American River and she wondered why we didn't just wait until a perennial stream that was a half mile ahead.

"I didn't know about that stream," Bruce answered, and she wondered aloud with a tone of innocent amazement how he'd forgotten about that particular stream. Ann knows this trail inside and out, and still loves it after all these years, after all these miles, even when she can only walk its corridors at what to her is a frustratingly stilted pace. From my perspective — as someone who finds the California foothills pretty, but not stunning, and the climate unpleasantly dry and hot — it's an interesting intellectual challenge to surmise the root of her passion. She's traveled all over the world, gone on many adventures, won many races, and still she returns her love here, to this dusty trail where it all started.

I wonder if it's as simple as that. This is where it all started — where a friend took a high school track star who had a disappointing college career on a 30-mile trail run that launched 14 Western States wins and a lifelong relationship with this place. Although I can't relate to her level of success, I do see my love of the Susitna River Valley mirrored in Ann's Western States Trail. Ann's oak-dotted hills and yellow pine forests are my frozen swamps and black spruce stands. Maybe it's as simple as that.

After unwinding with the 18-mile hike, Ann was ready to retackle her home-improvement projects on Monday. I spent the day holed up in the crawl space of her new home, plying through boxes and file cabinets filled of old newspaper clippings, magazines, and correspondence. It was a fascinating if brief journey into her past, and helped me form a clearer picture of the depth of her accomplishments. In doing so, I realized that the reason I want so much to write about Ann is not because she was great, and not even because she was great outright in an era heavily dominated by men. I admire Ann for her passion. Finding a way through all the barriers into the bright core of this passion will be an adventure in itself, and an honor.

I ♥ races

This is my favorite portrait from any of my races, taken by a volunteer at the Eaglesong Lodge/mile 46 checkpoint during the 2006 Susitna 100 — my first race. I love the floppy overboots, the dangling Camelbak hose, the 2003 Gary Fisher Sugar with 26" studded tires and plastic pedals, the bulging stuff-sack bundle on a seatpoast rack. Most of all, I love that blissed-out look on my face. I was in awe of the expansive Susitna Valley, the notion of being 46 miles from anywhere in Alaska, and the fact that I was out there, and I was doing it.

This was quite the revelation, and set me on a path that I continue to follow a decade later — seeking out endurance races as a way to focus my emotions, expand my perceptions, find flow, and experience life at an intensity that never ceases to amaze me. Although this is all possible in non-race adventures, I appreciate organized races for their community and support, and also because perimeters force me to think and act outside my own boxes. Ultimately my goal with racing is to see how far I can go. Unless something about my life changes substantially, I imagine I'll continue to participate in races for years to come.

For a while now I've wanted to archive all the race reports scattered throughout this blog. Long-time reader Slo Joe planted the idea to list all of my races (with links to reports) on one page. I do love a good "quantified self" project. So I compiled a list and created a race page in header bar. The numbers are only interesting to me, but it was fun to quantify a decade of racing experiences. A few things I learned:

• I've participated in 80 races since February 2006 — 22 bicycle races, 57 foot races, and one triathlon.

• The most races I participated in one year was 20 in 2012 — three bicycle races and 17 foot races.

• Before I even considered myself a runner (2006-2009), I participated in five foot races and one triathlon.

• My longest race was the 2009 Tour Divide — 2,745 miles — and my shortest was the 2008 Spring Tide Scramble — 4 miles.

• The fastest time I ever posted in a bicycle race was 11:35 in the 2014 White Mountains 100; I never spent fewer than 11.5 hours racing a bicycle.

• I've participated in seven 24-hour mountain bike races.

• I've finished 43 ultramarathons (foot races 50 kilometers or longer)

• The number of multi-day bikepacking races I've finished is just four (in my defense, these are always the most time-consuming endeavors.)

• I've DNF'd eight races — three bike and five foot races. The reasons I listed were "timed out" (4), "frostbite" (1), "achilles pain and lost heart" (1), "knee injury" (1), "pneumonia" (1).

• I hold the course record in one race, the Berry Creek Falls 50K in Big Basin State Park. I finished in seven hours and 50 minutes, but it was the only year the 50K distance was offered at this race, and I was the only woman. I know, I know. The race director for Coastal Trail Runs still reminds me this is an official course record nearly every time he sees me.

• Because I aim to find out "how far can I go?" and never took the traditional path of training for speed while slowly increasing distance, my personal records for traditional distances are mostly pretty humorous:

5K: 31:52(!!) (This was my 5K time during the 2006 Homer Sea to Ski Triathlon, when I was definitely not a runner. Of course I log faster 5K segments nearly every time I go for a run, but this is my only official 5K race.)

Half Marathon: 2:06 (Insert frowny face here. Someday I will sign up for another half marathon so I can finish one under two hours. But probably not anytime soon.)

Marathon: 6:58 (2012 Diablo Marathon, hella hard trail run, 8,000 feet of climbing, I got lost and ran closer to 29 miles, but it's still the only marathon I've run.)

50K: 5:36 (2014 Crystal Springs 50K — my favorite local race — well, this or the Ohlone 50K. Another fun fact: Between Crystal Springs and the Woodside Ramble, I've run nine 50-kilometer races on this particular course.)

50M: 10:50 (2013 Quicksilver 50)

100K: 19:53 (2013 Homer Epic, winter race with sled.)

100M: 29:53 (2015 White Mountains 100, winter race with pack.)

• My race list may seem obsessively lengthy, but it pales in comparison to Beat's.

The link to my Race Page is here. Included are links to 80 occasionally multi-part race reports, which must be up to the 10-million-word range by now. Fun airplane reading. 

ITI training, week 1

I only got one photo on Saturday before my camera battery died. Not my best work for a week of outings, I know.

So, there are about 19 weeks until the start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational on Feb. 28, 2016. I wanted to revive my weekly training log from winter 2013-14 because it proved to be a useful record. Since the Firetrails 50 was a re-set of sorts, I'm starting with the following week — Oct. 12 to 18.

I'm a little embarrassed because I haven't started a weight training routine yet. I decided to join a small gym near my neighborhood, and it's been a frustratingly slow process. But my membership is set to start on Wednesday, so I hope to report back next week. The benefit of this gym, besides being relatively inexpensive, is there is one trainer there for a few hours each day who can work with me as long as they're not already occupied with other clients. It's not as good as personal training, but at least I can ask questions and receive feedback. This is all new to me, so obviously the first few weeks will be about treading lightly and focusing on form. Hopefully once I get the exercises down, I can start loading my weak little arms and shoulders more heavily so they adapt into something more useful.

Beyond that, I plan to continue with both riding and running/hiking, and if I can stay disciplined, start to add more weight to both my bike and back on these outings. There will be rides where I purposefully push my bike up a steep hill again and again. I may even do a few cart-dragging "runs." Whether I'll manage any snow training is still in question. El Nino heat may bring another snowless winter to the Sierras. I feel strongly that I need at least one week of real cold-weather camping practice, so I'm hoping to make a trip to Alaska in December. Also, Beat and I signed up for 200-mile version of JayP's Fat Pursuit in Idaho in January as a shakedown tour.

Monday: Road bike, 1:29, 16.2 miles, 2,232 feet climbing. My next big "event" is a nutty little outing that I proposed as part of Elden "The Fat Cyclist" Nelson's annual 100 Miles of Nowhere charity ride. On Nov. 7, people from all over the world donate money for the privilege of riding a century either on trainers at their homes, or on an outdoor course that effectively goes nowhere. For several years I've wanted to attempt "100 Miles of Montebello Road," which is ten climbs and descents on my go-to hill climb. The end result is a road century with 20,000 feet of climbing. As you can imagine for any stretch of road that squeezes 2,000 feet of climbing into five miles, there is nothing flat about Montebello Road. As I was grinding up the pavement on Monday, there may have been a few swear words uttered. (#$%! How am I ever going to get through two of these, let alone ten???) It will definitely take some work to get my cycling legs back. It's good I set this impossible standard for myself in three weeks.

Tuesday: Trail run, 0:59, 5.6 miles, 696 feet climbing. Running! Now that's more like it. I'm definitely better trained for running right now. My IT band was still bothering me after Firetrails, so I shuffled the descents.

Wednesday: Mountain bike, 2:22, 23.4 miles, 3,184 feet climbing. Moots is still covered in clumps of mud that are almost certainly from the Tour Divide, and Beat finally became annoyed with the rear tire that has been consistently flat for three months, and added sealant himself. My mountain bike has been neglected. As I pedaled over Black Mountain and began to descent into Stevens Creek Canyon, I realized I hadn't visited my home trails since May. May! It's been wonderful to get back on my bike, but I can definitely feel the burn in my butt and legs. It's been a while.

Thursday: Trail run, 0:57, 5.6 miles, 702 feet climbing. I got a massage on Thursday morning, and suddenly my IT band felt 100 percent better. Even though I ran this loop at an easier pace than my Tuesday run, I finished it faster simply because I wasn't protecting the descents.

Friday: Road bike, 1:18, 15.5 miles, 2,073 feet climbing. This is another cheater Montebello ride where I wanted to practice my "100-mile pace" and didn't even ride all the way to the top. I don't remember why. But this 100 Miles of Nowhere thing is really starting to freak me out. Also, if you're a Bay Area cyclist and think this nutty century sounds at all fun, please considering joining us. There are at least six people right now who say they're going to show up at 6 a.m. Saturday, Nov. 7. We may even have a bit of an aid station at the bottom of the hill. (However, this is a fully self-supported, unofficial, untimed group ride.) If you want more information, e-mail me at jillhomer66@hotmail.com.

Saturday: Mountain bike, 3:58, 34.8 miles, 5,212 feet climbing. My friend Liehann recently started training with Coach Lynda, but he found a way to work me into his Saturday plan. We pedaled trails toward Russian Ridge, and I managed to keep a solid pace up until the final climb, when my legs just died. I've definitely lost some power in my quads.

Sunday: Trail run, 2:19, 13.1 miles, 2,246 feet climbing. Beat has been battling a veritable plague all week, and I haven't caught it, which is weird, because it seems like my immune system really gave up this year. Still, I'm currently healthy, so I set out to do my own thing — a half-marathon-length loop up the brutally steep PG&E trail and down the mellow and fun High Meadow Trail in Rancho. I felt fantastic on this run, with this giddy zeal that I also experienced while riding with Liehann on Saturday. It's funny, because with a few exceptions, I haven't felt this strong in a while. Months, really. In early October I had a few terrible runs and one especially terrible mountain bike ride, and I told Beat that if I couldn't finish the Firetrails 50, I was definitely going to withdraw from the ITI. It wasn't about the trail run; there was just something wrong with me, and I needed to figure it out.

Cue the visit to the allergist, and the assurance from a professional that "oh, there's probably nothing really wrong with you — except you're really allergic to grass." And just like that, I feel great. It's not about grass pollen; that's been gone for a couple of months now. It's more about increased confidence that this unseen anvil has been lifted. When I charge up a hill, I'm no longer afraid that it's going to come crushing down, so I push harder and feel better. Funny what happens when negative thoughts are flipped around.

Total: 13:26, 89.9 miles ride, 24.3 miles run, 16,346 feet climbing

As it turns out, I am allergic to summer

This week I went in to see an allergist in hopes that the doctor could provide insight into my recent breathing difficulties. Skin tests came up negative for mold, dust mites, weeds, and most animals. I only showed mild allergies to a handful of tree pollens. But when the doctor arrived at the spot on my back that felt like a tiny piranha tearing into my skin, she exhaled loudly and said, "Oh, yeah, grass is really blowing up. Wow."

I get hay fever every spring and always suspected I was allergic to grass pollen, but it turns out I am severely allergic to grass pollen. The doctor was surprised I'd never sought allergy treatments in the past. She said people with allergies occasionally experience a tipping point when they contract a cold or the flu during allergy season. Productive coughing creates an environment in which allergens are held in the mucus lining the bronchial tubes, exacerbating the inflammation and causing more mucus buildup, which in turn bolsters the virus. Left untreated, the infection pushes deeper into the airways, leading to prolonged inflammation and higher sensitivity to allergens.

"It could take months to clear up," the doctor said, and cheerfully added, "which may be why you're feeling so much better now."

I am feeling so much better now. Grass pollen season is finally over. But a grass allergy could explain why I became so sick during the Tour Divide. Pollen counts were already high when I set out to ride my bicycle across the Rockies in mid-June. I developed some type of upper respiratory infection that caused a sore throat and coughing on the first day of the trip. Then I continued to stay outside all day, every day, breathing in large quantities of pollen and coughing up a lot of crud. At the time I became convinced that the air was "toxic," but of course pushed that notion aside because it was mostly absurd. Now I don't think that inclination was entirely off base. The grass allergy would explain why I felt a little better after spending a night indoors, and why I struggled so much more with my breathing in high winds and heat. It wasn't the dust, which is what I assumed I was choking on. It was pollen.

A grass allergy would also explain a little more about my general health since I moved to California ... why I always feel lousy in April and May (my annual "spring slump" after "too much fun" during March travels in Alaska), why I often continue to struggle on a lesser scale through the summer (I tended to blame high temperatures and a touch of burnout) and why I'm suddenly so much more peppy in the fall (I credited excitement about upcoming Alaska adventures and a slight reduction of heat.) Maybe having an immune system set to overdrive for half of the year isn't so good for energy levels.

The allergist recommended I see her again next April to assess my symptoms and decide how to proceed. In general, allergies just blow. Immunotherapy can take years to become effective, over-the-counter meds can be hit-or-miss, steroid inhalers and other asthma treatments are medicine for the rest of your life. The general advice is to avoid going outside during allergy season.

Or, you know, move to Alaska. Ha.

During this visit I also learned the terrible, terrible news that I'm allergic to cats. Not dogs, not horses, not mice. Just cats. I actually scored in the moderate to severe category for this allergy. This may explain all the seemingly random skin rashes that have cropped up over the years. Because of all of our traveling that was becoming increasingly difficult for my 12-year-old cat Cady, Beat and I recently sent her to live with her long-time cat sitter, who loves Cady and needed a companion for a difficult time she's going through. I've been struggling with this decision, but I suppose the move was a good thing for me as well. Still, I'm a hopeless cat person and I don't plan to never have a pet again. I'll live with the eczema if I must.

But for now, I can de-cat my house and rejoice that long-suffering summer is over. Soon it will be my season. Superwoman season. Winter. Bring it on. 

Bustin' out at the Firetrails 50-mile

Mountain biking at Tilden Park outside Berkeley earlier this month. I really need to get back on a bike.

Every September, Beat returns from the Tor des Geants buzzing on run-bliss and eager to sign up for all of the fall races. This is also about the time he acknowledges he doesn't have any vacation days left, so the smattering of hundred-milers left in the year are scratched out, and we usually end up at a local 50K. My Ultra Signup profile contains a handful of October and November races that have caused me to wonder, "Wait, why did I run that one? Oh, yeah, Beat's TDG chaser."

October is also the month when I need to launch my winter training. It's the "on" season, when I need to mentally and physically prepare for the grueling Alaska slog that always comprises my favorite endeavor of the year. I haven't wanted to talk or write about 2016 because of the level of cognitive dissonance it takes to contemplate a thousand miles to Nome. Beat hasn't enjoyed hearing me talk about it either, because the conversation always devolves into sniveling about the many uncertainties surrounding my health and strength and resolve. He makes an inarguable point, though — my insecurities are pointless. The Iditarod Trail does not care. Either I'm all in, or I'm out. I need to decide.

It's difficult to decide how to train, because I want to be conservative but the goal is so audacious. I want to increase my muscle strength and endurance so I can manage heavy loads in deep or drifted snow, while continuing to build cardiovascular strength and endurance so I can travel long distances — or at least long hours — every day for most of a month. I want to stay conditioned for both walking/running and cycling, since taking a bike to Nome — if that's what I choose to do, and I want to keep my options open during this El Niño season — involves plenty of both. I've been reading books and blogs on strength training and trying to formulate a plan that won't interfere with endurance training — the many hours in the saddle that I know I need. Of course resting is a big part of building strength, so I need to figure out where and how to focus my efforts. Helpful guidance has been difficult to find. People have all kinds of things they train for, but a month-long, heavy-lifting expedition isn't usually one of them.

Meanwhile, summer inertia lingers, as I've been frightened of most workouts since the Tour Divide. Every time my heart rate pegs or my breathing becomes heavy, I panic just a little bit. Earlier this month, I was at Tilden Park in Berkeley for what was only my second mountain bike ride since the Tour Divide, largely because I'm so intimidated by mountain biking right now. Each time I started up a steep hill, I'd get nervous about my breathing, step off the bike, and walk. The thing is — I'm not even sure I have any kind of conventional breathing problem. I become less convinced of this every day. Maybe — probably — I'd be just fine at higher intensities, but I'm still a little too scared of asthma attacks to try. I'm going to see an allergist on Thursday, and hope some guidance in that regard will help.

This is turning into a long intro, but it's my attempt to summarize where I'm at. Cautiously optimistic? That's not really the right phrase, but I'm not so hopelessly pessimistic as I have been in the past few months. I do feel myself becoming progressively stronger, which is what I'd hope and expect if I was recovering from a bout of pneumonia. That's why, when Beat suggested the Dick Collins Firetrails 50-mile run as a fun TDG chaser, I jumped on board. It would be good for me, I reasoned, to take on a frightening and yet not too risky challenge. I've been doing a lot of hiking over the past two months, so my legs and feet are in good shape, and the cut-offs where tight enough to force a solid effort.

Then I thought, "Wait, those cut-offs are pretty tight. I've been hiking a lot but not running that much. When I do run, it's been fairly slow relative to my usual paces. Can I actually hit those cut-offs? What if I don't? What if I DNF the Firetrails 50? There goes my last shred of confidence."

On Wednesday, after my weekend in the Grand Canyon, I set out for a practice run on one of my regular loops — eight miles up PG&E and down the High Meadow and Wildcat trails in Rancho San Antonio park. I pushed the pace just a bit too hard on the climb and developed cramping in my hamstrings, which expanded to a horrible side-stitch on the descent. From there everything deteriorated into one of those "worst runs ever" that included shuffling awkwardly to a pit toilet and still needing to effectively walk the last mile of an eight-mile run. Oof. That was not a confidence builder.

And with that, I took two days off and woke up at 4 a.m. Saturday morning for 50 miles of hills in Oakland. Firetrails is one of the classic Bay Area trail races, dating back to 1983. It's more or less an out-and-back, from Lake Chabot to Tilden Regional Park through the redwood forests and oaken hillsides along the suburban communities surrounding Oakland. There are 8,000 feet of climbing over the duration, which makes for a tough but mostly runnable course. Given it takes place within shouting distance of such a large metro area, Firetrails is uniquely secluded — the course covers 26 miles of bike paths, narrow fire roads, and singletrack, all closed to motorized traffic, and only crosses two or three roads. It's scenic as well, if I do say so myself, although I don't have any pictures because I unintentionally forgot my camera (and it's funny how no photos deflates my desire to post on social media.) But there are miles of mossy forests, views of rippling golden hills and blue reservoirs, and occasional glimpses into the fog-shrouded San Francisco skyline.

The race started in pre-dawn darkness at 6:30 a.m. It was foggy and warm, already over 70 degrees. I opted to bring a headlamp because dawn was still 30 minutes away, and I fully expected to be out after the 6:30 p.m. sunset. This race is well-structured for more limited daylight with paved bike paths at both the beginning and end, so most runners forgo headlamps, but the last thing I needed was to trip on a curb and break a wrist at mile 0.5.

Firetrails is fairly large for a trail race — last year there were more than 300 people at the starting line, and probably a similar number this year. The group fanned out and after eight miles I caught up to Beat and also Iris, a woman from Calgary who I frequently see at these Bay Area trail races. Iris and I have run together at the Woodside Ramble and Golden Gate 50K, and it's gotten to the point where I almost expect to see her out there, even though she travels all the way from Canada and we never plan these meet-ups. She was running with her friend Scott, and I made an effort to keep up with them, chatting the morning away. I felt really good. I wasn't about to push my luck with a 50-miler, but by mile 20 I was cautiously optimistic that I might finish this thing pretty well.

Temperatures rose into the 80s and the fog burned off, but humidity stayed high. After Beat ran ahead for the last time, Iris commented on how drenched he was in sweat. Her hair was soaked, and when I looked down at my own sweat-beaded skin and dripping shirt, I had to conclude that we all looked like we had jumped into lakes. The hot humidity made things difficult, but there were aid stations every five miles with Clif Shot Bloks, ice and salt tabs. I was enamored with these luxuries that really took the edge off.

At the 26-mile turnaround, I changed my socks and made the mistake of eating one of those boiled potatoes, which tasted rotten. I had shoved the whole thing in my mouth, and the garbage can was surrounded by runners, so I made myself swallow it, which was a larger mistake. I stuck around for five or so more minutes gagging and trying to wash the horrible taste away with Coke. Should have stuck with Shot Bloks. Always stick with Shot Bloks.

Despite a now-iffy stomach, the next section coming up was the only one for which I was reasonable trained: a 1,300-foot climb. I marched up the steep fireroad that was harshly exposed to the hot, hot sun, and actually felt better by the time I reached the top. I coasted into the 31-mile aid station thinking I had this race in the bag.

The problem is, most of my long trail runs have been 50Ks, and my body seems to have this pre-set kill button once 50 kilometers have passed. Fifty miles is really a whole lot further, so struggles out of the blue with 19 miles to go are frustrating. Just as soon as I left the aid station, my IT band started acting up. This didn't come as a surprise, since I had IT-band pain in Europe, but it certainly wasn't welcome. I started shuffling the downhills more slowly, then walked a few. Climbs were my only relief. I wasn't about to turn this IT band aggravation into a more long-term thing, so I kept the pressure off, but I continued to monitor my watch. DNF might still be worse. Yes, it might.

Iris and Scott caught and passed me, and I became more and more grumpy toward the end as my knee ached and aid station after aid station told me they had no toilet (I really wanted one, but knew I could keep going without, so I didn't go rushing off into the suburban woods.)

I arrived at the finish in 11 hours and 35 minutes. It was mildly disappointing after I'd briefly convinced myself that sub-11 was within my reach, but at the same time I can only shake my head at these thoughts because it's all so arbitrary. Beat finished an hour before me, and fetched me a cup of peach gelato as I rubbed my aching legs and complained, "So much running. That was just so much running." But it was all gone within a few hours; even the IT band pain had settled, and all that was left was that warm glow. "You didn't DNF. You're still okay. Hopefully." 

Adventures in roadtripping

I love long drives. I love traveling at 80 miles per hour across vast empty landscapes, shamelessly guzzling cheap gas station coffee, listening to NPR and singing out loud with pop radio. I love glancing toward the mountains and imagining adventures along their contours. I make the commute between California and Utah at least a couple times per year, and recently decided to start acting out some of these daydreams. Twelve hours is a long time to sit in a car, and I've found it goes a lot smoother if I punctuate the drive with two or three hours of off-highway adventuring somewhere in the middle.

Light rain pattered the windshield as I pulled off an exit near Donner Pass on the eastbound trip. Castle Peak is a prominent landmark just off I-80, but I didn't know exactly how to get there. The Pacific Crest Trail climbs to Castle Pass here, so it seemed like the appropriate route. With the long Grand Canyon trek coming up, I was feeling lazy. Although I set out with an intention to run, I mostly jogged and hiked as the path meandered through the woods and under the freeway via a dark pedestrian tunnel.

Through this flat, forested basin, the trail became less defined. Although it seemed odd to be crossing over increasing deadfall and brush, a fair amount of distance passed before I realized I wasn't on a trail at all. From what I've read about it, the PCT is one of the most manicured trails in the American West, and I'd managed to lose it. And although I'd turned on my Garmin eTrex at the start, two miles later it had yet to find satellites, so I had no points of reference. I continued to meander through the deadfall-strewn forest until I found a dirt road, climbing gradually in the direction of Castle Peak. From there I located a fantastic trail that was definitely not the PCT — the dust was rippled with bike tracks and there wasn't a footprint to be found — and followed it uphill.

When I reached the ridge, Castle Peak looked to still be at least a half hour away, and I'd already burned up nearly 90 minutes bumbling around for five miles. I took a couple of photos from what I later learned was Andesite Peak, and started down. The sky opened up with hard rain just as I passed two mountain bikers who were stopped at an overlook, so I picked up my pace on the fun, swooping descent (trails built for mountain biking are also generally the most enjoyable to run. Banked turns are the best.) I could hear the mountain bikers' brakes screeching as they descended somewhere close overhead, and constantly looked over my shoulder to let them by, but strangely they didn't catch me. They finally passed on the road, yelling, "Rain! Run away!" (I was dressed like a hiker with baggy pants and a fleece top, and was walking when they first saw me.)  I pushed to maintain my relative sprint because I was soaked, a little bit cold and hadn't planned my supplies well for this impromptu trip (I had a 12-liter pack full of pretty much all of my Grand Canyon snacks and two liters of water, but no rain jacket.) All the steam went out about a half mile from my car. Although I didn't reach my intended peak, it turned out to be a diverse little outing with jogging, 'shwacking, hiking, a tiny bit of scrambling, fast downhilling, road sprinting, and back to plodding when the bonk hit hard (yeah, all those snacks in my pack. I didn't eat any of them.)

Oh well, more room for gas station M&Ms.

For the westbound trip on Monday, I decided to exit I-80 at Wells, Nevada. I first learned about this mountain paradise last December during another road-trip outing, a snowy run on Angel Lake Road. October is early enough in the season to climb snow-free peaks in the Humboldt Range, so I set my sights on Greys Peak, elevation 10,674. SummitPost informed me that the peak was only two miles from the campground, there was no trail, but the route was Class 2 scrambling with cairns leading the way. Easy peasy, right? I budgeted two hours and set out under clear skies with temperatures in the low 60s.


Sometimes I think the contributors to SummitPost are either elitist mountaineers or liars. Okay, so the information in the Greys Peak entry was mostly accurate, except for the cairns part. This image is the only photo I took during the approach, because I was either sliding backward in ankle-deep loose dirt down a 40-degree slope, squinting for the slightest evidence of a rock cairn while squatting on all fours atop a boulder, or clinging precipitously to a rock ledge. Still, I think this photo gives a snapshot of the scrambling experience. I had to pick my way along this ridge, traversing boulder-strewn slopes and then climbing ledges to cross over the spine and look for another traversable slope on the other side. None of the scrambling was exposed, but there were enough sheer drop-offs to make route-finding tricky. There were not enough cairns to be helpful, but just enough that I could occasionally confirm — with a baffled shake of my head — that I was still following the intended route. On this ridge, unless one was willing to venture onto some pretty harrowing Class 4 terrain, there probably was just one viable route. But it wasn't easy to find.

I stayed on the ridge for far longer than I needed to, and crawled over a bunch of car-sized boulders that I didn't have to, because I'd become so spooked about leaving the ridge (the terrain on the slope below was steep, often loose, and occasionally ended in cliffs.) I admit I had my Delorme out and readily accessible so I could alert Beat in what seemed to be the likely event of breaking a wrist or ankle. But when I reached the summit ridge, it was all worth it — empty ranges and basins as far as the eye can see. I love Nevada. I'm always rushing through this state, and every time I stop for even a moment, I promise that I will return soon for an extended stay.

Looking down at Angel Lake and a splash of fall color in the desert. My time for the ascent was 95 minutes, which was more than I'd budgeted, but how long could the descent take, now that I knew the way? An hour, maybe?

The summit ridge itself would actually be a relatively easy and fun ridge walk. Someday I will return with more than just a few hours to burn.

For the descent, I switched my GPS watch to its tracking mode so I could follow my own breadcrumb trail. Even with an exact line to follow that was easily viewable on my wrist, I still frequently lost the route while crabwalking down loose, boulder-strewn dirt. The footing was just really bad. It definitely wasn't my shoes — worn-out, torn uppers, almost-bald Hokas (maybe the shoes were a little bit to blame.) Back on the knife ridge, I frequently found myself standing at the edge of a cliff, with my GPS watch telling me I was 50 feet away from the spot where I climbed up, and I was completely baffled as to where that was. In hindsight, I probably would have been better off feeling out the route rather than tethering myself to the GPS track, although who knows where I would have ended up if I just descended freely. Probably in the wrong basin. Or at the bottom of one of those cliffs.

Anyway, by the time I returned to my car, 3 hours and 34 minutes had passed, which means it took me two hours to descend two miles. My triceps and lats were quite sore, which was another important reminder that I need to focus on upper-body strengthening this season. I also had to call Beat and let him know I was going to home a little later than I hoped.

Still, those last 9 hours of driving went by really fast. I was buzzing on adrenaline, and before I knew it, I was home. These road trip side-adventures are not only fun, but they're also a great way to generate driving energy. Even better than gas station coffee!