Arizona bound

A minor foot injury kept me from lining up for the AZT300 start last week, and while I was happy to have not experienced the snowy, mucky early miles through the Canelo Hills, I was disappointed to not be racing in Arizona again this spring. But injuries heal and envy grows (especially after watching Jefe demolish the 300 course record on 1.5 hours of sleep), and I now have a one-way ticket to Tucson for Friday. By ~5am Saturday morning, I'll be at the Mexican border with some generous help from Scott ready to tackle his 750-mile route north to Utah. Friends of mine will be conveniently camping at a slot canyon only a few miles from the end of the route at the Utah border, so I've got an ambitious deadline to meet my ride home. I don't know if it's possible, and I know that everything will have to go smoothly to make it happen. I'll have to cover 100+ miles per day on average, which is a tall order on the AZT, especially when there's a 21-mile hike across the Grand Canyon involved. But what better motivation - finish fast and you have food, water, and a ride waiting near the finish; finish more slowly, and you're stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing but whatever you carried.

Well, that's that. 3.5 days until the time trial begins...

You'll probably be able to follow along at here and here.

Thanks to Eric for some phenomenal new Epic Designs bags, the guys at Pearl Izumi for continuing to help me out with clothing and footwear, and Michelin for the new fast-rolling 29er tires.

5 miles, 1800' up, 1800' down, and still smiling. Test successful, and under a full moon to boot!

Footrace

On Friday, I drove out to Fruita for the Desert RATS Spring Festival with fellow racer Caroline. I was nervous about my first running race, 50 miles of rocky, rugged singletrack along the Colorado River canyon just west of Fruita. At 6:30 the next morning, a big crowd (the biggest crowd I've been a part of at a start line in years) slowly took off down a dirt road. Most people were talking and laughing as we approached the first long climb, though a few more focused individuals worked hard to make their way toward the front.

Photo by Chris Gerber

I hung out with a group of other Boulder runners for the first hour before we gradually spread out. Pairs or small groups of runners reformed and subsequently fell apart as the terrain changed, suiting one person's abilities or legs a bit better. Sometimes there was entertaining conversation within these groups, sometimes simple small talk, and sometimes silence. I caught up to Chris Gerber on the long climb out of the aid station at 19 miles as my legs finally started to have some good sensations. We ran together to the turnaround, getting passed in the opposite direction by the leaders who had already hammered out a 7-mile gap in front of us! The first lap took just over 4.5 hours, and I headed out for the second with a handful of peanut butter and jelly tortillas. I felt strong on the climb up Mack's Ridge and caught another runner. We spent a couple hours together, and I was glad to have company as the course was far lonelier with the 25-mile runners no longer out there.

Photo by Chris Gerber

The scenery started to fade away as the day warmed up and my concentration began to focus more on steadily moving forward, drinking, and eating when my stomach would allow it. I slowly caught a few runners as they battled cramps and stomach problems, and each time we'd chat for a bit, encouraging one another on. Eventually I reached the final aid station, filled up on water, ate some cookies, got some encouraging words from the two volunteers, and took off up the final climb. Running was still possible on the lower parts, but as it got steeper, I ended up walking almost everything. Passing mountain bikers cheered me on, and by the high point, the finish line was in sight, far below and a few miles away. My feet, especially my left one, were starting to get pretty sore, and that particular descent is steep, rocky, and loose, which didn't help things any. But before too long, I slowly ran up the last rise and cross the finish line, where ~20 spectators clapped and cheered for me after 10 hours, 20 minutes. The winner finished in an astounding 7:13, setting a new course record. I stood and ate watermelon for a while, and then sat down in the shade, all my muscles on the verge of cramping if I moved in a way they did not like. Not long after, Caroline finished, knocking something like 90 minutes off her time from last year and taking 4th in the womens field! Fred Wilkinson, fellow mountain bike ultra enthusiast, also finished his first 50-miler here!

Running is still a fairly new endeavor for me, but the suffering, nutrition (or lack thereof), and mental battles of ultra racing are familiar enough after the past couple years that my biggest concerns going into the race were whether or not my muscles would carry me for 50 miles and if a few minor injuries would flare up and force me to play it smart and bow out early. It turns out that the muscles did fine (that's not to say they didn't scream in pain from time to time), and the little injuries didn't really complain during the race. A few hours later, as I stumbled around, the outside of my left foot started to get rather sore around the peroneal tendon. Today, while my leg muscles feel surprisingly good, the tendon is still pretty tender, so there's not going to be any running for a little while.

Yesterday, after sleeping for many hours, another sunny day greeted us, and we made use of the road bikes we ambitiously brought along and rode through Colorado National Monument.


I had heard many great things about the Rim Road, and while walking hurt, riding was pretty painless for both of us. The roads were quiet, the pace mellow, the views splendid, and after a long, gradual climb, there was an exciting descent back off the plateau. And after the ride, my legs and foot felt far better than below. Pedaling is magical like that.


All in all, it was a very enjoyable weekend. Now to decide on what to do about the next weekend...

Rewards

On Friday evening, I rode north across town and stared ahead at the foothills. Winter seemed like a distant memory as the breeze blew threw my shirt. The sun had just set, but the air was still surprisingly warm, and there was no sign of snow where I was looking. I decided it was worth venturing up a little higher in the hills to check on the status of my favorite trails.

Unfortunately, what I failed to really take into consideration that the north-facing slopes are all still snow-covered. Yesterday morning I put my Lenz in the car and drove up higher. The road to the trails still had ice across it on spots. I wasn't encouraged. I parked and surveyed the first section of the 2-track climb. There was some snow, but there were also some long patches of dirt. I laughed a bit, knowing I'd probably end up turning my bike around before too long and heading to lower trails instead. But to my surprise, the snow was frozen solid, so I was able to ride almost the entire climb up to the singletrack. And then the singletrack was almost entirely rideable except for a few drifts. I grinned as I plodded up the steep switchbacks in the warm Spring sun. I had plans to head down to the lower loop, which had some good south-facing sections of trail.

First I found this...


The snow became progressively deeper, and I post-holed for a bit. I was still smiling, thinking of the great trail I'd be on soon. Then the snow deepened, its crusty surface gnawing at my shins with each step. My smile began to fade. An hour later I arrived at the saddle, and I was surrounded by snow. My plan was foiled. I turned and headed downhill to bail to the nearest south-facing slope. It has a good trail at the base, and after 30 minutes of post-holing, periodically riding/surfing, and then returning to post-holing, I arrived at the end of the snow and excitedly rode the lower stretch of the descent.

I did a little exploring and found a faint trail I hadn't previously noticed. That right turn eventually lead to a most remarkable find.


A 1000-foot, south-facing slope with an amazing trail - well constructed switchbacks, water bars, spectacular lines through gardens of tall granite knobs, and views completely new to me. The grin was back, and I climbed. And climbed. And climbed. And climbed. Turning the bike around and flying down this trail would more than justify the 90 minutes of trudging through the snow.


Eventually the trail leveled out on the shoulder of the ridge and snaked around the back side. Snow drifts crept out from below some of the spruce trees, signaling the end of my climbing for the day. My bike eagerly spun around and pointed back down toward the valley far below. The descent is a thing of beauty, rare among the trails of the Front Range, carving a graceful route down the steep and rugged side of the mountain. Near the bottom, rather out of breath, I encountered three riders coming up. Despite not wanting to break out of the zone I had been in, I stopped to talk. The first rider of these three was the genius responsible for building this trail, and he explained to me where it lead, and to where the spurs connect. Incredible. As we headed off in opposite directions, there were invitations to ride later and promises to not divulge the location of this trail to others.

I eagerly await my next chance to ride up there.

Today I ended up with plans to head out with Tressa, a runner I met a couple weeks ago. We each wanted to run for 3-4 hours, but with the beautiful spring weather and good company, three hours came and went before I even thought to check on the time. Vultures soared above us in thermals while we danced our way down rocky descents, and the sun reflected strongly off the snow across which we tentatively passed, occasionally breaking through and sinking deeply. Four hours stretched to five. Everyone we passed was smiling, their dogs chasing one another excitedly. Five hours quickly turned to six, and we soon found ourselves back at our starting point. The inviting green grass next to the trailhead was covered with picnic blankets and kids throwing footballs and frisbees. I can't say I wasn't a little disappointed to get in my car to drive home.

It feels like cheating when training is this much fun. Or rather, it doesn't feel like training at all. If this continues, another amazing summer is just around the corner.

Stubborn snow.

Melt, dang you!

Healed?

My brain is functioning slowly today. So is my body. My physical therapist also noticed this as I arrived a few minutes late for my appointment:

"I was wondering where you were. It's not like you to be late."

"I'm sorry. I completely forgot about this until I was supposed to be here," I replied, slightly short of breath from racing up to campus from my office.

"You also look like you didn't take an easy week last week. You still look kinda ragged," Annie continued. She's quite good at guessing what I did since I last saw her with a single glance. I think that's a sign I've been going to PT for too long.

And it's true. The weekend beat me up a little. And my recovery weeks are still seeing some big hours despite 3 days of actual rest. On Friday I ran with some crazies that were running their age in miles up and down Mt. Sanitas. I joined them for a bit, completing 7 "years." They were a fun crew.

Photo by Pete Stevenson

Saturday featured an awesome (but windy) run up to Nederland, followed by huge and incredibly tasty calzones at Neo's with ultrarunner Caroline. I ask her lots of naive running-related questions, and she tries to deny that mountain biking on the trails we were running on would be at least as much fun.

Taking the lesser-used trail to Ned

Yesterday included a bit more running and then some good riding on dry dirt at Heil and Hall with a few friends. The trails were rather crowded, but everyone was smiling and enjoying the warm, sunny weather. Dan also I think managed to convince me that I need to head to Arizona in a few weeks, so my mind has started to ponder a few new pieces of gear required for that endeavor.

But the most positive thing to come out of the past few weeks is that my knee seems to have just about fully recovered from the Divide. The week in Moab was the big test, but the tendonitis didn't flare up at all even after my biggest training week since the Divide. But to get here, it took 9 months, a dozen or more PT appointments, an orthopedic specialist, one MRI, and a tremendous amount of patience and restraint. Let's hope for an injury-free spring!