I thought I had to have been the first mother to complete the full Arizona Trail Race or AZTR. I was wrong. John Schilling, AZTR race director, kindly informed me that there have been several BA mamas' that came before me, Nevertheless, I'm glad that my hubris kept me going with the idea that I might be the first mom and I was proud to be the only mommy to make it to the end this year.
I attempted my first first bikepacking race in 2018. And while I was officially a scratch, I did complete the entire Colorado Trail in seven and a half days (with an 18 hour detour to the emergency room). I was competitive in that race before the injury, and despite the scratch, I had an incredible experience. Since then I've completed roughly a dozen bikepacking ultras, some of them winter ultras. This niche of a niche sport is still very young, but I consider myself experienced and I like to fancy that I'm competitive.

This year, according to Trackleaders, 54 racers signed up for some version of the AZTR (including the father son duo of Rich and James (aged 53 and 13 years respectively). Attrition for the full 800 course was nearly 50%. I was the 15th out of 17 finishers of the 800 course and the third female (out of three).

I think Brad B was the first person to ask me why: What makes anyone, let alone the mother of a toddler, want to do an 837 mile, 100,000 feet of vertical, hike-a-bike across Arizona? Brad wouldn't be the last to inquire about what the appeal was for me. And although I'm still wrestling with understanding my reasons, I think the motivation is a small part altruistic: I want to inspire other mothers and daughters to do really hard things. But its largely selfish motivation: I want to feel the life-altering Zen of interconnectedness and smallness that I get from pushing myself past my perceived limits. Having to deal with tangible adversity (eg: carrying a bike across the Grand Canyon after roughly 700 miles of pushing and riding some truly rugged terrain) while also experiencing true hunger (I lost 8-9 pounds in 11.5 days) and the impaired mental state that pure exhaustion and sleep deprivation, can put me into a state of mind that is impossible to put into words, and a little bit addictive. 

Critter encounter tally:

• four or five coatimundi
• two small packs of javalina
• half a dozen kit foxes
• one lonely scorpion
• a handful of cute lil' tarantula and one or two bigguns
• a coyote
• several road runners
• countless playful pygmy owls (or maybe just one who I saw over and over again?)
• 100's of sparkle-eyed wolf spiders
• three snakes, (maybe one of which was a stunned triangle-headed rattler)
• three skunks, (two of which pointed their spray-holes at me)
• a buzzilion giant grasshopper-locusts (many of which seemed to be mating)

I had about 2 hours before the weather was predicted to become SEVERE. These storms had been occurring for the past week since the seasonal “monsoon” began in Flagstaff. A similar storm had caught me at the end of a big training ride 7 days ago. Not particularly concerned, I threw a lightweight layer in my hip pack in case I got caught again. I also wore mismatched shoes and kneepads, as this would be the ride that sorted out what kit I would wear for the Colorado Trail Race (CTR) Grand Depart (GD) in 3 days time. I felt strong on the climb and was delighted to see that all the rain was filling up Schultz Tank, a seasonal pond at the top of the pass. At that moment there was rolling thunder and tall dark clouds in all directions. I continued to climb up a forested ridge. I didn't think much of the rain as it began to fall in fat, heavy drops. You can't be sad about rain when you live in the high desert during a 30+ yearlong drought. 
I paused at a trail junction on the ridge to make sure that I wanted to turn left down what I thought was Sunset trail. As I was confirming on my phone's navigation app ... KA-CRACK-BOOM!!!! An earth-shaking explosion occurred about 30 yards to my left. White, electric lightning shot from the tree to the sky with a bright orange fireball at the base. ​

​My heart rate was instantly elevated. My vision narrowed as I was mounted on my bike and peddling down the ridge with an animalistic fear that was motivating me without much input from my frontal lobe. I enduro'd down Sunset trail in a heavy downpour, slowly becoming aware of the situation and the fact that I was alright and that the biggest threat was actually my chaotic and fearful riding in the saturated trail conditions. A doe crossed the trail in front of me, zigzagging erratically and I felt like I was looking in the mirror. Eventually, I rolled home into the garage and watched the storm from the safety of the house, snuggling and comforting Tucker and Sucia as they trembled and buried their furry little heads in the crook of my elbow with each new strike. I tried my best not to startle with every flash of lightning, but I couldn't keep my heart from racing. This fear and anxiety was a foreign and unwelcome feeling. 
Four days later, it was about 6pm on Sunday, day one of the CTR. The thunder had been gradually increasing in volume and frequency for the past hour, ever since we'd crested Blackhawk Pass. Katie and the rest of the ladies were somewhere, not far behind me. Alexandera was doing her thing, marching alongside her bike, a few hundred yards ahead. In between Alexandera and I, there were 3 or 4 guys, following the brisk pace she was setting.  This small group eventually crested a ridge and gathered in a flat spot beside the trail where we had a nice view of the violent skies to our east. There seemed to be some divergence in the previous consensus of continuing on. I felt the need to share with the small group my experience 4 days earlier with the lightning strike back in Flagstaff. For the past few days I had been researching about lightning and strike victims and I was quite nervous. Alexandera acknowledged the early hour and said there was no sense in camping so soon and carried on in her usual manner. I followed suit. Contrary to the typical, evidence-based logic that I like to abide by, I thought to myself, Safety in numbers?
The storm seemed to be focused on the next ridge over, which happened to be in the direction we were headed, toward Molas Pass. I elected to camp and had a soggy few hours of rest, but sleep proved elusive. This is typical for the first night of a big race. Too much excitement and not enough exhaustion to fall asleep in the dirt.

​The next day found me cruising quickly through Silverton (I carried more than enough to not need to resupply), stopping only for a banana and a can of espresso to have as a treat later in the day. I mashed on my granny gear up Stony Pass, stubbornly pedaling as much as I could. This was the Cataract Lakes segment of the Colorado Trail and it would lead up and over Coney Summit, the high point at 13,271 feet elevation). I would be above treeline and exposed to the elements for the next 8+ hours. Luck was on my side: despite the fact that it rained off and on all day long, there was no electricity in the air and the rare thunder rumble was far off in the distance. My sleep system was still soggy from the night before and when I laid down in a dewy meadow, I proceeded to shiver for several hours, with only brief, elusive lapses in consciousness before dawn.  

​The following day I realized that I needed a proper night's sleep when I discovered that I had left my water purification tablets in the grass next to Spring Creek, some 30 miles behind me. I had also dropped about 1,000 calories worth of Wheat Thins somewhere on the trail. Self-care would need to be prioritized if I were to have any chance of finishing in one piece. This was day 3 and it would be the only day that didn't rain on me. That night I slept well for about 3 hours just below Marshall Pass. I think that was the closest I got to catching Alexandera. At this point, I had burned into my mind the image of her shoe tread and I was riding/hiking in her footprints. I had imaginary conversations with her and others. It had been days since I had seen any other racers in more than a passing way.

*REWIND* CTR2018- I had been riding with my 3 new friends, Alexandera, Artec and Jim for the past few days. Somehow, our paces were very well matched and it felt like we were pushing one another to be faster and more efficient. We made it up and over the High Point under threatening skies and were about to begin the Cataract section when Jim whipped out a can of Coca Cola that he was happy to share. Moments later, I had crashed and torn open my right knee. I went from feeling surrounded by happiness, friends and success to feeling very alone and broken. Nevertheless, these new friends helped bandage my knee and stayed near while I struggled through the next 30 miles. 

I know a lot of folks sign up for the CTR looking for solitude. That was never my intention. I'm a social creature and I gain a lot of strength and mental fortitude from being around others. I lined up at the GD, expecting that soon I would have collected a new friend or two. The who of my new friend(s) would be determined by how fast and efficient I was this year.

​The first day out of Durango, I yo-yo'd with Mark, a financial guru from the front range. Later in the day, I was riding a bit with Cristina and Felipe and Alexandera and Katie. The next morning I leap-frogged with Corie on the way into Silverton. Everything seemed to be sorting itself out nicely.
After leaving Silverton, I spent the next 5 ½ days riding largely by myself. There are a lot of people out on the Colorado Trail this year; mostly thru-hikers and bikepack tourers. I did occasionally have brief conversations with these fine folks, but it usually consisted of chat about superficial topics such as weather and water sources. I didn't get to bare my soul or make any meaningful connections. I was my own companion. I listened to a lot of music and podcasts and I tried my hardest to internally motivate myself. If you had told me beforehand about how much alone time I was about to endure during the 2021 CTR, I would have been anxious and afraid. 

Segment 1 of the Colorado Trail, the final segment before arriving in Waterton Canyon is burly. Its even burlier at the end of a 30 hour effort, soaking wet and cold in the wee hours of the night. It felt like I was descending a long enduro stage through a creek bed in a Mexican jungle. The foliage was thick, green and heavy with rain. The flora created a tunnel that was just the right height for my front wheel to ride beneath. However, the saturated leaves and branches repeatedly pummeled my face and body. My headlamp finally surrendered at the bottom of the technical rock garden leaving me to negotiate the smoother singletrack and the road in the dark. 
As I started cruising down the road, I was most excited to crawl into the van and give into the sleep that my brain and body were screaming for. The grade of the road was just steep enough that I didn't have to pedal. Without a proper light, it was dark and I felt lulled by the prospect of being done soon. I had frequent lapses in consciousness and each time I worried I might actually fall asleep and crash my bike.  I had some battery left on my cell phone, so I blasted music as loud as it would go and held my cell phone up with the flashlight on to illuminate the dark road in front of me. I started to stand up and "dance" in the saddle to keep myself from falling asleep. When I eventually arrived at the trailhead, Matt was hooting and hollering in an empty parking lot where I crawled into the van and quickly collapsed into oblivion. 

Six days earlier, as I was rolling through Silverton, I read a sign outside the town store: 
"Fear does not stop death, its stops life. 
Worrying does not take away tomorrow's troubles, it takes away today's peace."
This morning as I was cleaning my bike and making it ride-worthy again, I noticed the quote etched onto to the chainstay:
"If it scares you, it might be a good thing to try."
I went into the 2021 CTR with a lot of fears. Some that I was aware of and some that I hadn't realized that I was carrying. Looking back, I am pleased with how I dealt with my fears and the growth I experienced while on the trail. I look forward to next year and seeing what the CTR has in mind for me next time. 

Congratulations to all the racers, through-hikers and bike tourers that have tackled any amount of the CT this year- it was a doozy. 

Number of times Matt asked Leigh, "Where are we?"

Three times. Each time my response was the same, "Arizona." We moved here from Eastern Washington about a week before the start of the race and I had every intention of really studying the course, making cue sheets and planning out our resupply strategy and stops. But somewhere in the chaos of buying/selling a house, the ordeal of moving and my parents flying into town just before the start, the pre-race planning really got put on the back burner and we were sort of "racing blind." But what a great way to get to know our new neighborhood! 

Coyotes sited: 5

Coyotes are so cool! It was rad to see them run across the trail in front of us, several times. Matt even spotted a cluster of 3 coyotes working together on a hunt. I highly recommend Coyote America, by Dan Flores if you want to know more about this wise, old, American creature. 

Total hours slept: 10 1/2 ish

After my recent experience on the Cross Washington route, I was very hesitant to push through too hard without sleep. So our first night of P&P, I was eager to give in to the sleepiness that I felt around 11pm. It can be surprisingly challenging to find a suitable place to bed down for the night on a dark, desert road in strong winds. We eventually settled on a flattish piece of dirt next to some rocks.
There was a 20% chance of rain predicted for the first night, which seemed like a very slight chance to us. Other than that, sunny skies and a wide range of temperatures, lows in the 40's in Flagstaff and highs in the 80's in Camp Verde. I opted to pack a few light layers and a buff for extra warmth and Matt followed suit. We decided not to bring a tent, or a tarp, or a bivy of any kind. We set down our sleep pads and curled up under a down quilt. We had a clear view of the half moon and a few stars, so I was a little surprised when I felt the first sprinkle on my face. I had dozed for about half an hour when it started to actually rain. We quickly packed up before our down quilt got completely soaked and begrudgingly got back on our bikes. 
Matt found a cluster of pinyon trees that looked like they might provide shelter if any more rain came through, but I was optimistic that it was all done. After all, we could still see the moon and we were in the desert. The rain continued, intermittently light and then stronger. The pinyons provided some shelter for a few hours before we packed up and started riding again. I was quickly impressed with the desert rain's ability to soak both our bodies and the soil, which quickly turned to peanut butter. Matt and I were lucky that we managed to avoid the worst of the mud, but we both were stopped when our bikes became so bogged down with muck that our wheels stopped turning. Yuck.
After the first day, I felt like I couldn't really catch up with the lost hours of sleep. Our second night we faired much better, despite quite a bit of shivering, we had a lovely camp. We got up super early and came across another racer camped beside the trail around 2:30am. We later learned that it was Alexandera! Sorry for shining our lights in your eyes. I thought that when the sun came up that I would be magically revived, but that was not the case. Luckily, Matt was of the same mind and he deployed the down quilt one last time in the first sun beam we came upon and we enjoyed a 45 minute nap in the dirt together. 

Number of times that Leigh was blown off of her bike: once

The weather was predicted to be windy. Like over 50 mph gusts and HIGH WIND ADVISORY warnings flashing on construction signs in Flagstaff the day before the race start. For the most part, we didn't suffer too terribly from the wind on our first day. At times it was even nice to have the breeze. 
Our second day out, the wind situation escalated after we climbed out of Pine and up onto the Mogollon Rim. The views were dramatic as we rode on the Rim Road. The valley below was over 3,000 feet below us and we were excited to be back on the Colorado Plateau. We quickly learned that the views and the elevation came with a price: incredibly strong wind gusts! We snaked up and down and with every bend or hill crest on the Rim Road, we would lean our bikes into the wind. During one of the particularly heinous wind gusts I found that leaning wasn't enough and I was knocked over sideways. I was able to unclip and land on my feet and brace my bike against the onslaught. I stood there stunned for a moment before slowly trudging on. Needless to say, the Rim Road was not my favorite section of the ride, despite the amazing views. 


​Number of cheeseburgers consumed: 5

Our order at McDonald's in Camp Verde was impressive and included one quarter pounder, 4 McDoubles, 2 McNuggets and large fry. You'd be surprised how delightful a soggy, cold McDouble can be the next morning in the rain. We also ate a tasty sandwich in Jerome that was accompanied by WATERMELON slices and we had the most amazing pre-made, microwaved Philly Cheesesteak sandwich from Mary's Lake Store. Mary's Lake Store sells more fishing lures and supplies than they do sandwiches, but that didn't bother us. Other than that, we ate a lot of gummies and bars. 

​Elk sitings: approximately 27

Matt asked me if I could smell the elk in the early am hours on the AZT. Shortly after that we disturbed a small herd of elk on the trail. I'm still not sure if Matt was joking or if he really could smell them?

Number of crashes: 0

This was a big fear of mine. Lets just say that I've learned from the little bit of bikepack racing that I've done. Some crashes may be unavoidable, but some crashes may be the results of choices made. Hopefully our zero crash count was due to good choices. 

Number of nights we slept in a porta potty: 0

We did share a breakfast of cold coffee and chocolate doughnuts inside a nice, clean, National Forest pit toilet. It was at least 20 degrees warmer inside the toilet structure, out of the wind and dry. We both wished that we had slept there, but we had to push on. 

Snake sitings: 1 

​We only saw one coiled danger noodle that we quickly scooted past during some fast highway miles. I think it was too cold to move. Or dead. From the cold.

Flat tires: 0

This actually surprised me. I fully expected those sharp rocks to eat our tires right up. Especially while I hacked my way along Sycamore Ridge. But the rubber held and we had zero flats!

​Mechanical problems: 3

Just as Matt and I were nearing Flagstaff, 20 miles from the finish, mechanical mayhem began to ensue. First Matt broke a spoke. Then Leigh noticed a wobble in her drivetrain and almost dropped a crank. Then Matt broke the adjacent spoke and we had some serious trepidation that his entire rear wheel might explode on the AZT and we would have to scratch or hike the last 10 miles to the finish. Luckily Matt was able to nurse his way home very gently and we managed to avoid hikes and scratches. 

Mistakes we made: several

​We only missed a few turns and even then we quickly realized our errors. Obviously we should have brought some sort of a rain shelter. We probably should have studied the route a bit better. Then we would have known that we really needed to load up with extra calories in Pine before heading back out. But then it would have been less of an adventure. One mistake we didn't make was choosing the wrong adventure buddies. We were a pretty stinking fun team (emphasis on stinking ;).

Total racers: 53

There were 48 of us signed up on Trackleaders and 5 of them were duo teams. About 20 people scratched which seems like a crazy high attrition rate. Matt and I were the first duo to finish and the 7th and 8th overall finishers. 

Total elapsed time: 59 hours, 20 minutes

On Trackleaders, our average pace was about 5 mph, which includes all the time we were stopped to eat, sleep and filter water. 

Miles ridden: 302

The total elevation was somewhere around 25,000 feet of climbing. We started and finished at home, and with our few missed turns we actually clocked 315 miles on my Garmin. 

One in 3 seniors dies with Alzheimer's or another dementia. I don't know about you, but I'm not getting any younger. At some point in my life, I will be affected by Alzheimer's; either as a patient or a caregiver. My great-grandmother suffered from Alzheimer's disease and I see patients on a regular basis that are no longer able to care for themselves due to this debilitating brain disease. Having Alzheimer's is a big fear of mine and I want to do everything I can to prevent any possible future demise of my memories and thoughts due to a devastating, progressive and terminal disease. 
​
But what does that have to do with me riding across the state of Washington? 
​
According to the Alzheimer's Research and Prevention Foundation, regular physical exercise can help reduce your risk of developing Alzheimer's disease by up to 50%. ​And I wanted to fundraise for a cause that was important to me, because that would help me to feel some external motivation to finish the ride.

​An ITT (individual time trial) is very different from the bikepack racing that I've done in the past. Typically, we set out in a GD (grand depart) when all of the competitors start at the same time in one mass start. This leads to lots of bonding, commiserating and sharing of knowledge along the way as there are always other riders around. During an ITT, there is a lot of alone time and nobody to share your extra snacks with. It can be a lot easier to doubt oneself and more difficult to motivate to push harder. 

I very much wanted to race the XWA (Cross Washington) with the GD in 2020. Due to a series of unfortunate events (global pandemic, devastating wildfires) it was not meant to be. I would like to be able to join the XWA 2021, but as we are moving to Flagstaff, Arizona this month, that would also not work out. Alas, I was able to rearrange my work schedule (thanks awesome co-workers!) to get a week off before the mover's were scheduled to show up. My amazing husband was willing to give up his weekend to drop me off on the coast. I reached out to Troy Hopwood, the creator of the XWA route, who was most obliging by addressing my concerns regarding the heavy snowpack that the Cascades had received this year. He quickly drafted an alternate route that shaved off the highest passes across the state and would be more viable this early in the year. 
It seemed that all of the stars were aligned and I would be granted the opportunity to bid farewell to Washington in my favorite way.

My first day went quite well. I knew it would be rainy on the Olympic Peninsula, which is typical in the temperate rainforest along the coast. As I peddled away from the Pacific, I had to be careful not to squish frogs or slugs in my path. The going was fairly easy and I managed to make it quite far. I was delighted to find more singletrack than I expected and I even met a fellow bikepacker, Michael Palmer (@bichaelmalmer on Insta) who was out for a day ride on the Olympic Adventure Trail. He is attempting to ride his bike from Florida to Alaska- and is already a good chunk of the way there!
Eventually, I had to stop to sleep, still on the Olympic Peninsula, which was shy of my goal for the day, but was still a decent start to a long ride. 
​149.8 miles, 9,044 ft of climbing in 18 hours. 

The second day of my ride I got rolling around 4am. The Kitsap Peninsula brought more sections of winding trail and singletrack than I had realized from route studying, which seemed to be a theme that was developing. Eventually I found my way to the Kingston-Edmonds ferry.  The riding through Seattle, although (again) much more trail and singletrack than I had anticipated, was quite steep in places and required a lot of hike-a-biking. After I was through Seattle, the miles seemed to pass by much more quickly and I rolled into North Bend earlier than I thought I would. It seemed too soon to stop for the night at 730pm, so after a quick chat with Matt, I decided to push through the next 30ish miles to Snoqualmie Pass and treat myself to a hotel room. I figured it would take about 3.5 hours to get there, which would make for a good, solid day's effort.
Naturally I missed a turn, which was no big deal, but added an hour to my day. The alternate route that Troy had devised dropped me down the most techy singletrack of the entire ride, and was quite delightful. Then I cruised along Denny Creek, slowly regaining the elevation that I had just lost, until ... I found snow. It was still fairly warm out (probably mid 40's), despite the fact that the sun had long since set and the moon was bright and shining. This made for soft snow that was slow and tiring to walk through. At first I was pushing/dragging my heavily burdened bike. This proved to be more effort than just putting the bike on my shoulders and slogging through the snow. But it also meant that I would occasionally punch through and post-hole up to my crotch. In short, what was supposed to take about 3.5 hours, ended up taking twice that, and was one of my most physically demanding days, ever. I did eventually make it to the hotel and was showered and horizontal just after 3am. 
134.8 miles, 9409 feet of climbing in 23 hours

The next two days were pretty hunky dory. 
The riding down from Snoqualmie Pass would have been nearly impossible (similar to the previous night) due to snow. I took the advice of a friendly bikepacker named Todd and rode on the shoulder of the interstate for about 10 miles. It wasn't as bad as I feared, but I vastly prefer dirt to highway. 
Overall, that day was a rest/recovery day. I managed 76.8 miles, 1813 feet of climbing in 12 hours. I also had a burger, fries and a blizzard at Dairy Queen in Ellensburg. I was enjoying my indulgence and recharging my electronic gizmos when a father and little girl (let's call her Mintberry Shortcake) tried to enter Dairy Queen. I had passed them on the ride through town and recognized her braided pigtails and their matching father-daughter skateboards. Sadly, dad had forgotten to bring masks and DQ was not going to be flexible about their policy. Poor little Mintberry burst into tears at the news and I sprung into action, taking their orders outside and bringing them their frozen treats. Mintberry, like myself, prefers a mint oreo blizzard. Her tears magically evaporated and she got to work on that blizzard like she was as determined to finish it as I was to ride my bike across the state.
That night was the best sleep I had during the entire ride- as reflected in the following day's numbers. Between Ellensburg and Ephrata were arguably the 2 biggest climbs and most awe-inspiring scenery in Washington. The Colockum Wildlife Area treated me to short patches of firm snow, amazing views, long, rocky descents and oodles of elk. I received a big morale boost when a fellow gravel rider joined me for a few miles on the way into Wenatchee. Shiggy is well-known on the Washington long-distance cycling circles and I was stoked to finally meet such a nice guy! The canyon had about a half a dozen creek crossings that at first were charming, but became quickly tiresome.  The process of taking off shoes and socks and wading across the creek with my bike and then drying my feet off to put shoes and socks back on was time consuming and daylight was quickly fading. Eventually I tried scrambling/jumping across the creek which of course resulted in soggy feet. At the next crossing, I tried just riding across and my feet were of course soaked. We're talking water-sloshing-inside-the-shoes-soaked. I stopped to pour the water out of the shoes and wring out my socks. No time saved with that move. The next crossing I elected to angrily throw my shoes & socks across the creek as this would save me the additional step of attaching the shoes to my bike. Well, one of the socks that was hastily shoved into the shoe went flying into the tall grass along the creek. This lead to my stomping around in the tall, wet grass for about 10 minutes in the dark- much longer than it would have taken me to just attach the shoes to my bike as I had been doing. But eventually, I was able to recover my stinky, soggy, sock.
After 114.2 miles, 9255 feet of climbing during 19 hours of effort, I parked my bike behind the bathroom building in the Lion's Park in Ephrata and closed my eyes after shoving my shriveled feet inside my sleeping bag. About an hour later, the most powerful sprinkler system known to man started jetting water up and over the roof of the building, directly onto my sleeping bag (and me). I thought I was under some sort of attack and sprang out of my bag and tried to make sense of where I was and what was happening. Moments later, the sprinkler cycle returned and sprayed more water onto the now vacant sleeping bag and my brain clicked to ON. I grabbed the soggy bag and pad (I had not set up my waterproof bivy as there was 0% chance of rain forecast) and relocated it 5 ft to the other side of my bike. I then contemplated life choices for about 12 seconds before crawling back into my now soggy sleeping bag, where I proceeded to shiver and startle for the next several hours until the pre-dawn birds started to chirp and it was time to pack up in the dark and start pedaling. 

I left Ephrata planing on a solid day of riding and hoping that I might make it all the way before stopping again. I made decent time through Moses Lake, but after that the trail surface deteriorated and I felt like I was riding through sand. And then, I was actually riding through sand. Sand dunes in Washington, who knew?
The weather continued to be absolutely perfect, until I arrived in Warden. The town of Warden, Washington is probably not the prettiest place I've ever ridden. There were feed lots and tumble weed and a gas station with a nice porta-potty. But I did encounter Travis, a friendly Washington State Parks ranger just outside of Warden. He had some sound advice about the coming segments, including where to find water in a pinch, where the burned up trestles were and how to bipass around them. His last words were, "Be safe, its a desert out there." Soon I understood what he meant. Temps were forecast in the eighties, but it felt hotter than that. There was no shade and the dark rock surface of the trail absorbed the heat and felt like it was baking me from below. Additionally, there were some gnarly sections of impassable trail that were entirely clogged with tumbleweed. This required me to schlep my bike up a steep, sandy and erosion-prone embankment to exit the trail and bushwhack past the clog. When I would try to navigate some of the shorter clogs, the tumbleweed violently scrapped my legs and became entangled in my wheels and drivetrain. 
Eventually I was through the worst of the tumbleweed, desert and the shadows grew long as the light grew golden. I had arrived on the Palouse at golden hour and it was a huge emotional boost to be back on my home turf. Green and gold, rolling, pastoral hills and bright yellow canola fields are familiar scenes during my typical gravel rides from home and were a very welcome sight. I called Matt as I was approaching Ritzville, thinking I would ride through the night and be home in the morning, just a few short hours away. The milkshake, sandwich and fries in Ritzville were amazing, but a few hours later, the air was growing dank and cold and I was looking for a place to catch up on my shut eye after only about 125 miles, 3000ish ft and  19 hours of effort.  I was able to sleep soundly for about 2 hours before a very loud train came close to my chosen bivy site, causing me to feel intensely awake and ready to ride. 

My fifth day on the XWA would be my last day. It was Friday and I had to get home and get busy making the house ready for movers. My final sunrise was another incredible light show as the birds began to sing and then the sky turned all the shades of violet, pink and orange.
I was enjoying the constantly rolling hills of the Palouse when low and behold, another bikepacker was headed my way. This turned out to be Tucker. He had set out the previous day from Tekoa, Washington on the full XWA route and was unaware of the snow issues ahead. I was elated to see another bikepacker and wished him luck as well as promising to share my route data as soon as I returned to cell-service. He reminded me of the 3 burned trestles on the route near Pine City and Malden and I assured him that I knew to detour around the devastated towns.
Well somehow I botched that and when I came to the first blackened trestle, I realized that the sleep deprivation was probably starting to affect my brain's executive functions more than I was aware. I also realized that I would have to do some negotiating with fences and a creek crossing to escape the trail and detour onto roads. I decided that the straightest line to Rosalia would be the best detour, and found myself on delightful gravel, albeit VERY steep hills. My knees were starting to develop some telltale lateral pains. When I pulled into Rosalia I sat myself down in a local diner and had a heaping dose of french fries and coffee to help motivate me through the last stretch. 
The coffee and fries did little to revive me. At this point, it was becoming difficult to walk in a straight line, let alone mount and dismount the bike. There were some wind gusts to contend with  and I elected to forgo the victory lap around Tekoa to the state line and back, telling myself that I didn't want to keep my driver waiting. Jennifer graciously offered to pick me up on her way to Spokane after her last ever day of grad school. That last day ended up being 85.5 miles, 3484 feet in about 14 hours. The lack of sleep seemed to dramatically affect my performance. 

It turns out that sleep deprivation might feel a lot like Alzheimer's disease and may even be a cause. Early Alzheimer's symptoms include difficulty with executive brain function including attentiveness, short-term memory and vocabulary. Patients also experience problems with executive movements and coordination. Other than some rare genetic causes, we still don't know exactly what causes Alzheimer's disease. One of the many hypotheses (Inflammatory hypothesis) suggests that sleep problems and disturbances lead to chronic inflammation and may be a cause of Alzheimer's. Other probable risk factors include female gender, smoking, and head injuries.
Although it was not my intent to ride the XWA in such a sleep deprived state, by doing so, I felt like I had a taste of what early Alzheimer's might feel like. I didn't like it. 

We managed to raise $1,185 for the Alzheimer's Association and I was able to ride about 665 miles and 35,800 feet of climbing. I'm incredibly grateful for all the support I received from everyone, especially, Troy Hopwood, Matt Bowe, Jennifer Cowgill and Shiggy Don Person. 

Exhaustion had set in suddenly. Not really the physical exhaustion (although there was that too), but the mental fatigue that comes from having absolutely no control over a situation. It was our fourth night out and I had wanted to stop to camp a few hours earlier, but it was dark and the rain was showing no signs of letting up. Our glasses were steamy with fog, and we couldn't see anywhere reasonable to make camp in the constant rain and deep, dark forest. Liz had insisted on looking for a more suitable location than the one I had suggested earlier. I had agreed, thinking that if we just waited long enough, surely the rain would stop and the sky would clear. Stars would come out and making camp would be so much easier. Although tired, I wasn't totally exhausted at that point, and pushing on had seemed like a good idea. Until I just couldn't go any further.
Eventually weariness also got the better of Liz and we settled on a flat pull out with an old fire ring. We disagreed on where precisely to set up the tarp. I feared that the viney, three-leafed plant that was covering the ground in places was poison oak. I may have just been sleep-drunk or loopy from the fatigue, but I was not willing to risk bedding down with toxic foliage. We squabbled briefly before I gave in to the exhaustion and allowed my mind to shut off and my eyelids to fall closed.

I doubt that there is a soul reading this that won't look back on 2020 as a life-defining year. This is the kind of year that makes a demarcation line in our lives: from now on, there will be memories of life before and life after 2020. Whether its the virus or the election or the fires, this year is going to be an historic one. For Liz and I, we were both fighting to make some sort of silver lining or at least a happy memory in a year that would otherwise be remembered with angst. We had each set our sites on the XWA (Cross Washington), a bikepacking race that spans roughly 700 miles from the Pacific Ocean to the Idaho border. It was postponed to September due to the pandemic. And then, days before the rescheduled start, an entire town, Malden, WA, pop. 203, burned to the ground, along with several sections of the trail on the XWA route. Combine that with the toxic air from ongoing fires raging in California, Oregon and Washington and the race director made the only call he could. There would be no XWA 2020.
Although it seems petty to whine about our race being cancelled when so many folks have just lost everything, its also human nature to mourn our own losses more than those of others. I had been preparing for the XWA race for over a year. Liz and I both felt like we'd lost something, but we would not take this one laying down. We hastily plotted our escape from the smoke filled skies and pointed the van towards the Olympic Peninsula. Although it was unhealthy while we made our plans, the air was predicted to be better out on the peninsula than anywhere else in two days.

We found a viable route on a XWA forum called the GCOR (Gravel Circumnavigation Olympic Route). It boasted a loop of about 450 miles with 40,000 ft of elevation. We decided to  be open to exploration and side trips. After all, we weren't racing.
Our first two days were pleasant in every way. We found a good deal of excellent singletrack. We spent some time with Tom and Donna at the Bike Garage in Port Angeles. Tom looks like a pirate but knows his way around bikes and the trails on the peninsula. His sister, Donna, is delightful and rides her townie to the bike shop everyday with her friendly pooch in the handlebar basket.
The air was initially hazy and smelled like a stale campfire, but it was dry and temperatures were mild. Liz and I happened upon an emu farm and munched on "Free Ground Apples." We conversed a great deal about not very much at all while we settled into the glorious pace of riding, eating, riding, eating and sleeping.  We shared deep secrets. We ate a lot of gas station junk food, which tasted absolutely amazing, hunger, being the best sauce, after all.
Eventually though, the fact that we were riding through a rain forest would have to catch up with us.
When we pulled into Forks on our third day, we were remarking on how clean and delicious the air smelled. Soon after that, the rain began as a light drizzle. I figured it couldn't last any longer than the next climb or descent. My blind optimism on the bike lead me to falsely believe that we would gradually climb and be above the clouds and out of the rain soon. Or, worst case scenario, we would have to ride through the rain, but in about 10 miles or so, we would be through it. Well, I was wrong. The drizzle intensified and persisted.
One night out in the rain makes for a good story. Two days in constant rain whilst bikepacking can be a test of character and friendship. Our feet had long since turned white and macerated and SMELLY. Every time I got out of the saddle to mash on the pedals, there would be a warm and wet squish inside my shoes. Liz's ultra-light rain jacket was dreadfully soaked through and water was running down her arms. My cheap rain pants were drenched to the point of being little more than extra weight. There was nothing that could keep our hands dry. We tried Gore-tex mittens, nitrile exam gloves and finally, simple bare hands on the slippery grips. The air was saturated with water which made it impossible to keep our sleeping bags from taking on some of the moisture when we finally had to stop to camp for the night. We were grateful that there wasn't a cold snap to contend with, but I wouldn't ever describe the Olympic Peninsula as a particularly warm place.
In the morning after that tumultuous and soggy fourth night, we reminisced about our mutually craptastic night's sleep and quickly forgot about our brief quarrel. Liz and I have had some dramatic struggles in the past and we were both a bit trepidatious about surviving the trip with our friendship intact. The challenging conditions certainly weren't helping matters. 
We did earn a respite on the coast. The wonderful thing about touring is that you can take your sweet time. We stopped and explored tidepools and looked for sea glass. I went for a short jog on the beach in order to get out to see anemones in tide pools before the surf came in, racing the high tide. Despite spending plenty of time on ocean beaches, I'd never had the chance to climb about a rocky shore like on the Olympic Peninsula coast. It was eerily beautiful and a welcome change from the hyper-green, dense forests. The trees along the coast were straight out of a Dr Seuss book!

The rain gradually let up as we pedaled east and further from the coast. I found several swimming holes and insisted on jumping into each of them. My rationale to Liz was hygiene, but honestly I just can't resist a dip in crystal clear waters. The sun came out near the top of one of our longest climbs, mid afternoon on our fourth day. We paused our steady ascent to devour leftover soggy burritos and cracker crumbs while attempting to dry out the tarp and our stinky socks. It felt incredibly invigorating to feel the warm sun again after those damp and overcast days. Fortune smiled at us and our last night out was mild and dry. The air quality was faintly smokey, with a hint of the salty and humid Puget Sound. We were camped in a state park above the tidelands on the eastern side of the peninsula and things felt very different. Pitching a tarp in a campground was downright luxurious after the previous two nights. There were bathrooms. The ground was flat. The spiders were polite. No poisonous plants. Life was good.
We made it back to the van on our fifth day and shared a lukewarm beer and aired out our feet while smiling and enjoying that good, tired feeling that you only get when you've survived mental and physical exhaustion for several days in order to return to perfect comfort.

Ride stats:
Mileage: 374
Feet of climbing: 32,870
Riding time: approx 38 hours
Animals seen: 1 seal, 5 emu, countless kamikazee frogs, 12 friendly slither noodles, 1 million slugs, 1 hairy spider, a dozen anemones

"Why would anyone want to do that?" "Who do you think you are you gonna get to show up?" "You're going to take them where?"

Obviously, my other half was not particularly enthusiastic with my plan to organize and lead a small group of women for a "beginner bikepacking trip." The fact that he doubted my sanity should have given me pause; I do have a history of jumping into things without thinking much about the logistics and potential consequences. But alas, when you love something as much as I love bikepacking (or backcountry skiing, or fatbiking or ... ), you are prone to thinking that everyone will love it just as much as you, if only they are given the opportunity to experience it.
Love is blind. And sometimes, logic is useless.

Somehow, four brave, strong and (most importantly) enthusiastic women signed up for the trip. Remarkably, none of them seemed to mind that I was making this trip up as I went.
Naturally, there were several setbacks.
Firstly, COVID19 happened and the majority of the humans in the world elected not to interact with each other as they were previously accustomed to doing. Despite the global pandemic, the Inland Northwest has seen very low infection rates thus far, and we were all comfortable being in a COVID-conscious, backcountry situation. We had to postpone the trip by about 3 months. The mid-summer trip date made it feasible to ride some much spicier terrain and ended up being a good thing. We set our destination for some alpine singletrack.
But then just as things were looking up, our chosen route had some last minute snowfall (seriously, in JULY!) and would not be clear in time for our ride dates. Serendipity smiled and I had the opportunity to scope out a nearby, backcountry trail network just before our departure date and with a little bit of internet research and a lot of local networking, managed to get enough trail beta to put together a viable alternate route.
Lastly, but perhaps most tragically of all, the huckleberry milkshake stand at the end of our ride was closed on Sundays and we would have to go without. After a long day on the trail, thinking of nothing but huckleberry milkshakes, this was a travesty that no amount of look-at-the-bright-sides could silver line. We're just going to have to go back up there and ride again soon so we can have our huckleberry ending!

Within moments of setting out, we had our first trail challenge when a fork-mounted cage decided to rattle into a front wheel, "CRUNCH!" The rider in front of me came to a grinding halt. Fortuitously, the rider was uninjured, as was her bike. The main casualty was the poor 'Anything' cage, which was crumpled and wedged beyond all belief between the front wheel and the fork. There was surprisingly little complaining or pessimism as we worked together to retrieve and repack her gear. After that, she was riding smoothly for the rest of the trip.
Throughout the day, one rider was consistently struggling with our pace. I chalked it up to a combination of fitness and low energy and the group did a lot of encouraging and waiting. Sadly, the solution to this situation didn't present itself until we were in camp and it became apparent that she had some SEVERE brake rub. New brake pads + a fully-loaded bike had combined to make her feel like she was riding in quicksand for 7 hours. After she adjusted her brakes that evening, she felt lighter than air (maybe just a slight exaggeration) and the group pace found a pleasant rhythm the following day.
The biggest technical adversity on the trail would be the blow down and deadfall trees that were left over from the winter. The thing about riding a trail that sees very little traffic is that the trail sees very little traffic, and therefore, sometimes the tidying up doesn't happen until later in the season. We came very close to turning our route into an out-N-back, but instead, we did our best to clear the down trees that were of a clearable size, and to team up to lift our heavily laden bikes up and over the downed trees that we weren't able to remove. Happily, we were able to complete our loop!

When it was all said and done, we ended up riding about 27 miles with 5.5 thousand feet of climbing in some of the most remote subalpine singletrack in Washington. Our campsite was perfect, complete with a nearby spring, views of the sunset and just enough mosquitoes to make it worthwhile to build a campfire. We shared whiskey and M&Ms and gave each other words of encouragement while repeatedly expressing our gratitude for amazing weather and breathtaking views.

This race was not named for the sliding maneuver that we do in high speed corners. It was also not named for the piles of snow that are made by the strong winds of Wyoming. Rather, it was named for the tradition where Wyoming cowboys have "drifted" their cattle each fall out of the mountains where they go to to the desert for the winter. I was not blessed with the same good sense of self-preservation that the cows have learned.

I signed up for The Drift early and devised a training plan. Training was going pretty well through January. Then the snow went away and it became pretty tricky to ride in Spokane. Needless to say I showed up in Pinedale feeling incredibly undertrained. My strategy was to ride my own race, enjoy the time on my bike as much as possible and hopefully finish before the storm that was predicted for Saturday afternoon.
Friday morning found me having a hard time getting the van stove going. The temperature was just a few degrees above zero. After some last minute adjustments I barely made it to the start before the 9am go time. The first 25 miles were sunny, firm and fast. I arrived to the first aid station and barely felt the need to stop other than to fill up my bottles with hot water. The volunteers were incredibly knowledgeable about the course and warned us that the next 25 miles would be more difficult, including the high point over the continental divide and the ungroomed section of trail. I decided to throw a baked potato into my belly. And a handful of peanut M&M's for good measure.
The next section was interesting, for sure, but conditions remained good. The beginning of the ungroomed section involved a steep, wide-open descent and I managed to crash right away. No big deal; just got a little loose and laid my bike down into a lot of powder. The bike landed on its non-drive side. It was tricky to right myself, but all seemed well. I decided to air down the tire pressure and instantly found the traction I needed.
It was fun navigating the vast and expansive terrain through that ungroomed section but at some point my chain developed an occasional skip. A quick eyeball inspection of the drive train couldn't identify anything to remedy, so I just kept on grinding. Shortly after dark, when I was probably about 1-2 miles for the Sheridan aid station, I down-shifted into my granny and stood up to mash up a climb when *SNAP!* I know I swore aloud, but I can't remember what the cuss was. Sure enough, my chain broke in half. I knew I either had to repair it quickly, or prepare to walk the rest of the way to the aid station. It was dark and I would get cold quickly kneeling in the snow, handling metal tools and bike bits. I hadn't had the foresight to pack a master link. Luckily, I was able to easily remove a link and was back in business after just a few minutes. The skipping seemed to be gone, but I was nervous to use all of my gears. I crossed my gloved fingers and said a silent prayer that the repair would hold for another 50 miles. 

The Sheridan aid station was my favorite stop of the race. I was in good spirits after fixing my chain and there was a wood burning stove going and HOT SOUP! It was salty and good. I had 2 cups. And half a can of Pepsi. Nan was there and we finally got to chat a bit. She was ready to leave before I was, so the conversation was brief. Andrew was also hanging out and seemed to be having a more difficult time getting moving. He must have left not too far behind me though because he passed me in the next section of trail, looking strong and having fun.
The night was dark and I kept thinking that the moon was rising, but instead it would be a SAR volunteer patrolling on a snow machine. They were so good at checking on us and making sure we were doing alright. Seriously, this race had the kindest and most talented volunteers!
A few hours into that section of trail, my bowels decided it would be best if I didn't eat or drink until the next aid station and its accompanying bathroom. Lets just say that I didn't take very good care of myself through the middle of the night. I started having a dry cough. This is something that often happens during longer races, so I thought nothing of it. There was also a little bit of a wheeze, but it didn't seem to bother me much, so NBD. I just kept plodding along slowly.
I eventually made it to the Warm Springs Aid station around 3am, but I had dug myself into a hole and my pace had slowed way down. I considered a bivy. I could hear some other riders snoring outside of the shelter. Despite sitting next to the heater for at least an hour, drinking a cup of coffee and 2 bowls of Mac'n'Cheese, I couldn't warm up. I knew if I got into my bivy, I would shiver for a long time before falling asleep, and then it would be even harder to get moving. I dreaded getting out of my bivy in the cold more than anything. So I decided to get back on the bike. Once I was moving again, I quickly warmed back up, but I now felt like my breathing was off. The cough was occasional, but my breathing was ragged and more labored than it ought to have been for the effort I was putting out. The medical word for my breathing symptoms is dyspnea. It's something I see on  daily basis at work, but I had never felt before in my entire life. I just couldn't catch my breath or take a deep breath.

I don't remember much of the next bit. I felt very alone and focused on keeping moving. It was 16 miles to the next checkpoint, Strawberry aid station. There was a short section that we had already ridden on the way out and I kept thinking that I was on familiar trail, but then realized that I wasn't. This is about when I began to see things that weren't there. Every tree or trail marker looked like a snow machine or another racer. I felt very alone and my emotions were beginning to run amok. The sunrise was dramatic and literally breathtaking.

My goal was to finish before the storm was predicted to start, mid-afternoon. Well, the storm didn't really care about my goal and it decided to come in a little early, just after sunrise. Visibility quickly diminished and I found myself struggling to manage fogged up glasses, and skin exposed to the wind as I crossed the treeless terrain on Union Pass. I don't think I stayed long at Strawberry; I just wanted to be done. The last 16 miles were mostly downhill and I was hoping I could somehow knock them out quickly and then crawl into the van and sleep.
I averaged a little less than 2 miles an hour for the next 10 hours.
I initially had fun and was able to mostly stay on the bike through the wind drifts. But as the terrain flattened for the last 8 miles, I resigned to pushing my bike into a relentless headwind. I was intermittently pelted with graupel or blowing snow. I felt like instead of a bike, I was pushing a 50 lb. sail into a gale. I would occasionally try to ride for a short section, but ironically I would become too winded to pedal into the headwind almost instantly. It kept getting harder to get up when I would fall over. I would have made a little bivy and tried for a respite, but there was nowhere to shelter from the wind and I couldn't imagine getting rest in those conditions. I had to push on.
Wyoming wind is legit.
I would pause every 20 paces to try to take a deep breath, but couldn't. It was like there was a vice grip squeezing my chest walls. Despite the incredibly slow pace, I couldn't get my respiratory rate to slow and I began to wonder if I had a touch of HAPE (high altitude pulmonary edema) or pneumonia. I've never wanted to quit a race before, but I seriously started to consider the possibility. Tiptop SAR really is the best. Jason, a local PA and avid snow-machinist obliged my concerns by checking my SpO2 with his handy pulse oximeter: 95%. Completely normal. And my heart rate was barely elevated. I felt like a fool. I was probably just sleep deprived and feeling anxious. Jason assured me that several other racers were also having respiratory complaints and offered me some albuterol. I've used other people's inhalers before without any positive effects, but this time it actually seemed to help. For about 5 minutes. And then I was right back to shallow, tachypneic, loud and labored breathing. *sigh*

Finally, mercifully, Andrew Zook caught me. I realized that I had basically ridden solo for the last 96 or so miles. Andrew and I worked together (mostly I shamefully used him as a windbreak) for awhile. I was grateful to have the company. Eventually, the weather seemed to take a bit of a break and magically, right about that same time, a kind gentleman showed up with a groomer and the last few miles were rideable. I was still moving slower than molasses in January, so Andrew quickly dropped me, but I knew I would make it to the finish.
I ended up being out there for about 34 hours. I was the 2nd female finisher on a bike and 10th overall.
In hindsight, I would have made very few changes to my gear. I do wish I'd spent more time on the fatbike before race day, but we play the hand we are dealt.

Next up: something warmer and more local ... like a little jaunt across Washington, XWA.
http://crosswashington.weebly.com/crosswashington.weebly.com/

I continue to have a nagging cough, although it has been improving steadily since I finished. Because I work in urgent care, I need to make sure that the cough is not COVID19, before I return to work in a few days. So I was tested for COVID and other respiratory antigens yesterday and I'm on self-quarantine until either my cough goes away or I have negative results  back. Normally, I wouldn't think much of these symptoms, but these are not normal times.
Be well.

I had toyed with the idea of doing the Smoke N Fire 400 (SnF) for awhile before I got around to swapping some shifts at work and finally committing to doing the race a few weeks beforehand.  I was pretty nervous about how little I've been on the bike and how many extra pounds I've put on since moving to Spokane. It has been tough starting a new job and juggling grad school (take 2) with having some semblance of a life, let alone fitness. I finally signed myself up on Trackleaders just before leaving for a 6 day trip to Colorado to coach for VIDA mtb. This made for a very tight turn around before the SnF. I returned to Spokane at 11pm Monday night, worked 8-8 Tuesday, then left the following morning for Boise with my new friends, Aaron and Jess from Kellog, ID, who also happened to be racing. The race started Thursday morning at 6am.
When we left Spokane on Wednesday morning, I had yet to settle on which bike I would be riding, let alone pack my gear, go for a shake down ride, or familiarize myself with the course. I had only used my fancy new Garmin Edge, once since I bought it several weeks ago. For the CTR, I had been dialed and every move had been planned out and tested beforehand. I realized in the van, on the way to Boise (while experimenting with packing gear onto my new gravel bike) that I had forgotten to pack a sleeping ground pad. I requested an emergency stop at Walmart. I still needed to get race food anyhow.
Feelings of inadequacy washed over me as I listened to Jess describe her training rides and discuss the course and the other riders. I felt utterly clueless and scattered.
My pre-race anxiety was barely in check. I felt like I would be lucky to finish and I hoped I didn't disappoint myself. I didn't post to social media about the race until I was nearly halfway through my first day (partly because I just didn't have any time, but also because I wasn't sure I wanted anyone to know I was racing).

We made it to Hyde Park about 10 minutes before the start. I was nervous about leaving the van in downtown Boise on a residential street, but at that point there was no other option. I noticed a couple on a tandem at the start and I had to do a double take as the female was about 4 feet tall and looked to be a tween (she's only 10 years old). I figured that they were probably only riding one day of the race, or maybe just joining us for the neutral roll out (nope, they did 400+ miles!). There were about 70 riders at the start, including 10 ladies. At some point somebody told us to go and we all set out into the Boise foot hills. I hadn't been able to find my riding gloves, so I rode barehanded for the first several hours. I didn't want to be left behind the grand depart, so I let my hands get real cold. I didn't talk to anyone, but just enjoyed the pace in the slip stream. Eventually we hit dirt and started climbing. The sun came up and I settled in and started to enjoy the views and the ride. The anxiety began to dissipate and I felt like myself again.
I rode with some inspiring people and I had to choke back tears at some of their stories. Bikepacking introduces me to the very best people. I felt like I was home, surrounded by family.
The first day involved a decent amount of climbing, but was deceptively mellow gravel without a whole lot of techy terrain. I knew that things would get a little spicier and I looked forward to a more punishing route on the days to come. I planned to sleep just before Ketchum and then pedal into town for a hot coffee before heading out. I slept in a nice park inside an outhouse that was relatively clean and big enough for me and my bike and several friendly spiders. I had never slept in an outhouse before, but it seemed like a smart shelter (there were sprinklers in the town park), and I had heard of more experienced bikepackers sleeping inside outhouses in bad weather. It was quite cold, and any shelter was welcome.

I slept poorly- which was as I expected on the first night. In the morning, I spent 20 minutes riding around in circles in Ketchum, looking for the 24 hour Jackson's convenience store on google maps. It doesn't exist. I decided to head out instead of waiting around for the coffee shops to open at 6am. I was rewarded with delightful singtrack in the dark. I saw 3 sets of green, glowing eyes peering at me with as much curiosity as 3 sets of glowing eyes can have. I passed a guy sleeping on a wooden platform in a meadow. I got passed by several dudes who seemed to be more awake and energetic than myself.
I finally arrived at Galena lodge and I ordered a cubano and 2 Don bars to go. I started the climb to Titus Lake and Galena summit thinking about the warnings from other riders that it would be a tricky hike-a-bike. I resigned myself to having to push my way to the top. Surprisingly it was mostly rideable and the views were incredible. I was elated. The altitude didn't seem to bother me too much (no doubt thanks to the prior week spent in Colorado). The rolling singletrack back to the highway was super fun! Then an aid station appeared and I was handed Red Vines, fresh grapes and the biggest cookie ever! Apparently there was an organized cycling event on the highway, and the friendly crew said they had way more yummies than they needed for their racers.

The miles continued to coast by and eventually I was caught by a couple of familiar riders, Andrew and Sam. We had an absolute blast riding through the scorched landscape and flowing trails of Fisher Creek and Williams Lake. I had actually ridden a loop here 3 years ago on the way to the Trans BC and I chuckled to myself thinking about how tired I was on the climbs 3 years ago (when I hadn't had to ride my bike over 200 miles to get to them).

Sam and Andrew rode at a great pace and were fine company. We stuck together until Red Fish Lake Lodge. It was dark and getting cold. We had initially talked about just rolling through Red Fish Lake and not stopping until Stanley, but alas, we got sucked into the well-stocked store and restaurant. I spent about 15 minutes standing in line to get hand warmers and hot tea. It was the cashier's first day and it seemed a family of campers wanted to get every kitschy gift in the place. The tea was delicious and I drank most of it while waiting in line. We had an hour to get to Stanley before the pizza joint that Sam had his heart set on would close. We climbed, then descended some scary singletrack and I worried that my light system was inadequate for the night riding at hand. We sprinted to Stanley for all we were worth and were rewarded by arriving to the pizza parlour 5 minutes before they closed. We ate hot, cheesy pies with all the fixings in the crisp night air of the consistently coldest place in the lower 48, Stanley, Idaho. Sam's friend, Emily, joined us and gave strong words of encouragement. I confirmed on Trackleaders what Emily was reporting, and was stoked to see I was in first place for women! I had been asking after the other women all day and had not really accepted the idea that I might be leading the ladies until then. Nothing like a little external motivation to get me going after a few thick slices of piping hot pizza.
Just before midnight I ran out of steam as we were passing a cheery looking national forest bathroom at Stanley Lake. It was super clean and warm inside and I decided to call it a night.

About 3 hours later, I was wide awake and ready to go. I packed up inside my warm accommodations and started up the remainder  of the climb to Elk Mountain. There was a silly song playing in my head, Welcome to the Hotel Shitter-ville, such a lovely place, such a lovely face. The techy descent was just what I needed and I was feeling zesty when I got to the creek at the bottom. Then, the good feelings were shattered as I discovered that my sleeping bag had rattled out of its home on my handlebar roll. I pondered this for not very long before I released some audible expletives and started pushing my bike back up the 5 mile descent, sweeping the trail with my weak BD headlamp as I went. I had only gone about 1.5 miles when Russ (Panniers y Chile con Queso) came down the trail and shouted out, "You feeling a little light?" I was ecstatic at my good fortune and quickly rigged a more secure system for the sleeping bag. The mat I had forgotten in Spokane was made of a much more frictiony foam than the cheap Walmart mat I was stuck with. *Sigh*

Russ didn't seem to hold a grudge against me and my rookie move and I vowed to buy him a beer and a burrito. We rode through the most frigid section of the SnF and my bike and gear started to form a layer of frost while we pedaled and giggled. My warm gloves were not quite warm enough and I alternated putting each hand between my warm butt and my hip pack, behind me and out of the wind to try to keep them from freezing solid.
The full moon finally set and the sun slowly came up. It was about 10am when I finally took off my down jacket. Russ expressed reservations about pushing up Scott Mountain in the heat of the day and planned to take a swim in Deadwood Reservoir and then have a bit of a siesta at the beach. This sounded lovely to me, but I also wanted to keep moving.

Eventually, I came upon the reservoir and I decided that it would be a good idea to rinse off my underparts. I had a quick swim and a picnic of leftover pizza on the beach. I started the long and tedious climb up Scott Mountain in the heat of the day. It was a nice gravel road with occasional traffic and intermittent shade. I made a game out of swerving into the shady spots and searching for the perfect heart shaped rock. I eventually found one- multi-colored quartz, and snagged it as a souvenir. Soon I felt a bit too warm and slightly sleepy and I found a shady flat spot and took a 15 Minute nap. That nap was divine.
Shortly after my nap I was contemplating filtering some water out of a muddy trickle of a stream when Doug and Louie came up behind me. They were moving at quite a pace and seemed to know a good bit about the route. Doug recommended getting water somewhere further up the mountain. I decided to try to hang with them for as long as I could. Scott Mountain is the climb that never ends. It was discouraging with all of it's false summits and I started to really appreciate that my Garmin was keeping me informed of the sad fact that I wasn't even close to the top yet. Hours later (I have no idea how many), we made it to the top. Doug seemed to not have stopped and I managed to summit before Louie, so I took the opportunity to scarf down the last piece of my leftover pizza. Louie confirmed with me that Doug had already started the descent, and I fell in behind him. Louie seemed to have no fear and he hauled down the dirt road with little regard for the sharp, exposed corners and frequent ATVs and pickup trucks hiding behind every blind corner. Eventually we caught and passed Doug and the descent continued. I could smell my brake pads frying in the heat, but I couldn't help but fly down the road as fast as I could stand to go. When we got to the bottom, the air was about 30 degrees warmer than it had been up above. I checked the thermometer on my Garmin and confirmed that it was 90 degrees outside. We mashed on the pedals on the hot highway pavement for the last 10 miles to Garden City before crawling into the air conditioned gas station and drinking icy sodas and toasted Subway sandwiches.
We spent about an hour eating and resting with our feet up. Trackleaders showed that I had about a three hour lead on Laura Heiner- the next woman in the field. I filled up my water bottles with soda and ice water and we took off into the evening heat. Somehow we were in shade within 5 minutes and the temperatures quickly began to drop.
We entered the section of trail called Mordor after dark and had the joy of intermittent hike-a-bike and overgrown, rutted 4x4 roads with confusing intersections. I was glad I had the company of Louie and Doug, but eventually I found myself feeling uncoordinated and sluggish and I decided to sleep. It was about midnight or so. I set an alarm for 3 hours and I fell into oblivion quickly. I heard one bike pass me, but I quickly fell back asleep until my alarm went off. That pile of pine needles was so comfy after 2 nights in outhouses.

I arrived in Placerville at about 4am. It was very cold and I noticed a handful of bikers sleeping under the pavilion in the center of the tiny town. There was a fire station and it had a water spigot that I couldn't quite figure out. I spent some time in the warm bathroom and I circled around the park looking for the water pump. Eventually I found it with a sign commanding to DO NOT DRINK THE WATER. The water came out brownish looking despite the dim light from my battery-weak headlamp and I decided not to fill both of my water bottles. I popped a purification tablet into the bottle and wandered around, looking for what, I wasn't sure. Nevertheless I found what I was looking for when I saw a startled bikepacker and recognized the familiar face of Sam! He must have passed me while I was sleeping. He was riding with Nick and they were both motivated to get to Boise.
I anxiously jumped around to stay warm and filled my other water bottle at the fire station, but not before I managed to turn on the fire house spigot and cover poor Sam in a shower of icy water. Luckily he didn't seem to hold it against me and my eyes filled with tears as we all 3 burst out laughing.
We were a variety pack aboard our mismatched bikes; Nick rode a full rigid gravel grinder that he had named Jessica. Sam had christened his hardtail plus bike Gonzo, and I was of course on my full suspension 29er, Jerry the Joplin. Despite the unusual assortment of rigs, we were quite evenly paced and the going was steady.

From Placerville we climbed out of the cold and into the sunrise on the backside of Bogus Basin ski area. We were treated to a breathtaking array of colors in the sky and some enticingly fun and rocky terrain. The climb seemed to stretch on for longer than it needed to, but eventually we started dropping down into the foothills of Boise. I was worried that I would have no ability to descend as my front brake pads were completely fried from the descent down Scott the previous evening. I had not had the wherewithal to pack a spare set of brake pads in my haste to get to the start 3 days earlier. Surprisingly, the brakes did okay (except for that nails on a chalkboard feeling of metal on metal) and I had fun soaring down the mountain into Boise. We didn't see any other riders and at some point it became apparent that I was likely to be the first female to finish.
There was a large street fair and a marathon going on in downtown Boise on Sunday morning and I was surprised to see people cheering us into the finish. The three of us posed for pictures together, than ate a hearty breakfast and shared lots of laughs together.

At the end of the race, I felt like I must have missed the start. I resisted the temptation to pinch myself because it felt like the Smoke N Fire had just barely got going before it was over.
We were blessed with perfect conditions during the race that aided in my ability to push myself. As usual, I was surrounded by so many amazing, kind and strong humans that gave me more strength than I could have mustered on my own.

The stats
Animals sighted:
- 5 kamikaze snakes
- 2 nighttime frogs
- 3 sets of glowing eyes (deer or elk I think)
- countless spiders
- 12 friendly dogs and 1 not-as-friendly dog
- an assortment of chipmunks and squirrels, one of which was kamikaze

Hours slept:
10

Miles ridden:
- Something like 420 or so (I still haven't completely figured out that fancy Garmin).

Food I ate:
- 5 warm meals (fried pickles + chef salad, grilled cheese, cubano sandwich, supreme pizza and Subway sandwich),
- lots of fig bars
- Kind bars
- jerky and wheat thins

Number of times I got lost:
- Really not at all, but I did have to backtrack about 4-5 times because of a minor missed turn.

Would I do it again? ABSOLUTELY!!!!!

I have always wanted to compete in a 24 Hour race. Well, always or ever since I first learned of such a crazy discipline, just after I started mountain biking about a decade ago. Back then I was all about the group feels. A 24 hour race sounded like a camping-adventure-party with bikes and teammates and beers.
 
Since then I’ve grown a little crazier and I decided that for my first 24 hour race, I ought to go at it solo. I signed up about 4 months ago for the 24 Hour Round and Round in Spokane, Washington, and then proceeded to start a new full-time job while pursuing a master’s degree. “Training” has consisted of getting out for short rides a few times a week. My main goal for the race would just have to be to get a good work out and have a good time. Or at least that’s what I told everyone who asked about my training and strategy. But I had lots of other goals in my head that I was secretly hoping to attain.

Lap 1. I committed to a nice, slow, maintainable pace. The Le Mans start at noon was about 300 yards of bedlam. There’s nothing sillier than several hundred spandex-clad runners in bike helmets and cleats. For the record, I’m not a runner.  I was surprised I wasn’t in the absolute back of the pack when I got to my bike. There were several other women with “SOLO” plates twist-tied to their saddles in my vicinity when we hit the singletrack. I chatted with them as much as I could and tried to sponge tidbits from their experience as it seemed they were all 24 hour race-veterans. Various bottlenecks ensued and I was proud to be able to slow pedal through each of the congested rock gardens without having to dismount. Going really slow through techy sections of singletrack, while dodging other riders is a silly skill, but I was glad to have it in my wheelhouse!

Lap 2. The congestion began to thin out and I kept riding.
Lap 3. Each lap was about 13 miles, with 700 feet of climbing. I was grateful that it was a cool, overcast day. But I was starting to ache in various places and I wondered if I’d made a mistake by not wearing a chamois.
Lap 4. Hanger. It’s not just a 6 letter word. It’s a feeling.
Lap 5. Bacon and egg rice cakes. And cola flavored electrolyte tabs! Oh my. Food occupied a lot of space in my thoughts.
Lap 6. I started to re-evaluate some of my numerous goals. My first and foremost goal was to still be riding my bike at noon the following day. That still seemed attainable. One of my other (secret) goals was to complete 16 laps, which would put me right at about 200 miles. 6 laps in, that started to sound unrealistic in my head (which was aching).
Lap 7. I started to feel warmed up and settled into a pleasantly painful rhythm as the sun set on the course and thick, dark clouds rolled in.
Lap 8. It was dark when the sprinkles started. The rain smelled sweet on the pines and the course emptied out substantially.  Just me and my Joplin riding through the rain in the dark woods. It was lovely.
Lap 9. I gave up on my goal of riding the whole race without a nap and planned to take a short siesta after the following lap.
Lap 10. It was dark and properly raining. I helped a big dude on a little bike who had a flat. Karma points! No siesta needed.

Lap 11. It kept raining. I kept riding. My vision was blurry, but it might have just been all the mud on the clear lens of my glasses. Might have been…
Lap 12. Birds started chirping and the sun started to make a glow on the horizon as the rain clouds dissipated. My stomach was doing cartwheels. I laid down in the van for a 45 minute refresher nap. Two hours later I was cold and cranky and it was hard to get moving again. When I finally did, I felt energized and…invincible?
Lap 13. I mentally revisited my goals and decided that 16 laps was still achievable, even if the podium wasn’t.  I rode as hard as my weak little legs could go. I would really have to leave it all out there to get to 16 laps.
Lap 14. Still felt good. No regrets about no chamois. The karma must have helped.
Lap 15. I needed to get to the venue and timing tent by 11:59 in order to head out for one more lap. It was going to be very close. At this point, I knew how long each segment took me and my heart sunk when I rolled past the Stone Temple section sign at 11 minutes til noon. There was no way I was going to make it. I decided that 15 laps was a solid workout, which was my “public” goal and it wasn’t nothing. Then I started looking forward to being done and to French fries and ice cream. Sad as I was about not hitting 200 miles, I did my best to feel optimistic about my first 24 hour race.
Lap 16. Oops- I misread the analog clock on my stem cap. It was only 11:00!!! I had time to eat and stretch AND go out for one more lap! My last lap was real slow. My husband, Matt came out with me for support and we chatted a lot while I struggled to make my noodley arms hold onto the bars. I was pretty sleepy and bonking real hard on that last lap. I’m glad that I left it all out there, surpassed the 200-mile mark and finished in 4th place.

I had a great time at my first 24 hour race! One pivotal move that contributed to my good time was to set myself several attainable goals and some that seemed to be just out of reach. I can’t wait to sign up for my next solo 24 hour!

I finally pieced together my vlog from the CTR (yes, that took a very long time). Watching it is probably pretty painful and boring. My apologies. When I watch the videos, it kinda fills me with joy and nostalgia. I hope to be able to do more bike touring events in the future. Lately, I'm focusing on school, my new job in my new home in Washington state, and finally feeling like I've fully recovered from the CTR. Despite feeling like I've recovered, I must admit that doing that race changed me as a person. Hopefully for the better.
As always, feel free to hit me up if you have any bike touring or CTR questions.

This post is for all the crazy kooks who want to geek out about what I was hauling on my bike for 539ish miles across Colorado. Its not much, but its (almost) all I needed. As a beginner bikepacker, I found it really helpful to be able to read about what others packed. I hope somebody else finds this post useful :)
***
There are few things I would change about what I carried with me for the CTR. Two items I wish I would have brought are knee pads and a proper light system. I bought a light at the halfway point and it was awesome, but I could have done better. I grabbed my knee pads after I scratched- I couldn't actually wear them though- (they rubbed too much on the fresh staples) so they ended up just being bonus weight for the last few segments.
I carried WAY MORE food than I needed for the entire journey. When I finished at Junction Creek, I actually had leftover jerky and bars that I had started from Denver with. Luckily, I had food to give my friends who were waiting for me at the finish in Durango.

On the bike:
Juliana Joplin (hit me up if you have specific questions about the build)

• bottle cage with Guide Pro ltd. edition water bottle (not the best place to store my duct tape)
  
• I9 Matchstix
• mini pump

What I wore:

• Bell Super 3 helmet (Joy Ride ladies version)
• Smith Pivlock sunglasses (not pictured)
• Mons Royale merino wool jersey
• Zoic Navaeh shorts
• Mons Royale merino boy shorts
• Icebreaker sports bra
• merino socks
  
• AlpineStars knee pads (worn for about 20 minutes, then carried for last 3 segments)
• Mavic Crossride mountain shoes
• Hestra Bike Guard Long gloves

What was in my fanny:
Deuter Pulse 3 F18

• Garmin inReach
• Samsung Galaxy S9 (not pictured)
• OR Goretex Paclite shell jacket- 10 years old and going strong
• OR waterproof shell gloves
• Melanza skull cap
• Sawyer Mini H2O filter and 1/2 liter bladder
• Spare 1 liter H2O bladder
• Aquamira water purification tablets
• sunblock
  
• bug dope wipes (didn't need 'em)
  
• bottle of meds (ibuprofen, zofran, pepto, excedrin and imitrex- I only took ibuprofen, pepto and excedrin a few times)
  
• waterproof wallet with CC, $20 and cell phone
  
• shock pump
  
• hand sanitizer
  
• Nuun and Pep Pod tablets
• BD headlamp
• Knog PWR Commuter 450 lumen light (purchased at BoneShaker Cycles in BV, halfway to Durango)
• Dynaplug racer
• sharpie
  

On the handlebars:
Oveja Negra Front End Loader

• Stoic dry bag
• ThermaRest, edges cut off to make it smaller
• Melanzana tights
  
• Feathered Friends Flicker 30 down sleeping bag
• Big Agnes tent pole
  
• (I would often store my rain shell here instead of the hip pack to keep weight off my body)
  

On the fork:
Oveja Negra Chuck Buckets (2)

• 1 liter Nalgene
• Backcountry.com titanium mug
• Light My Fire titanium spork
• various snacks including EnduroBites, M&Ms, MuddyBuddies,  Ramen, etc.
  

What was also on my handlebars:
Oveja Negra Lunchbox

• LOTS of Korean BBQ Pork jerky
• turkey jerky
  
• Wheat Thins and Triscuits
• CT Databook and cue sheet notes

On my top tube:
Oveja Negra Snack Pack XL

• T-9 drive train lube and rag
• assorted zip ties
• 20G Co2 & adapter
• quick link
  
• Pedro's tire levers (best tool I've found for pushing brake calipers out)
• 2 sets of spare brake pads
• spare tube (new in box)
• Crank Bros multi-tool
• ultra light leatherman
• assorted bolts for cleats, and such
• 2 valve cores
• derailleur hanger

What went under my seat:
Oveja Negra Gearjammer (with a ColoRowdies mud guard)

• Sea to Summit dry bag (with spare merino t-shirt, boy shorts and socks)
  
• Big Agnes Onyx UL Tarp
• emergency blanket
• battery pack and cords
• first Aid kit
• toothbrush, toothpaste and floss

That's it. Not much I would change if I were to do it again. Now ... what ultra bikepacking event should I look at doing next? AZT? Highland 550? Olympic 420? IT all seems so new and exciting to me!

The Colorado Trail Race 2018 will go down on the short list of major life experiences that has forever changed me. Other honorable mentions include the time I stood up to the bigger, older bully when I was seven years old and the year I spent in Baghdad in my twenties. These life-altering experiences are typically overwhelmingly positive and I treasure them. I'm going to try to share a few things that made the CTR so special.

Lesson #1. If you want to do something very hard, tell everyone about it. And then make yourself be accountable to all those folks rooting for you.
​If you are reading this blogpost, no doubt you are aware that I am new to bikepacking and ultra racing. I wasn't sure how I would do during the CTR, but I knew it would be tough and that I would be tempted to quit (AKA scratch) at some point. I was very public about my intentions and I tried to make my race meaningful to my community, so that when I was tempted to scratch, I would know that everyone watching my dot on trackleaders would know right away, and their disappointment would haunt me just as much as my own. 
If you want to know more about my fundraising efforts and why I decided to do this as a memorial ride for Tricia and my sister, Melissa, read about it here. 
The morning of day 1, just after leaving the trailhead as I was pedaling the dirt road through Waterton Canyon, my eyes welled up with tears for the first of many times. Prior to this summer, I wasn't too much of a cryer- and usually only got blubbery in moments of great sorrow or frustration. At that moment, surrounded by about 90 crazy kooks all doing what we loved for various reasons, I was choking back tears of happiness to have come so far in this journey and to have finally seen it to fruition. I was thinking of Tricia and hoping that she would smile to see me there. 

​Lesson #2. Don't underestimate what you are capable of. Pack some decent lights.  
In training for the CTR, I did a lot of overnight bikepacking trips. I tried to ride terrain that was part of the Colorado Trail, or very similar in difficulty. My hardest day was a 16 hour effort involving 9,000 feet of climbing/descending and 60 miles of riding. I was cracked the next day and had to rest. So I figured that during the race, I wouldn't be able to maintain efforts like that day after day, and that I would only plan to ride during daylight, about 6am to 9pm.  I would aim to sleep 7-8 hours every night. My light system included a rechargeable Black Diamond headlamp and 2 tiny commuter lights on my bars. I figured this would be enough to get me to a flat spot to sleep in the dark and that I didn't need anything stronger. It also meant I didn't have to worry about charging huge 800 lumen lights. I wouldn't have to carry a heavy battery brick and various cords and plugs to keep the lights running. Well, I was wrong. My first day consisted of about 110 miles and 15,000 feet of climbing, and the biggest ride of my life thus far. I only stopped to camp because the fella I was riding with, (Cody, RN), decided it was time to camp and I was certain I would get lost in the dark without him. We had already missed a turn and gone about 1/2 mile downhill in the wrong direction. I slept great for about 2 hours, but then wanted to ride more. My mind was racing all night as I lay in my shelter, wishing I had a good light system and a GPS line to follow. I peeked out from under the edge of my shelter tarp and watched as a group of 4 riders rolled by, joking and chatting with each other in the dark at 1:30am. I desperately wanted to join them, but knew that by the time I could pack everything up, their lights would be gone and I'd be fumbling with my phone, worried that I was lost.
Day 2 was very familiar terrain for me which gave me quite an advantage. I was awash in texts from friends as I rode through all my favorite trails in Summit County. I used to live about 20 yards from the Peaks Trail TH in Frisco, and I had so many memories from those segments of the CT. Going up Miner's Creek trail was a lonely place. I played the first of 2 songs that I would listen to during the entire CTR on my phone for a little mental boost (In The Wind, Lord Huron). (The second song came on day 6 during a celebratory moment- Ring Of Fire, Johnny Cash). I crested the Ten Mile Range at sunset and ripped down Wheeler trail to Copper in some spectacular golden hour light. I couldn't have imagined a better farewell to my old home. 

​Lesson #3. Everybody has a story, listen, share and make friends.
Without a doubt, the number one reason that I was able to go as fast and as far as I did each day while feeling good and having fun, was because of the amazing people I got to spend a lot of quality time with out there on the trail. On day 3, I met Chris. He was possibly the most fun individual I rode with. On a Trek Slash, he knew how to throw a proper whip while descending, despite the extra weight of the bikepacking setup. And he had a goofy sense of humor. On day 3 I made it from Copper to Buena Vista, another one of my favorite sections. Thanks to Chris, I learned about the Leadville Bypass and  managed to get a call in to Boneshaker Cycles in BV (after a tip from Katie on Kokomo Pass informed me that Cycles of Life in Leadville was closed on Tuesdays). I paid for my new light over the phone and Dave had it charged up and waiting for me outside the back door when I arrived at 8pm. Bypassing Leadville was a very good call as it kept me moving and likely saved me over an hour. I'm sure I would have gone to Safeway and High Mountain Pies and all my favorite spots. I used to live and work in Leadville, and I love that town. And the Bypass was great, taking me to places I hadn't been for years. I stopped at the golf course and had a delicious, cold Gatorade. Hanging out with Chris was such a mental boost, I felt like I was figuring things out and I got a strong start to day 4, almost halfway to Durango!

​​Lesson #4. Look for purpose wherever you can.
I don't think I was actually hallucinating at any point on the trail. However, as I started up the singletrack below Monarch Crest and the Fooses Creek climb, I found myself in another lonely place. I suspect I was hungry and dehydrated as the segment from Mt Princeton Hot Springs to Highway 50 was grueling and long. And then, somehow the song playing on repeat in my head got rather intense, "Don't stop, get it get it ..." (Feel Good Inc., Gorilaz) and I noticed that everywhere I looked there were hearts. On the trail the rocks were heart shaped. Pieces of tree bark were heart shaped. Clouds. Lichen on rocks. Leaves. Shadows. I felt surrounded by love and hope and even though I'm not spiritual and this might sound a little crazy, I was sure that Tricia was with me on the trail. At a certain point, a pair of little yellow butterflies flew into my face and one of them fluttered on my lips and then flew away. This magical bit of twilit climbing went on for a spell. I passed a small camp of hikers about a hundred yards down the trail and heard them yelling across the valley to their friend, "Horale guey, donde andas!?!" This added to the surreal feeling of that segment. I briefly conversed with them in Spanish and wondered if I had been launched into some parallel realm. Shortly after, I started up the switchbacks and there was Chris! He seemed happy to have caught me and I was motivated to keep him in my sights for the last stretch of the climb, in the dark, above treeline. At the pass we added lights and layers, and then ripped down Monarch Crest blanketed in a velvety sky of stars. I slept great that night, with a belly full of ramen. 

​Lesson #5. When an angel comes to visit you in the middle of the night, take the cookies.
Day 5 was by all accounts a raging success. I woke up with the light before dawn, ate my oatmeal and used the bathroom at Marshall Pass. I was packed up and ready to go before 6, but I noticed that other folks were stirring and I was excited to say hi to Alexandera and Artec. I had ridden a bit with "Art", an ICU nurse from Flagstaff the day before and he had told me a few stories about "Alex", who I had only met very briefly the day before above Clear Creek reservoir where I passed her looking very tired, but hadn't really chatted with her. I had been looking forward to finally talking to Alex and learning her story. 
We started Sargent's Mesa and the 4 of us (Artec, Alexandera, Jim and myself) carried on nicely, and seemed to be pushing each other. Breaks were short as I didn't want to be left behind and alone, so I got a lot more efficient at using my purification tabs. At a certain point, the terrain was surprisingly loose and rugged. The descents were numerous and enduro-worthy, and Jim, Art and I lost sight of Alexandera. I was sad that she wasn't hanging with us, but also stoked that I was ahead of her (and possibly in 3rd place for women?!?) When the 3 of us got to the La Garita Wilderness detour, I was warned that it would be long and grueling. I settled in and commenced doing as much stretching as I could while pedaling the same pace as the fellas. My right hand hadn't regained sensation since Buena Vista, but I continued to do my carpal tunnel PT as much as I could, while in the saddle. We climbed into the night and my energy and ambitions started to waver. I continued to climb, but I started to noticed that I was feeling less energetic and that it was harder to be positive and chatty. I decided at 10:30 pm, after about 16 hours of hard riding to camp at Slumgullion Pass, a closed campground with a locked bathroom along a desolate highway in the middle of nowhere. Greg, a CTR'er who had just ridden back up from Lake City (he ran out of food), and was camped under the shelter of the roof of the closed latrine, just on the other side of a stone and  wooden wall from me. I pitched my shelter, made and ate my ramen and was inside my sleeping bag before Art and Jim had pedaled off. I was hopeful that I could fall asleep quickly and get to Spring Creek in time to catch them leaving in the morning. It was only about 10 miles further down the highway, but involved another climb. 
Well not long after 12pm, just as I was beginning to drift off, a car pulled into the parking lot and shined its headlights directly on the bathroom and my shelter. I was very annoyed. I glared out from under the edge of the tarp into the headlights. The window rolled down and I heard a familiar Southern twang shout out, "Leigh Bowe!" My response wasn't aggressive, but it wasn't exactly welcoming and it may have included a "WTF?" Bree offered cookies which I rejected. In my sleepy state, I was upset that she might put me in a situation that might compromise the integrity of the rules of the race. She then remarked that my friends up the road (Art and Jim) were happy to take cookies and than proceeded to feed cookies to Greg, (who I never actually saw in the light of day, but I chatted with through the wall of the latrine). I begrudgingly took 3, very amazing cookies, but declined fruit and chocolate (*facepalm*) and didn't think to ask for water. I learned the next morning that Alexandera gladly accepted the cookies, bar of chocolate and a juicy peach and I felt like the biggest rookie. 
I awoke at about 3:30am, before my alarm went off, feeling energized and ready to ride.

Lesson #6. Share your favorite treat.
I started offering to share food anytime I was having a snack with other people around, pretty early in the race. Most racers seemed hesitant to accept at first. But eventually most everyone was experiencing some form of flavor fatigue and intense hunger. We basically spent a week talking and thinking about food. On day 5, I had offered to Alexandera a drink of my coffee (cold brew, dairy free, instant latte- just mix in Nalgene with tasty stream water, throw it on your bike and shake for about 15-20 minutes ;). She also took some Muddy Buddies. Art was partial to my Korean BBQ Pork jerky, which was great because I left Denver with like 3 pounds of it. On day 6, arguably the crux move of the CTR and definitely the high elevation and most exposed to the elements of days, there was rain predicted. It seemed like it might not storm, but as we were in Colorado, there were no weather guarantees, other than the increased likelihood of lightning in the afternoon. I met Dana in the morning- and rode with him briefly. He was quite fast despite having had to ride down to and back from Lake City after a broken spoke. He also happened to be a lightning strike survivor and I'm sure he has some incredible stories.
On day 6, I was feeling really strong and was sharing lots of food. Jim, Art and I had just it the high point of the CT, Coney Summit and climbed back up to Carson Saddle and were sharing a cold Coke that Jim had brought. I was elated that we were through the scariest, most exposed section and none of us had been hit by lightning. Alexandera showed up and I was happy to see her, and a little surprised. I knew she hadn't slept much and I was really impressed that she had caught up to us. I decided that it was go time and I asked Art to take a picture of me with my phone as I was dropping into (IMO) the most epic scenery of the CT, Cataract Lakes.
​
Lesson #7. Never go full enduro. If you are going to go full enduro, do it properly. Don't be too lazy to take a piece of equipment that you had planned all summer to ride with just because the car with your knee pads in it disappeared for a few minutes just before the start. 
​I'll admit that I may have been showboating a little when I dropped in from Carson Saddle, I rode fast and strong for a few hundred yards, having a blast. I had to grab my phone back from Art, so I aimed to stop on large slab of rock and found myself launched from my bike and tumbling off trail. I landed on my right side and was annoyed. My leggings were torn, my knee was scuffed and my right hip felt bruised. I turned to look back up at my friends, who didn't seem at all interested in the fall. I glanced at my knee and saw that it was a bit more than a scuff and I figured I needed some stitches. I contemplated my first aid kit, which included bandaids, dirty duct tape wrapped around my water bottle, blister pads and a needle and thread. None of this seemed adequate, so I decided that the laceration wasn't as bad as it looked and that I needed to just deal with it until my options improved. At that point Art and Jim showed up. I think Alexandera was fixing something on her bike, but she was on scene about a minute later. After we had established that I had crashed (apparently nobody saw it), and that I had a decently large, gaping hole in my knee, I was presented with a big bandaid and some athletic tape. I quickly bandaged the wound. Like a child, I felt like if I couldn't see the large, fleshy hole, then it wasn't really there. Art suggested irrigation and I declined, feeling suddenly very hurried to get to Silverton before the knee refused to work anymore. I jumped on my bike and continued riding down. I suspect that there was probably some discussion about what to do about the bleeding girl they had been riding with for the past 2 days, but I don't know the details.
I'm not sure if it was the jerky or the fact that he is a nurse or if maybe Artec just drew the short straw, but his pace seemed to slow a bit and I noticed that he was taking more breaks than usual as I slowly pushed and pedaled and descended my way to Silverton. I didn't want to hold anybody up, but I also was grateful not to be left alone with an oozing wound. The mental strength that I gained from having someone nearby was remarkable. It was about 33 miles, 3,500 feet of climbing and 5,500 feet of descending into Silverton. The final descent from Stony Pass was the worst, and I started to wonder if the cut in my leg might make me have to scratch. Up until that point, it was full blown denial. I wasn't taking great care of myself; I started eating and drinking less often immediately after the crash. I had texted Bree, who happens to be a PA and she was meeting me in Silverton with my proper first aid kit (which includes a small skin stapler) and I had reserved a hotel room in Silverton. I figured we could irrigate and close the wound in the bathroom and if the swelling wasn't crazy in the morning, I could continue the race. 
Bree gave it her all, but felt strongly that 5 staples were not enough, that the risk of infection was too high, and that I may have partially torn my patellar tendon. Artec also seemed to think the situation was hopeless and that I needed proper medical care (more than the 3 of us could provide in the hotel bathroom). I called Matt and Sienna and finally gave in to some of the tears that I had been choking back for days. I scratched and let Bree take me to the nearest open medical facility, Mercy Medical Center ER in Durango. 

Lesson #​​8. Success is what you decide it to be.
After negative x-rays and a whopping 7 staples (staples preferred over sutures as it was over a large joint in a patient who might consider returning to activity sooner than recommended), I was back in the van, feeling really defeated. At first I was angry with Bree because I had tried so hard not to scratch and I had learned that I was less than 10 miles from both first and second place women (Liz Sampey and Ashley Carelock at that time), and I really felt like we could have made the 5 staples work. I slept for 2 hours, and then awoke at 1:30am, very uncomfortable. The discomfort in my knee quickly became unbearable- it seemed that the lidocaine had worn off. I tried elevating my knee on a pillow- I found the ice pack from the ER and tried that and then I began to writhe and moan. It was pretty bad. I think it was more mental anguish than physical pain, but the pain was really intense. The van was a mess and I couldn't find the hydrocodone or even any ibuprofen. This went on for approximately an hour (I think I woke the neighbor's dogs with my moaning) until I managed to turn on a light, move enough to find ibuprofen and hydrocodone. I slept hard until 9am. 
When I awoke, I felt fine. Well, about as fine as when I woke the day before (pins and needles in right hand, sore saddle area, tired legs). I lay there for a bit, thinking about my options. I had no idea what to do with the day. And then, I thought about going for a ride. And then I thought about where to ride, and the only sensible thing to do seemed to be to go back to Silverton and ride to Durango on the CT. I called Matt and we both agreed that finishing the ride, even if I was out of the race, seemed like the most logical thing to do with the day. Bree was happy to drive me to Silverton (after a shower), and I became anxious to get moving quickly. 
We pulled into the same stall in front of the Avon Hotel that we had left from the night before, and who do we see walking out of the hotel? None other than Artec! He still had to swing by the bike shop and I needed ramen. So we arranged to meet at the grocery store and rode out of town together, discussing at length our mutually satisfying breakfasts.
I finished the CT the following evening at about 6pm. Liz, Bree and Art met me at the Junction Creek TH. We met with Alexandera the next day for ice cream. 

My result is unofficial because by accepting outside assistance when I got in Bree's car to go to the ER, I broke a race rule. My dot changed to a recreational rider dot, and I didn't actually finish the race. Despite that, I do feel like I finished the CTR and I did it faster, stronger, and kinder than I had thought myself capable of. I made countless friends and hopefully I touched some of those people in a positive way and managed to sprinkle some of Tricia's kindness around while I was out there. 

Thank you so much to everyone who had a hand in this journey. There is no way I could ever name all of you, but I am forever indebted to Bree Reza and Artec Durham for putting the pieces of me back together out there. I could not have finished without them. But really, I owe so much gratitude to everyone who raced, followed the race, donated to CIF or said a kind word to me this summer. Thank you all.
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Please reach out if you have any questions about bikepacking, the Colorado Trail, brain health or if you just wanna say hi. 

Its no secret that I'm moving to the Inland Northwest, AKA Spokane, Washington. I may or may not be ready to leave Colorado (depending on what kind of a day you catch me on). Either way, I've loved living here for the past (almost) decade. Its been real. And before I go, I wanted a last hurrah. So I have committed myself to the CTR (Colorado Trail Race), 539 miles and 70K feet of pushing/pedaling myself across the state as fast as I can.
Read more about why I'm doing this and about the fundraising I'm doing here and give a donation to The Check-In Foundation if you're so inspired. 
The race starts in 5 days. Lot's of friends have been asking me if I feel ready. Here's a version of my standard answer: I feel like I was born to compete in the CTR, and I also feel like this is the sort of thing that no one is ever really ready for. 
This is an update on training, which has very much been a mental as well as a physical endeavor. 
If you wish to follow my (slow and steady) progress starting next Sunday, July 29th at 6am, you can follow my dot on this website. 

My first overnight bikepacking trip was somewhat rushed between selling our house in Frisco and moving our last van load to Spokane and racing my first Scott enduro cup of the season. And it resulted in a brief disaster. I attempted to do the Kokopelli trail from Loma, Colorado to Moab, Utah by myself just before the Moab Scott Enduro Cup. I got off to a great start, but I forgot to pack a few little things (like fuel for my stove). I had heard from a friend that the usual water refill spot at Westwater had been capped, so I would need to stash water along the route. Due to a lot of driving to deposit some water jugs, I got a late start (like 2pm). I still managed to knock out 40 miles in some pretty high temperatures before nightfall. I have never done well in the heat, and by early evening, I was battling a migraine. I collapsed at my water cache in Westwater around 9:20pm and promptly emptied my stomach of everything I had eaten over the previous 7 hours (which wasn't much). I spent the night shivering in my bivy, and woke up feeling hung-over. As soon as my eyes glimpsed the sun on the horizon, I knew I had to call it. Thus began my foray into the world of bikepacking.
​
I tried to see this as a success as it was a learning experience and my first overnight. But I honestly felt like a failure and I decided to lower my expectations and to have a successful next mission. 

I never wanted to race Andes Pacifico. This is strange because I love travel and all things Latin American and Andes Pacifico has a reputation for being the experience of a lifetime. Its accolades include all of  the goods; amazing meals, views, trails and of course pisco (and beer and wine). Its also well known for Andean desert heat and I have a history of heat stroke. I always figured this one wasn't for me. Alas, my better half (after seeking my consent), signed us up and I reluctantly resigned myself to a damned fine time in the southern hemisphere.

Goal #1, finish. Goal #2, don't be scared.

​Day 0

We were fed a delicious appetizer of made from scratch pizzas with scrumptious toppings while we sipped bottomless brews on tap and soaked our legs in the river that flowed alongside our camp. Dinner consisted of a variety of meats, salads, sides (all delicious) and of course delicious dessert and vino. A girl could get used to that sort of treatment. 

Day 1
 
The first stage was memorable for a very pleasant single track traverse of a transition. To a nice mellow descent. The temperatures were mild and I decided that I liked it in Chile.
The second stage was a long one. Especially when I snapped my bars (carbon) in half midway down. The bottom was quite steep and with half a bar and only a rear brake (which is useless on the super steep stuff, FYI). I slowly jogged/slid/tried to ride my way down (Did nobody get a picture of me riding with half a handlebar?) I was optimistic that there would be a replacement bar that would work and I’d be back at it the next day. After dinner, I went back to the Santa Cruz tent where Nacho advised me not to race the following day. I had exploded the bearing cartridge in my lower pivot link. Rough start. 
Either way, the race was effectively over as the snapped handlebar cost me about 10 minutes. The rest of the race would be about attitude and finishing. 

​Day 2
 
This was by the numbers, likely to be one of the hardest days of the race.  I decided to disregard Nacho’s advice. After all, I survived one day of Andean pistas riding a wet noodle. What harm could one more day be? And I really wanted to finish the race and not miss any stages. 
I rode very cautiously on the first stage and still managed to pass quite a few riders, thanks to the reverse start order at the beginning of each day. 
We had a break for lunch before heading to the next 4 stages. At lunch, the Santa Cruz mechanics were waiting for us and Nacho found me and told me he had a fresh bearing kit and would have me all situated within 20 minutes. I helped myself to sandwiches and brownies while Nacho dialed me in like a homesick long distance caller (terrible simile, sorrynotsorry). The next 4 stages were without incident; fun dirt bike trails with a lot of whoops!

​Day 3 (my favorite day of AP)
 
We were treated to a nice long shuttle up to the top of El Arpa ski area. Then we got out of the trucks, hefted our bikes onto our shoulders and started hiking steeply uphill. We kept hiking for about 3 hours.
Things I saw on the very long hike-a-bike: condors, guanagos, wild horses, and eventually Aconcagua (tallest mountain in the Southern and Western hemispheres). The views were alright.
The first stage went on forever. We just kept dropping. The terrain was amazeballs. And then we did some more stages. The last stage of the day had us finishing at sunset and I couldn’t see the trail through the dust when Jaime Hill flew by. And then the Trans Cascadia guys passed me and I was blind and eating dust again. (Getting passed is not as fun as passing). And then I crashed unexpectedly, going quite fast. I was ok, but a bit shook up. Worst part is that the crash was only about 200 yards from the finish, so I came through the finish area with a frown on my face and not at all cheerful. 

​Day 4 (I got lost)
 
We were getting a lot closer to the coast. This was possibly the mellowest day of the race and consisted of fun, ruts, and dust (but virtually hero dirt compared to the antigrip of the Andes). I got lost on the climb and the descent of the 3rd stage of the day. Oops. Still had fun on a flowy trail along a dry arroyo with optional lines and little rock drops and jumps. The locals were cheering us on and it was rad. 
 
Day 5
 
Stage 2 was a fun flow trail. Although we were getting close to the coast,  it  was incredibly hot on the climbs in the sun. It seemed like every time we dropped onto a stage, it would get cloudy, no ocean views. Our massive group ride to the coast was cloudy and brought some of the coldest temperatures of the whole week.
Alas, we were not taking a dip in the ocean post race. 

Aftermath

​My biggest regret is how much I procrastinated getting excited for this experience. I really didn't feel the stoke until I was soaking in the river at our first camp. Part of what makes an experience amazing is the build up. Nevertheless, I DO NOT regret going to Andes Pacifico and I hope to return, better prepared, next time. 

​I'm sure there are a handful of  folks who think I'm a fool for wearing cheesey, flimsy, non-polarized shades, (and you are more than welcome to berate me). While I don't really feel a need to justify my eye-wear choice, as I often do, I must  explain myself.

Awhile back, I was living in Leadville, where the local thrift store, Community Threads, still exists. Inside that amazing little shop of treasures, there lives a sunglass rack. Eons ago, perched upon it were a pair of bright pink heart-shaped sunglasses that fit my face perfectly. I paid $5 for them, and (mostly by accident), immediately wore them mountain biking. They ventilated perfectly and they were wide enough to keep dust out. They fit my face and didn't pinch under my helmet. I bought a  second pair in blue. 
That's the story. Since then, it has evolved a bit. I often wear sunnies while racing and this is where people are [shocked] [impressed] [appalled] [amused] with my funny sunnies.
I've had friends express concern that I might be damaging my vision because the hearts aren't capable of blocking all the harmful UV rays- to which I say, "thanks for your concern, but I'm confident that they are up to the task." This has lead to heated debate about how much of that UV warning is just hype and what percent of UV rays actually pass through hearts, or t-shirts, or anything for that matter. 
If I'm out for a solo bike ride, I am instantly recognized (to the point of embarrassment as I'm not all that good with names) by my sunglasses. Lately, I'll grab my Smiths if I want to be incognito- like wearing a disguise ;)> 
​My dear friend, Stoken Female, commented a couple years ago that she needed to find a fun-shaped facial accessory to cover-up her "resting-bitch-face" when she was coaching. Sadly, her contemplative expression (that face that she gets when she's trying to puzzle through how to explain a mountain biking skill), might be interpreted as resting-bitch-face. So my final attempt at explaining the hearts is this: even if I'm having a bad day, my sunglasses will turn that frown up-side down and bring me joy (or at least I'll look that way). 

​Lately, I get asked where my heart shaped sunglasses are if I'm seen riding in anything else. Community Threads no longer stocks them on their sunglasses rack, so I've had to turn to eBay to keep a pair of hearts on hand. Desperate times. No matter what it takes, I'll keep the heart-shaped philosophy alive. 

There have been  a lot of big changes that have raining down on me in the past few months. Some are wonderful and some have been tragic. It's time for me to tie all the changes together into something powerful.

I have wanted to ride the Colorado Trail (CT), in its entirety, for a long time. I've ridden many segments, but never put them all together. My time in Colorado is suddenly limited and it seems like now or never. I've decided if I'm going to ride the whole CT this summer, I might as well do it as quick as I can and I ought to just sign up for the Colorado Trail Race (CTR), a roughly 500-mile, self-supported mountain bike race. My good friend Porsha, constructively pointed out that if I'm going to go all-in with such a silly endeavor, I might as well do it for a good reason. So I decided to fund raise and try to spread some good while I'm pedaling myself into saddle-sore oblivion. I wanted to fund raise for a cause that is meaningful for me, so that I would have something bigger than myself pushing me on the trail. But I didn't know what that would be.

I am utterly sin palabras. But I'm going to try to find some words to describe what a perfect experience this was.

Regretfully, I set myself up for a crazy trip, arranging my flights so that I arrived at about 11pm, the day before we were scheduled to bus to the race start in Benito Juarez and departed for home at about 6:45am the morning after the race ended in Etla. The whole experience was sandwiched between long work days and a slightly spontaneous 20-hours-in-the-car road trip to ROAM fest in Sedona. Needless to say, this girl felt pretty nuts about biting off more than she could chew and was worried that she would go off the rails from all the locura.
​
Luckily, in typical Mexican style, the TranSierra Norte crew had my gringa schedule covered with plenty of time built in for mid-race siestas.

I expected that the morning after I arrived would be just about my only chance to explore la ciudad de Oaxaca during my short trip, so I woke up as early as I could, and quietly built the bike, trying my hardest not to wake up my roommate, Krista, (I had woken her the previous night when I came in with all my bags, quite late, and not quite so gracefully). 
Once my steed was assembled, I jumped on and rode to el zocalo and bought some queso Oaxaceno, a few bolsas of mole and spontaneously had my face painted in honor of Dia de los Muertos. 

I was nervous about getting back to our hotel in time to make the shuttle, so I asked for a rush job on my face and sprinted up a rather steep hill climb from downtown in order to make it back just after noon. 
Of course as soon as I was back at the hotel, I realized I had plenty of time to kill, so into a taxi and off to a bike shop I went. Then lunch with friends: crickets, mole and cervezas were shared with gusto. 

We did finally load onto the bus shuttles to Benito Juarez, where we found more amazing food, and our cabins for the night.  A kind gent wandered from cabin to cabin offering to build a fire to keep us warm from the mountain air. I slept well and awoke refreshed for the 3 days of racing ahead. 
We eased into this race with the first few stages keeping us at higher elevations, in loamy single track that flowed as it twisted through the forest. The 4th stage was another story entirely. I had heard rumblings that this stage would be incredibly physical; long and technical. I wisely aired up my tires and settled in for a beat down. Easily one of my favorite stages of the race with deep gullies filled with jagged rock gardens- it was a hoot!
Days 2 and 3 were filled with more phenomenal trails, long shuttle rides to the top with gentle pedal transfers and plenty of opportunities to pass around an ice cold chela with new friends. There is an fast bond that develops in races like this when we all feel a little like family while we spend long days together in a foreign land. 
The trails were primo and generally consisted of 20 minutes of loam to flow to gnar gullies of loose, rugged rock garden. Basically everything. 
Red Bull was present, filming and providing us with tasty, ice-cold, energy in a can. I must admit that Red Bull is not typically my thing, but it sure helps you find motivation after a long shuttle transfer via Mexi-bus in the middle of the day. 

Do I regret my whirlwind schedule? Not really. I had an incredibly wonderful experience that left me wanting more. This has been one of the most FUN enduros I have ever participated in. So I have to go back ... that's nothing to be sad about. 
Until next time, nos vemos.

Its the end of the weekend and "mud-season" is full on. Each day feels like a gift during autumn in the mountains, like any minute we might get a big storm that covers the dirt up for the next 8-9 months. There's a certain desperation to get every high alpine epic in ... just 1 more time. I always want to savor every last autumn day in the High Rockies. 

Matt's alarm went off at 4:45 am and as he shuffled out the door to work, I managed to fall back asleep for a couple more hours.
When I did get out of bed, the sky was gray and I lounged for quite awhile. I knit quietly while listening to a book about the neurology of emotions. I also had a healthy dose of screen time and caught up on EWS Finale and Outlier Vail conditions. I drank tea and coffee and tried to make the day last.
The sky continued to look threatening, but by late morning, it seemed like things were about as dry as they were going get on the trail, so I rallied the dogs (or vice versa), and we rolled 30 feet down the rec path to our local trail network. The dirt was in premium shape and I wasn't the only one taking advantage of the conditions. There were a handful of hikers and families on the way to Rainbow Lake, and I opted to turn off the main trail and climbed steeply after the first 0.5 miles of so. I noticed fairly quickly that in addition to Sucia and Tucker, a new, large brown dog had joined my clan. I was planning to try to pedal up a section of trail that I usually only descend, but this would have taken me quite a ways from the direction that the big brown dog's family was likely to be coming from. So I executed a U turn and headed towards Rainbow Lake. Before long had passed, I encountered the dog's family, and we bid farewell to Hux, I apologized and made a comment about the dog trying to adopt us and his master thanked me and placed him on a leash, blaming the incident on Hux. I spun past the lake and started climbing up the switchbacks towards the cabin on Miner's Creek. The conditions in the draw were quite soggy and slick, but so much fun!

​A few miles of climbing and wouldn't you know it, Huxley found us again. Now I was in a bit of a pickle. I didn't know about his fitness and I hadn't a clue where his humans were at that point. I probably should have turned around and taken him right back to the lake, but I didn't want to miss out on an autumn ride. So I kept climbing and eventually, grabbed Hux by the collar and sent a text to the # listed there. I quickly got a reply text and we arranged to meet up after I ripped the 3 miles of descent back to a dirt road where they were able to rendezvous. 

Huxley proved to be a great trail dog and Tucker and Sucia delighted in the fine company. 
The skies were beginning to darken dramatically as I led Huxley back to his family. His master, Ben, shook my hand and thanked me. I was a little bit sheepish about puppy-napping him and apologized and bid Hux farewell. 
We ripped the last mile of trail home and were impressed by how the place had cleared out. Raindrops were starting to fall and the air grew quite a bit crisper. 
A warm shower felt quite nice, even though my frozen toes shouted in sharp pain as they warmed back up. 
Refreshed, I whipped up a batch of curried lentils and treated myself to a bowl as I listened to the rain intensify. 
Back to the screens and knitting, savoring the last hours of the weekend and the last days of fall, snow is beginning to blanket the dirt outside and I'm glad I was able to get out and enjoy what might turn out to be one of the last rides of autumn in Frisco. 

Vanlife seems to be nearing epidemic status this spring. Although I may secretly long for a full size, custom, 4WD Sprinter, its not a good time for me to sell the house or go deep into buyer's remorse. So we settled for a mini-van. We scored 'Roxanne the Van' with less than 10,000 miles on the odometer (we've managed to triple that number in the past 12 months). Last year we recreated all over the Western US and up to British Columbia. Usually I like to go against the grain and avoid lauding too strongly any new trend, however, we totally love our van! Its delightful to be able to pull over anywhere and grab some shut eye before the next adventure.
Say what you want about #vanlife, but I am sold.

The build:
2010 Ford Transit Connect, cherry red
Rhino Rack, Sun Seeker awning
Road Shower 2, solar shower
1Up USA, Heavy Duty Double hitch mount bike rack
Yakima cargo box (got it over 10 years ago at REI garage sale- not sure which model)
Yakima Front Loader, roof mount bike rack
Homemade interior subfloor and murphy bed that folds up and expands from a single to a double with plenty of storage underneath. 

What's your dream van?

I'd like to preface this by stating that I'm a big fan of quitting and I support those who quit fast and quit well. There are some decent theories that quitters are actually winners. Scroll to the bottom if you want to hear more about the benefits of being a quitter (Dubner, 2011). 
​
Last year was a tough year. Despite racing all over the world and having some pretty amazing support from friends, sponsors and my best pal/husband, I felt like I had a disappointing race season. No, I'm not quitting mountain biking or even Enduro racing. Not on your life. But I did just make the difficult decision to quit training for the Grand Traverse (yeah, I know, that's a ski race), AKA the GT, a 40 mile ski race from Crested Butte to Aspen, Colorado. 

It seemed like a great idea. How better to get fit in the off season? Who cares if I've never done any sort of ski racing in my life? My partner, Steph, was an inspiring endurance athlete and was looking to head into Ironman triathlon season with a leg up on training. I was thinking the same for Enduro. And it seemed like a great way to finally ski all the high alpine, spring lines I've been looking at, but haven't gotten around to skiing because by the time spring is here, its game on for training and race season.
You see, I live in a ski town. I started skiing right about the same time I started rock climbing and mountain biking and I used to split the 3 activities, (the trifecta), pretty evenly amongst the appropriate seasons. For the past 5 years or so, mountain biking has basically taken over my life. Indeed, it is an addiction. 
Well, life happens. And sometimes the opposite of life occurs and then your partner is left picking up the pieces of her life and at that point, you have to find a new partner as there is no solo category for the GT. 
I was lucky to happen upon Brooke, an absolute conundrum of a woman who is sweet as can be, but beast-like when you get her in some ski boots and point her uphill with a pack on. We were getting along great and knocking out long tours together. It was fun adventure. And then last weekend, a month out from race day, I planned a tour for us that included multiple high alpine passes and about 30 miles of navigation and (or so I thought) awesome views. We started a little late at 7:30am (in order to let the mercury rise above zero) and were each hauling about 4,000 calories and enough water to keep us going into the night. It was a beautiful morning and we were making good time on the heavily traveled trail, for about a mile or so. This evolved into breaking trail and navigating through thick trees. Sometime after noon, the weather turned foul with lower temps and strong gusts of wind. It was snowing lightly (and probably not at all at lower elevations), but up above treeline the wind churned up nasty ground blizzards and we had to brace ourselves against the gusts. This wasn't all terrible- 2 weeks before we had skied from Fairplay to Leadville in much stronger winds, but during that adventure we had warm temperatures (it was over 40 degrees and sunny most of that day), and visibility on our side. Now we were quickly becoming chilled as frequent GPS checks were necessary to make sure we weren't wandering under an avy slope in the blinding and cold conditions. 
Mid-afternoon came and I decided to call it and we reversed our route. Skiing down was slow going and in the space of 9 hours, we had only covered about 12 miles. 

Over warm beverages, we mutually agreed that the GT could wait for another year. Brooke seemed to be of the same mindset as myself, and I felt a weight float off my shoulders. We both giggled about how, although we had had fun during our not-quite-epic day, we wanted to have fun fun and go for a ski that involved making turns. I sipped my tumeric latte and basked in the feeling of having more free time and less stress in the coming month. 
​The next morning, we skied a delightful little couloir and we finally got to taste a bit of powder together. 

​I do not regret signing up for the GT. I have had some solid adventures with some rad women (and a few dudes). I have gained many season's worth of navigation and route planning experience in just a few months. And I got to ski a lot during a dang fine winter. The snow has honestly been a bit deep for fat biking, and I'm grateful to have had a worthy distraction. 
Do I regret my decision to quit? Not yet.  
Is there a very good chance that I won't learn my lesson and that I'm gonna sign up for the GT again? Of course. 

I'm a big listener of podcasts and my admiration of quitters stems from this episode of Freakonmics.  Give it a listen. 
Dubner, SJ (2011). The Upside of Quitting. Freakonomics Radio. Retrieved from http://freakonomics.com/podcast/new-freakonomics-radio-podcast-the-upside-of-quitting/.

Step 1: Know when to say when.
If you read my blog about how to tell if you have a concussion, you know that it is really easy to diagnose yourself with concussion and you'll never have a hard time knowing what is and isn't a concussion. Yeah right.
It's actually quite complicated and not always black and white, but in general, When in doubt, sit it out. Step 1 is really removing one's self from any further risk of harm. In a head-injured state, your balance, judgment and stamina are all compromised. Continuing to ride and (God forbid), compete, are a pretty good recipe for more serious injury.  

Step 2: Rest.
Easy peasy. A couple days off, in the thick of the summer, when all your friends are going to shuttle that ride. You know, the one we've been waiting for and the conditions are finally just right and so-and-so's girlfriend is going to drive. You get it: it can be hard to rest. Luckily, the latest research supports a graduated approach to rest as opposed to the concussion treatment of yester-year when we told athletes to sit in a dark room with no tv, cell phone or stimulation. Sound depressing? Well, depression can be a symptom of concussion and "cocooning" in a dark room is likely to make it worse.
I recommend to my concussion patients that they:
- Avoid any contact prone activity. This includes mountain biking, but does not include a gentle spin on a stationary trainer or a walk on the rec path. Google "second impact syndrome" if you're questioning the recommendation to avoid contact prone activities.
and
- Don't do the things that make it worse. If spinning on a stationary trainer makes the whole room spin, don't do it. If going to work and staring at a computer screen all day makes your head throb, don't do it (talk to your boss about perhaps modifying your duties, if possible, or just use some sick time).
- Have a good routine. Get a consistent (hopefully about 8 hours) amount of sleep every night. Eat regular, balanced meals and get consistent amounts of mild physical activity daily, like a gentle spin or a hike.

Step 3: Recover.
This is the tricky bit that science hasn't quite figured out (but its getting better, I swear!). Compared to how to help your brain recover from concussion, diagnosing concussion is a piece of cake. Most medical providers don't have a lot to offer to the typical concussion patient. I recommend catching up on those non-bike related hobbies (click here if you need any ideas) and using a step-wise approach to getting back in the saddle. There is absolutely no way to predict how long recovery from concussion might take for any particular person. That said, as a general rule of thumb, if you are not feeling mostly back to 100% two weeks after your head injury, its probably time to get help.
STEP 4: Know when to say help.
If you go to your doctor for a concussion that isn't getting better, there's a good chance you might meet a provider who is not aware of all the resources available to help manage head injury these days. Don't be afraid to speak up and ask for a referral to a concussion specialty clinic. Or ask if there is a specialist who can help with rehab in your particular area of need. More and more physical therapists and occupational therapists are helping with concussion recovery in areas like balance and memory. Behavioral health therapists can help with symptoms of depression. Optometrists and ophthalmologists can help with visual deficits. Don't be afraid to ask your primary care provider for a referral if they seem to be at their wits end and are telling you that you just need to rest and wait it out after many weeks of continued concussion symptoms. 

Do not despair: There is a lot of new and exciting science regarding concussion and we are getting better and better at managing this complicated problem.
Feel free to contact me or post a comment if you have questions about concussion, ImPACT testing or recovery.
Ride bikes and be well!

Each time another friend eats dust and admits that they hit their head, I experience an internal struggle. There's the mountain biker in me, competitive, familiar with head injury, and aware that they'll probably be fine if they just take it a little easy and drive on. And there's the clinician in me that understands that concussion is a multi-faceted, complex neuropsychiatric phenomenon that can have long-lasting sequelae and put its victims at immediate risk for further injury. Lastly, there's the scholar in me, who knows that there is SO MUCH that we have yet to understand about concussion, traumatic brain injury (TBI) and chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE). So I usually end up giving my friends some convoluted and tangential recommendations about how to treat themselves.

So here's exactly how to know, 100%, without a doubt, if you have a concussion. Yeah right.
1. Did you hit your head? [Yes] [No] [Not Sure]
Sadly, any answer to this question may or may not lead to a concussion. It turns out you don't have to hit your head to experience brain trauma. Energy can distribute through the body, after an impact to the back or some other body part and lead to movement inside the skull that causes the neurometabolic cascade of concussion. In so many of the high speed crashes that we have all experienced, we're left wondering if we did actually hit our head. Or we may not even think about the noggin because our ribs or back or pinkie finger are causing so much pain that it is distracting us from our most precious and fragile of organs.

​2. Is your helmet MIPs certified and free of previous crashes? A full face or a half shell? Black, pink or camouflage? Have you inspected it for damage? Were you not even wearing a helmet?
Guess what, doesn't matter. See #1- you don't even have to hit your head to experience a concussion. That said, helmets are amazing at preventing skull fractures and can certainly do wonderful things for reducing the risk of very serious TBIs like subdural, epidural and intracranial hemorrhage and hematoma, (which are all much more dangerous than concussion and potentially life-threatening). So if you answered that you weren't wearing a helmet, you might be an idiot. Please take an inteligence test immediatley. That said, helmet technology leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to concussion. So just because the pretty helmet is still intact and unscathed, doesn't really tell us what's going on inside your pretty brain. 

3. How do you feel? Dizzy, Foggy, Tired, Giddy, Sad, Angry, Headache, Nausea, Memory difficulty, Fatigue, Sensitive to light, Sensitive to sound, Balance problems, Trouble sleeping, Sleeping too much.
Above is a list of some potential concussion symptoms. This is not a comprehensive list. You do not need to have any of these symptoms to meet the criteria for concusion. And to further muddy the water, if you are suffering from a recent TBI, odds are that your judgement is impaired and it may be really hard to detect any symptoms.

So you may have already figured this one out, but if you suspect you have a concussion, then you probably have a concussion. There is no test for a concussion.** We have great tests for bleeding in your brain and fractures in your skull and one day, there may be something groovy like a genetic blood test to predict how susceptible you are to getting a concussion. But today, this doesn't exist. So, when in doubt, sit it out. There is no amount of sick trail or a podium high enough to be worth damaging your brain.
​
I started writing this post about a month ago and I almost didn't post it as I've seen numerous articles pop up about the subject and I thought we might be saturated with head injury articles. But then I was at the BME Finals this weekend in Crested Butte where I watched no fewer than 3 racers go over the bars right in front of me. In a small section of just 1 stage of a multi-day enduro. I thought a short, easy to read, write up could be helpful for those of us who like to self-diagnose. Here are links to Pinkbike and Outside magazine's more lengthly articles if you want to read more about how TBI can cause long term symptoms and how CTE is slowly killing athletes. 

​Think you have what it takes to complete a 6 day enduro directed by Megan Rose on the sickest trails interior BC has to offer? So did I. At various times during this #adventureofalifetime, I wasn’t so sure. Read on to learn how I managed to survive. 

​Step 1: Bring your skill set.
 
            The very first stage of the first day was quite a wake up call for me. I fully expected the Trans BC to be hard. Megan had sent emails detailing the 4-5,000 feet of climbing and upwards of 6,000 feet of descending we would be doing each day. But for some reason, I figured the trails would be intermediate to advanced as far as how technically demanding they might be. How could she expect us to be on our A-game for 6-8 hours each day, 6 days in a row?
            The first few turns on course were steep, off camber switchbacks in a freshly cut hiking trail. I came in hot and tipped right over. Luckily, the loam wasn’t too different from riding a fat bike in snow and I was able to sort of figure it out. I still managed to have 2 more crashes in that first stage, including an over-thebars that sent me way off trail (thanks for being so soft, loam!).
            At the bottom of that first stage, I learned that Sonya Looney, one of the females that I was betting on to podium, had flatted at the top and had made the decision to run most of that stage. I learned quickly that I needed to toughen up if I was going to survive this week-long race. 

​Step 2: Decisions you make the night before can have a huge effects on race day.
 
            Penticton wins the prize for my favorite trails of the Trans BC. Exposed, sharp, rocky cliff bands with blind drops and ledges are my sauce. I was having a blast. We had been forewarned that at least 25% of us would have a flat on day 2. I had planned to put on a second Vittoria Morsa with a DH casing to match the one I had on my front wheel. Out of laziness, I decided to increase the air pressure instead of swapping to a fresher, burlier tire. I was relishing in my wisdom as I dropped into stage 6 of 7 towards the end of the long day. After just a couple of fun, over-aggressive drops and pumps, I felt sudden sluggishness from the back end. I stopped to check and although not an epic blow-out (multiple racers had ripped off knobs and created large holes in their sidewalls in Penticton), my tire had gone entirely flat. I quickly pulled off the trail and tried to isolate where the tire had punctured or torn. No luck. Maybe it was too flat to tell where the repair was needed or maybe it had already sealed and I just needed to fill it back up. So I added a CO2 cartridge … or tried to. No air would go in and the CO2 was quickly spent. So I tried another. And then I was out of options and I elected to start running the trail. Sonya, who was sympathetic as she sped by, quickly passed me. Long story short, the flat was in the bead of the tire, and un-repairable. I was able to throw a tube in after running a kilometer or 2 to the kindest trail marshal in the world (thanks Tara!), and rode the rest of the stage without issue.
            In crystal clear hindsight, I should have put that heavier tire on. I was pretty sour to have lost about 18 minutes to my competitors and finished in last place on day 2. Lesson learned. Laziness never pays off.

​Step 3: Hold on to the bars
 
            Rossland, BC is a beautiful area. We started the day on the Seven Summits trail system and finished on an old school DH trail at Red Mountain Resort. I felt in my element again, but minus a competitive agenda. I knew there was no way to make a comeback from my 18ish minute flat tire time loss. So I elected to ride in a “lady train." Some other fun-loving ladyshredders and I elected to join forces and to drop into stages in rapid succession. This led to giggles and a little bit of friendly banter on course. Naturally, it also led to less painful transitions. This equals more fun.
            By the end of the day, I was struggling to hold on to the bars; forearm fatigue/arm pump was setting in and it would not let up for the rest of the race. Luckily, we had luxurious trailside condo at Red Mountain Resort, complete with hot tub to recover in. Trans BC was treating us right. But you can never do too many pull ups to prepare for an event like this.

​Step 4: Its good to be blind. Don't spend too much time scoping out your line.
 
            I loved this day of racing. It was a mixture of “well built” trail and scary, what-the-heck-am-I-doing-here trail. Stage 4, “Flume” was easily the most technically demanding trail of the day and my personal favorite. The name of the trail, “Flume,” is particularly ironic to me because the Flumes trails up here in Breckenridge are super buff, beginner friendly paths.
At the top of this particular stage, I was reminded of a valuable lesson; sometimes you ought not to look before you leap. The start of the stage was a mess of nervous women when I arrived. The overwhelming theme was, “I’m just gonna run this section, cyclocross-style.” The competitive side of my brain felt it prudent to be the chic that cleaned it. The rational side of my brain was telling me how starting the trail on foot instead of wheels down, was starting it off on the wrong foot. All signs pointed to “ride it!” Luckily I got to watch Meggie Bichard, Mical Dyck and Karey Watanabe (in her highly fashionable running shorts) all polish the section clean, inspire confidence in me. The rest of the stage went well despite a light rain. All in all, it was a really good day and I finished in 5th place.
Racing blind may be a strength of mine. Some of my greatest moments of technical skill have occurred on trails that were unknown to me. I think there is something to be said for not pre-riding and working myself into a tizzy about a particular feature or section of trail.

​Step 5: Remember that what goes up, must come down.
 
            It was our first day in Nelson and I knew I would do great things. Despite driving in a steady downpour from Rossland, I managed to remain optimistic. After all, this was my 5th day riding wet trail conditions and I was doing great. And my legs felt less fatigued than they had the previous day.
            As we stepped off our yellow school bus, I got some insider information from one of the course marshals that all of the wooden features on stage 1, “Powerslave,” were rollable and appeared faster than the go-arounds. I felt confident and inspired to do great things. The top of the stage was truncated on account of the soaking rain, which only acted to further inflate my hubris. Eventually, I had to come down from the imaginary podium I had built for myself.
            I hit the first wet, wooden feature and it was a steep one. Up and over I went, maybe a little slow, but I managed to clear it without having to pedal, brake or turn (which are pretty important steps when you are navigating greasy, wet rainbow arches). Upon exiting the feature, I hit the brakes on some slimy roots/rocks, and I sent myself flying. Hard. Head first into a tree. But the searing pain was coming from my leg (which turned out to just be a deep bruise). Suddenly I was a 4 year old, cold wet and hurt, just learning my way through the world. I had no idea how to ride a bike, let alone a mountain bike. On high speed, super techy, scarier than the boogie-man trails, I was completely lost and full of self-doubt.
            At the bottom of the stage, tears welled up in my eyes. I felt fatigued. Defeated. I contemplated quitting as we transferred to the next stage. I couldn’t pedal without great pain stabbing me in my right thigh. What was I doing here? This went on for the remainder of the day. 

​Step 6: You’ll get by with a little help from your friends, so have fun.
 
            We awoke to more rain. And we were still in Nelson, so I planned to have a real rough final day. I was pleasantly surprised to experience less pain in the bruised banana of a thigh that was attached to my right hip. So maybe I would make it through. The first stage was not my finest work; and I did a lot of walking next to my bike and a good bit of soul searching.
            On stage 2, I rode another lady train, this time, I was the chosen caboose. Somehow I was able to stay on the bike and things started to feel fun again. Halfway through "Swamp Donkey," the hail started. At the bottom of the stage there was a campfire and tents with bacon sizzling and whiskey begging to be tipped back in the rain. High fives and spirits soared when, just as suddenly as this bought of rain came, the sun came out and steam started to rise from all of our saturated bodies. 
            Stage 3 was fun. I rode my bike as best as I could. I rode fast, even though my arms were pumped, hands were numb and legs were bruised and battered. And my spirits soared. Riding bikes is the bees knees. Even when it breaks my character one day, another day it can turn everything around.

Now that I've had a week to reflect on the experience, I wouldn't change a thing. Ok, maybe I would have changed that tire for Day 2. But I wouldn't have changed the weather or my mental meltdown or the highly technical trails. Because I feel like I grew a lot at Trans BC, as a rider and as a person. I know that sounds more cliche than just about anything, but that's really how I feel. 
So many thanks to Megan, Ted and all of the Trans BC crew. Thank you to Tara, MK, Beth, Kathleen and the countless volunteers who were out there shivering and smiling everyday. And thanks to everyone who came to race. See you next year!

​​So here’s my shortlist of all of the feminine qualities that mountain biking has taught me to discover in myself:

4. Prettiness 
I’ll admit it: helmet hair, baggy shorts over a sweaty chamois, and some fairly atrocious tan lines are not classically feminine. Perhaps that’s why so many of us ladyshredders are out there with pigtails, unicorn socks and colorful kits. Before mountain biking, I felt like I had to hide my feminine features. After mountain biking, I tend to try to put them on display while I'm on the bike. Maybe I just like the contrast. 
5. Acceptance
Although you can do it alone, mountain biking is a very social activity. Like drinking beer, it's best to enjoy it with others in order to prevent a potentially unhealthy addiction. I personally look forward to group rides and races so that I can hang out with friends doing what we do best. And although we often come from regions near and far and we all have various idiosyncrasies, mountain biking is the great equalizer that brings us all together. 
6. Nurturing
Now that I’ve been mountain biking for a solid decade, I have the skillset and experience to teach and guide others. I am able to work as an instructor on one of the most technical bike parks out there and I volunteer coach beginner women with The Cycle Effect. Being able to nurture others into the sport is super rewarding and gives me a whiff of feeling like a proud mama-bear.
7. Passion
Before I found mountain biking, I dabbled in lots of things. But mountain biking has been my first real passion in life. It's something I go asleep thinking about at night and wake up looking forward to in the morning. There's a real good chance I'll dream about it tonight. ​