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.