This June, I’ll be observing my 10 year cancer-free anniversary. That’s a big deal. It’s crazy to think how much I’ve been through in that time, much less to think about what I was going through during and in between treatments. I endured six years of chemotherapy and in June, I’ll be 10 years out of the woods.
The amiable Fat Cyclist has a pretty cool tradition that he started in an effort to raise funds towards cancer research called 100 Miles of Nowhere. Every cycling destination seems to have a gimmick for endurance racing, with centuries, 24 hour, multi-day epics and a hundred variations on those themes. Fatty, in his typically absurd nature, decided he’d do a 100 mile race…
-in his basement.
And thus, 100 Miles of Nowhere was born.
It became a tradition that his faithful followers began doing in their basements, and then around their blocks and in other ridiculous locations for a race. The key was creating a crazy specific race category for your event, one in which ONLY YOU could possibly win (eg; 27-28 Male half way through grad school and 10 years off chemo).
I want to invite you to join me to celebrate, raise some money and ride some great trails. My 100 Miles of Nowhere will take on Sunday, June 8, in (an admittedly, non-ridiculous and actually really, really incredibly fun location) Phil’s World, an ideal location for group multi-lap rides. A few things to point out about the gathering and the riding:
- Don’t be intimidate by “100 miles”! The great thing about a loop system like Phil’s World is that you can make laps as long and as short as you like. Teams are encouraged for 100 Miles of Nowhere, so if you don’t think you have 100 miles in your legs, share the distance with a partner or two. The idea is that every gets to ride as much as they like and have a good time doing it.
- We want a festive atmosphere! Please come with fun things for the “pit zone”, aka the parking lot, the destination that all laps will pass through before heading out for me. This means bbq’ing, tasty treats, beer, music, (we might even bring our aerial dance rig!) etc.
- Phil’s world requests a $3 donation at the trail head for all non-annual members of Kokopeli bike club. Let’s throw them some additional cash for maintaining such awesome trails. You’ll understand why when you ride there…
- Unfortunately, there’s no camping allowed at the Phil’s World trail head. According to the BLM website, there’s camping “just back from the access point for Phil’s World” which is where we’ll probably end up.
- While this blog post, RSVP process and donation system are all very sophisticated, this is going to be a relatively bare bones event. The spirit is to get together, ride and have a good time. We’re not catering this thing. Bring food, gear, costumes, everything you’ll need for 100 miles in a somewhat remote location!
- The Dolores River Festival is happening Saturday, June 7 and if you’re coming for 100MoN, you might as well come early and watch Joan and I perform at DRF!
We haven’t established a fundraising goal and I don’t plan to get an official donation site up and running. I do ask, however, that if you decide to participate (and please do!), please make a donation to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Heck, if you’re reading this and can’t participate, please donate anyway! I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia at ages 8 and 13 and the research successes seen by this organization are partially responsible for me being here today.
More instructions will follow as RSVPs start to come in.
We hope to ride with you in June!
This Friday at midnight, hundreds of brave souls will voluntarily venture into a cold, hostile, barren environment. Many of them have been looking forward to the adventure all year long. Their collective goal? Travel, by ski, 40 circuitous, snowy, back-country miles and climb over 7,800 vertical feet to arrive at the Aspen base area smiling.
The Elk Mountain Grand Traverse (aka EMGT, aka GT, aka “the Traverse”) is an annual ski mountaineering race from Crested Butte to Aspen, CO. In the racing world’s seemingly endless search for “furthest”, “fastest” and “highest” superlatives, the GT is America’s oldest ski mountaineering race. It’s one that I’ve competed in four times and finished only twice.
The race can be brutal. It requires navigation of serious avalanche terrain in the dark. The race rules stipulate mandatory two-person teams rather than individual racers, as the dangerous nature of the event is somewhat decreased by traveling with a partner. Frostbite, gear failures and whiteouts have caused countless evacuations over the years, and occasionally the race changes format to an out-and-back loop due to treacherous, impassible conditions.
I’ve never had a really good race run in the Traverse. Twice my team had to turn around because of gear or body failures. The two times I’ve finished, my partner pulled me across the line (I was dragging ass) and I pulled my partner to Barnard, at which point he had to be evacuated on a snowmobile (he was dragging ass). In sum, none of these conditions were ideal and none left me with a satisfied, accomplished, “I (and my partner) really showed that race who’s boss” feeling.
That’s why, all the way in Flagstaff, Arizona, I’ll be watching at midnight on Friday. Racers are required to carry tracking devices and fans can watch their progress live online. I’ll be watching Smithy and Wick, JB, Billy, Ryter, the Western State Colorado University endurance ski team and all my other friends from back home, as they sprint up warming house hill and venture into the cold, dark night. I’ll feel their elation as they crest Star Pass and steel themselves in preparation for the decent into the basin below. I’ll feel the anxiety as the leaders take their mandatory 10-minute respite at Barnard Hut, nervously watching the trail behind them, strategically gauging their lead. And I’ll celebrate, with my hot coffee and fuzzy slippers, comfortable on the couch, as each of my Gunny/CB friends glides across that finish line in Aspen.
I’m looking forward to the night that I can once again step into my skis and try to raise my finishing average over .500.
“What’s it going to take to finish this thing and be happy when we’re done?” Sean asked in one of our many emails in the week before the start of the 16th annual Gore-Tex Grand Traverse. I had attempted the race three times prior and had finished once, so I became our teams de-facto expert on preparation.
I answered, “Maintaining a reasonable pace, remembering WHY we’re doing it, hitting the checkpoints before cutoffs, drinking beer when we’re done.”
Grand Traverse race preparation is a marathon. Honestly, it’s more stressful on the days leading up to the race start than doing the race itself. Gear, gear, gear. Spend all day at racer meetings and gear check. Try to nap. Eat and drink as much as you can, something that helps to prevent proper napping. Panic because you don’t have the right flavor 5-Hour Energy. Realize flavor doesn’t matter at 6am. Check, double-check, triple-check and quadruple-check your skin set up. Pack. Repack. Re-repack. Nap. Ugh.
After a day that passes in segments, it was time to head up to the start line. The start of the race is unlike any other event I’ve been a part of. Mostly because it takes place at the same time as the local radio station’s huge fundraiser, Soul Train. Imagine, hundreds of ski randonee racers lining up at the Crested Butte base area, preparing to ski 40 miles into the night, whilst hundreds of local crazies are halfway through their night of reliving the 70’s disco era. Afro wigs and headlights, bell-bottoms and speed suits, platform shoes and ski boots intermingled while Kool and the Gang echoed against the mountains. Quite the sight.
Sean and I made our way to the back of the pack aiming for a casual start. Our goal was to ski within ourselves and not get sucked into the racer mentality, risking too strong of a start and blowing ourselves out before the real challenge began. This strategy proved costly an hour into the race, where we had to battle recurring bottle necks through breakable crust over steep gullys and open meadows. Patients was key, as getting frustrated during this section of the race would only cause tension among teammates. We went with the flow and finally arrived on Brush Creek Road where the snow had been solidified and made travel much easier.
When we arrived on East Brush Creek, we decided it was a great opportunity to make up some time. I hadn’t expected the previous section to take so long, so we settled into a brisk pace and moved swiftly up to Friends Hut. Aside from a minor slip into an open creek (brrr!) the climb went well and we found ourselves at Friends an hour before the cut off time. We took the opportunity to replenish our water, to eat some food and to bundle up in defense against the wind that could be heard howling a thousand feet above. The climb up Star Pass promised to be steep and cold.
This is when I learned how hot Sean’s engine runs. From the start, he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He threw on a hoodie/windbreaker for a little while but complained of sweating and being too hot. Remember, we started at midnight. At over 9,000 feet and rising. At temperatures below freezing. He claims to have the metabolism of a 14 year old and this is good evidence. He used wind-pants and a windbreaker to head up Star Pass and later said he could have done without them. Wow.
We got to the top of Star and prepared to descend. I talked to a course marshal who told me we looked good for finishing. It was 7:20 am and we were about a third of the way into the race.
The drop down from Star Pass was a blast. The snow was choppy powder rather than the breakable crust we encountered earlier in the race. It skied really well, much better than the section did last year. We got down to the transition zone and joined about 10 other teams who had descended before us. There was a feeling of jubilation among the racers, because there were only two timed check points left, and those were well in the distance. With them so far away, it felt like we’d all surely make it to Aspen.
At this point, however, Sean began to cough. He had been suffering from a chest cold since earlier in the week. Keep in mind, this guy has one functioning lung. I knew his cold was going to be an issue, but it hadn’t seemed to bother him earlier on in the race. Maybe it was the cold air on the descent, but Sean was hacking severely from this point on. He had difficulty drawing a full breath and was constantly on the verge of vomiting I tried my best to maintain a pace that would bring us to the next check point in time without putting too much exertion on his suffering lung. We ended up pacing a couple of teams that were moving at a similar rate, which helped. I know how difficult it was for Sean to keep moving with his condition and he did a great job fighting through it.
The route took us through Taylor Flats and up Taylor Pass where the wind was fierce. We chose to keep our skins on for the brief descent which allowed us to climb up the subsequent Gold Hill without transitioning. Taylor and Gold are pretty short, but the steepness makes them true stingers. We put them behind us as quickly as possible.
At the top of Gold Hill, we ripped our skins for the third time and made the descent to the Barnard Hut. It was about 12:30 and at that pace, we were sure to make it to Aspen before the 4pm cut off at the Sundeck.
As we entered the checkpoint, a volunteer casually asked us how we were doing. “Fine except I can’t breathe,” replied Sean. The volunteer turned out to be a doctor and asked Sean if we could examine him a bit further. The doc was pretty blown away by our team, both of us being two-time cancer survivors, and offered Sean a treatment for asthma. I sat drinking soup and eating while the doc checked Sean out, wondering if we’d be allowed to continue.
Twenty minutes passed. I prepared our gear, refilled water and ate. I went to the medical tent to find Sean seated and inhaling from a tube that was releasing some sort of white vapor. It was making him feel better momentarily, but wasn’t curing the congestion and constriction in his chest. The realization started to sink in: the chest cold was winning and it didn’t look like our team was going to continue.
The doctor said, “Sean, I think we’re going to have to take you out on a snowmobile.” To this, Sean replied, “That doesn’t mean HE has to go out on a sled, does it?” Generally, teams aren’t allowed to continue without both members. The nature of back country travel is too dangerous for individuals to head out alone and the race organizers have stated that only teams of two are allowed to continue. Luckily, Sean’s very charismatic. He explained our mission, to compete to raise funds for Cancer Climber. He added that this was my fourth GT and that I was very knowledgeable about the course. The section remaining was very benign as far as back country travel goes, as it follows a jeep road all the way to the sundeck.
The decision was made to let me continue on. Not giving the officials a chance to rethink their decision (not that they would have, the route had no major challenges or potential avalanche danger remaining), I thanked Sean for his super-human effort, stepped into my bindings and began the final leg of the journey.
I felt GREAT. The pace we had been setting through the night was a finishers pace, certainly not a high-placer’s pace. We were strolling, largely because of ‘ole one-lung’s handicapping cold. When I got the go-ahead from race officials, I took off like it was a 100 meter dash. And continued at that pace. Up and over each minor climb on Richmond Ridge, plowing over the whooped out snowmobile troughs that have been known to make grown men cry and carrying past the heartbreaking flats between. I got in the zone and got to the sundeck in amazing time.
At the sundeck I ran into three other teams, in various stages of celebration and exhaustion. We knew we had made it, and everyone shared that stupid, aww-shucks grin of a school boy that got away with a solid prank, or maybe just stole a kiss from that girl he likes. Joy abounded. Jokes were made during the slow, much less urgent transition from up to down, and I eventually stepped down into my bindings and pulled on my goggles for the final decent. The decent into Aspen. A place where the beer flows like wine (unless they run out! Yeah, I arrived so late that the kegs had been kicked. WHAT?!? Luckily Joan was on hand to grab a PBR for me before I turned around and stormed back to Crested Butte), where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. ASSSSSSPEN!
The descent was glorious. I reveled in the corn. I hooted and hollered as a overtook fellow racers, offering what encouragement I could in an effort to make their burning legs hurt a little bit less. I was there. I was going to make it! For me. For Sean. For Cancer Climber. For all the patients, young and old, going through treatment. Cancer Climber for the win!
My face was still plastered with that silly grin as I crossed the finish line. The journey was complete. Sean was there, arriving earlier via snowmobile, already in his signature flip-flops, to give me a big congratulatory hug. “Next time I won’t be sick,” he said. “Doesn’t matter,” I said, “We gave that thing hell for as long as you could. I’m amazed you made it as far as you did in your condition. Great effort, dude.”
Cancer Climber will be back to the Grand Traverse. We’re used to adversity, we can handle challenges. We met our goals we set from the start: Maintain a reasonable pace: check. Even if it was slower than we could have gone because of illness, we made progress and would have finished in time. Remember WHY we’re doing it: check. Especially through the dark, beautiful night, I took the time to think about loved ones who have battled cancer. Some have won, some have lost. Remembering those battles fueled my strides and with each step along the way, cancer patients were with me. Hit checkpoints before cutoffs: check. Maybe we didn’t proceed as a team past Barnard, but technically, we reached every checkpoint before the cutoff time. I guess the sundeck has a cutoff too, but come on. We did damn good. Drink beer when we’re done: check. PBR never tasted soooo good. Next year we’ll be more prepared and healthier. Look out, GT’14.
Planning and packing is half the excitement in taking a trip. The possibilities are so vast and the potential experiences seem endless. I’m deep in this stage currently.
- What do I need? What can I leave? Is this the right gear? What would I really like that maybe I’m forgetting? The constant checking and double checking of gear and supplies is a daily chore, a light humming in the back of my mind. I’m glad I already love gear, cause I’m starting to accumulate a bit more. And luckily, I have tons of friends who have offered the use of some bits and pieces.
- Flights. Security. Bags. All fun stuff. Yes, a big part of my job is travel related, so I’m pretty used to navigating airports and packing efficiently. Still, that bit of anticipation comes through and gives me a mild case of the jitters. Passport doesn’t expire for five more years, so I should be good.
Taking care of home
- Oh! I have a dog! What should I do about little miss Friday? Luckily I have an awesome roommate in SJohnson and my family lives in town. Add to that a landlord who loves Friday and she ought to be well taken care of.
- Mail, bills, work, etc. Most of those things can be put off for an opportunity like this. Hello, “Out of office auto-reply”, you’re my new best friend. Automatic bill pay is a close second.
As my friend LJ says, “There’s so much to feel in the beginnings and endings.” I’m feeling it all now. More to come.
As a very influential mentor has told me throughout our relationship, “It’s all about the gear.”
In a recent presentation at work, this sentence came up: “You wouldn’t hit the trails without the right gear, so why would you prepare for (x) without being equipped with the right (y)?”
Both true statements. Gear is an essential part of any outdoor pursuit, especially one as extensive and grueling as a 19,000 foot peak. But gear is not just material. Many (most?) atheletes consider their bodies a piece of equipment as well, something they’ve sculpted and altered over the years in an attempt to get the most efficient and well-tuned machine possible. Hence, training.
This post is more about material gear. I’ve been sent a detailed equipment list by the folks at Cancer Climber. I’ve been collecting gear since I was on training wheels, but I’ve still got a few items to pick up:
- Trekking boots- Embarrassing. I’m selected to go on an expedition such as this and I lack proper trekking boots. I have great trail runners and solid approach shoes. When I go on a snow climb, my plan is to ski and thusly, I wear ski mountaineering boots. I currently don’t have a pair of water proof, warm, hikeable boots. I need to get these, and spend some quality time breaking them in.
- Fleece/Synthetic pants- I need clarification on this item. I’m not sure if I’m looking for a downfill pant or something else. They need to be full zip, and I’m guessing pile works.
- Shell pants- The theme of this post seems to be my bottom half lacking necessary equipment (don’t make that into a joke). I have solid bib shell pants, but I don’t think that’s the type of pants that should be lugged up the mountain.
- Glacier glasses- Function over fashion, right? I have good wrap around polarized perscription sunnys that should work for this UNLESS glacier glasses are absolutely necessary.
- Closed cell foam pad- I will also use my self-inflating Exped SynMat Basic 7.5, but in addition to this I need a closed cell foam pad as a ground layer. Should be easy and cheap to pick up.
That’s it for gear I’m lacking.