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kismet cliff run - full race report

Featuring over 4000 feet of climbing, including three straight miles of uphill along the Red Ridge and Moat Mountain Trails, and topping out at 3,196 feet at the summit of North Moat Mountain, the Kismet Cliff Run Long Course (13-14 miles) certainly deserves its self-designated "Beast of the East" moniker. Let me tell you, little running happens here. My race report follows. As always, I am too wordy and the report is too long. But alas, I want to remember every moment. I want to be able to read this in a year, before the next running of the race, and remember how much this race hurt.

Course map. [courtesy of Kismet Cliff Run website]

The setting for the start/finish, heck, the setting for the entire race, takes place on gorgeous terrain. Standing on the eastern shore of Echo Lake, with White Horse and Cathedral Ledges looming in the background, rays of sunshine breaking through the tall pines behind us, blue sky and fluffy clouds floating overhead, and the calm waters of the lake lapping at the sandy shore, we eagerly awaited the start, nervous laughter filling the air.

At around 10 am, we gathered for the pre-race talk, which consisted of a rehash of the course description. I had spent much of my free time during the week reading and re-reading the course description for the race. Nothing about it sounded easy; never having run or hiked these trails before, I had no idea what to expect. Except pain. And suffering.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intimidated. This was going to be one big suffer-fest on unfamiliar trails, and hearing the race director describe his course made me realize that this guy would enjoy looking at the race photos, our tongues hanging out of our mouths and eyes rolled back in their sockets. Sadistic is too gentle a word when describing the glint in Gabe's eyes and the snicker in his voice as he told us about the steep climbs, the wet rock, the exposure, the stream crossings… "No matter what happens out there, you'll all PR today [because this is the first running of this race]." Translation: "You're going to come in much later than you think you will, if you finish at all."

"How long is this going to take us?" Michael asks me. "Between three and six hours?" I reply. Michael goes off to the front, whereas Ian and I settle into the middle of the pack and agree to start off at a moderate pace. As the course description states, "Careful not to take off too exuberantly, or there may be much suffering in store for you…"

Pre-race talk. [photo credit: Brian Post]

"Runners set. Go." And we're off. For the first mile-and-a-half, Ian and I glide over the gentle trail through the pine-needled forest, picking our way around other runners as we establish a good rhythm. I'm breathing hard already but I attribute it off to the cool morning air. We emerge from the woods for a brief section on pavement before taking a sharp left turn and re-entering the forest.

And BOOM! The trail heads straight up! No one is running anymore, and as far as I can see ahead, a long line of people are picking their way uphill, grabbing onto rocks, roots, and tree trunks to help hoist themselves higher. I go into power-hike mode and start moving quickly, running anything remotely flat. I pass Ian, who had pulled a short way ahead of me, and hear him say, "There he goes!" I'm sure I'll see him again; the guy is a monster on the downhill sections. Little do I know what the day has in store for him…

I crest Cathedral and miss a turn. I don't go too far but I lose a bunch of places that I had gained on the way up. Psychologically, though, I am in a good place, as I know I can catch and pass them all on the next uphill section. We fly downhill and into the saddle between Cathedral and Whitehorse, and sure enough I regain my position on the climb. I settle into a good pace with three other guys and near the top of Whitehorse, a man tells us that we are four minutes behind the leaders. "The gap's only going to grow!" I manage to yell out between gasps for air.

We lose one of our group cresting Whitehorse, and on the descent on the Red Ridge Link, my two companions leave me in the dust. These guys are FAST, but I'm sure I'll catch them on the uphill -- it's the mantra I'll use to reassure myself all day. I pass Michael on this section and continue downhill, occasionally catching glimpses through the trees of the blue and gray shirts of the two super-descenders ahead of me. And BOOM! I slam my right quad into a hidden log protruding from the trailside. It stops me dead in my tracks and I take a second to collect myself. I look around, one of those moments of self-consciousness: did anyone see me do that? No? Okay, whew! I shake it off and keep running. Eleven miles to go - I hope my quad survives the next uphill, which arrives all too soon.

I turn left onto the Red Ridge Trail and start the climb up to North Moat Mountain. Sure enough, I catch the two guys ahead of me and decide to stick with them for the time being. They keep a good pace and I don't have to push myself too hard. Could I, or should I, be going faster? We pick our way over boulder fields and occasionally climb up and over huge walls. Once above treeline, I pause to look around. Far off in the distance, Echo Lake looks like a tiny puddle nestled into the landscape. Clear skies lend views to faraway lands, but time is of the essence and I continue on. The warm sun feels good, and from time to time, I look back behind us to see if anyone is catching up. For the time being, we're still alone, but eventually I see miniature-sized runners emerging from the woods and joining us on the ridge. And then I make the mistake of thinking ahead to a climb that we'll encounter toward the end of the race, and my body immediately shuts down, reminding me of the psychological aspect of long-distance running. It takes me a few minutes to coax my body out of energy-conversation mode and back into full-on race mode.

My watch died just before the summit of North Moat Mountain, but you get the idea!

Just before topping out on North Moat, my GPS watch dies… Yep, I guess I forgot to charge it this week. Oops! I turn downward and see the wet slabs of granite that form the trail for the next few miles; the rain storm that passed through overnight has turned this section into a steep slip-and-slide. To say that I descend slowly is an understatement. My two super-descender companions quickly disappear and I let them go, this time unsure as to whether I'll see them again. I just know that I'll break several limbs if I try to follow them. I pick my way down, grabbing trees and branches left and right, forced to scoot on my butt in a few places. A young college kid catches me and I let him pass. We run together for a bit until I stop to retie my shoe and he disappears. Before long, I hear pounding footsteps behind me and another runner passes me. He pulls away, too, though at this point we re-enter the woods where the footing drastically improves and I stay close behind.

We hit the bottom and run alongside Lucy Brook. I find my stride, picking up speed and picking off runners as I go. I feel as if I'm floating over the trail; I easily dodge the rocks and roots that lie patiently on the ground, wanting to trip us up. I run straight through the mud and huge puddles of water and eventually make two stream crossings, both with ice cold water up to my thighs. Feels. So. Good. After the second crossing, I find myself running uphill in the middle of a small stream. If there was ever any doubt about how much rain came down last night… I eventually hit the bottom of the Red Ridge Link, and I fire up the engines. I take off running uphill and pick off a few more runners. Whereas they're all walking and hating every minute of it, I keep running, twisting that psychological dagger in deep. I remember reading many years ago about the positive effects of smiling when cycling uphill, and so I smile, both because it lifts me up and because I'm having fun. I like running uphill!

I end up catching one of the duo of fast descenders and find out that he's completely out of food and hurting badly. I lighten my load and hand him a pack of Clif Bloks before taking off again. Near the top, I catch the second of the duo. I make sure to sprint by him, hoping that it doesn't come back to bite me during this last segment.

The final miles, chock full of fast, technical descending, are uneventful, save for a bee sting that comes minutes after I decide to take off my shirt. What timing! I learn that I'm in ninth place and I push on, determined to keep my place and perhaps catch the guy in front of me; I can just make out his white shirt in the distance. But as I close in on him, the trail opens up and levels out; he takes off and maintains his lead. I end up finishing in a time of 2 hours and 50 minutes. I'm completely psyched to have broken 3 hours! And later on in the afternoon, I learn that I've finished third in my age group. Sweet!

Michael comes in about 15 minutes after me, and as we munch away on our post-race burritos, we trade stories and Michael tells me about the way Ian came flying down the steep granite section off of North Moat. "So did you pass him after that?" I ask. "No." And it slowly dawns on us that something is not quite right.

We wait a bit before loading up our packs with food, water, and warm clothing, and heading into the woods. We ask incoming runners whether or not they've seen him, and after endless negative responses during our 2 miles of hiking in, we decide to go back to the finish line to come up with a plan B. With a call to NH Search & Rescue imminent, Ian finally emerges from the woods with two other runners. In good spirits, they recount their mishap, which involved a missed turn on the course and consequently, a second ascent of North Moat. A lot of extra climbing, and a handful of extra miles. But they are safe and that is what matters.

We could not have asked for a more beautiful day, or for a more beautiful place to run. Thanks to Gabe and Heidi, co-race directors, and everyone else who made this event possible. I cannot wait to come back and run this again; in fact, the race organizers already have a date: September 22, 2013. Who's in?

Eric Nguyen, SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

September 23, 2012

From summer, with love

And that's a wrap for summer. With the first big, inky-black rain of fall soaking Washington state, it's easy to curl up in, well, SmartWool long-johns and ski socks on the couch and let the seasonal transition happen outside.

This summer was one for the books for me, culminating in three amazing weekends to send it out the door. Here are some postcards from my weekend adventures around the Northwest. From summer, with love.

Ozette Triangle, Washington Coast:

High Divide Loop (Seven Lakes Basin), Olympic National Park:

Whistler Bike Park, closing weekend:

Run Free!

Yesterday, I went on a trail run/hike. I decided not to argue with the weather gods about the fact that it's December and one week from Christmas yet warm enough to venture out on the trails in a lightweight jacket. Is this for real?!? Instead, I slipped into my SmartWool HyFi Full Zip and pulled on my beanie, charted out my 8mi trail run/hike and ventured outside for some much needed time in nature.

I've seriously been enjoying any opportunity I have to run from point A to point B without having to double back or loop back to my original starting point. And despite recent failures in this attempt, I'm still excited about any chance I get to simply set myself in a direction and go.

It really was a wonderful Sunday outing. Nash joined me and we started at the Yellowstone Country Club, snuck up to the rims on the secret trail, ran across the top through Indian Cliffs and Zimmerman Park, ran back down another secret trail into the old country club neighborhood and ended at home. It was the perfect little mini adventure.

Running (and cycling) always gives me a lot of time to think: About nature, about life, about what matters, about proper running form. When it comes to trail running, I keep a couple different recommendations in mind. The first I call "The Phoebe Running Style." Her's involves wildly flailing your arms and running 'until you feel like you legs are going to fly off.' It also helps to start every run by saying, "Come on!! That's not running! Let's go!!!" (For proper description of her style, refer to 1:06 on the video.)

North Face ultra-runner Nikki Kimball may not subscribe to the Phoebe Style of Running but she has some helpful tips of her own, specifically for downhill running. I had a chance to run with Nikki during a training camp in the Bridger Mountains and her helpful tips continue to stick with me every time I'm on a trail. Come to think of it, The Phoebe Running Style does look suspiciously similar to Nikki's recommendations for downhill trail running...

I kid but there is some truth to Phoebe's approach. Part of the reason that I love getting on trails is that I get to be in nature. There's something incredibly important (and healthy) about unplugging from the world. But I also feel like running is a little less of a chore and a little more of an adventure. I feel like I'm a kid again, discovering hidden trails down the rims, running up and down, zig-zagging between the trees. I think there's something incredibly important to feeling like a kid whenever possible. I'm not saying we shirk responsibility, but I'm convinced that figuring out ways to have some good ole fashioned fun is part of the overall health equation. Next on the list, snow angels.

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Originally posted in livingtheactivelife.com on December 17, 2012

140 Characters of Travel

This weekend, I got my run on. Yesterday and today, I slogged out an hour on the treadmill. It was anything but fun. But, slowly but surely, I'm working my way back from this dang flu that took me out for nearly a month. And with each passing minute, I'm building back my strength and endurance. At this point, me and my ever willing Golden Retriever are going on walks, but I'm taking my time getting back to running outside. I have no interest in relapsing and it has been cold enough to make my lungs overwork and lead to coughing fits. So, naturally, by spending that much time inside, on the hampster wheel, my mind tends to wander to happier places. Or, in some cases, unhappier places.

This time of year, in the midst of snow and sub zero windchill, I think back to my epic dogsled trip in Greenland. It's hard to believe it was nearly four years ago in 2009 that I stepped off a plane in the middle of nowhere Greenland (Constable Pynt to be specific) to wind up on a dogsled not 24 hours later to ultimately endure 14 unplanned hours of pushing 500 pounds of gear and equipment down a fjord full of four feet of freshly fallen snow in unknown but incredibly bitter temperatures. It was beautiful and cold. It was quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever done, physically and emotionally. And it serves as a reference point and a reminder for whenever I'm doing something difficult and I'm struggling to find my motivation to go on....and believe that I'm capable of going on. As, I pound out miles on the treadmill, I think about how it sucks but it isn't nearly as difficult as trudging through snow, unable to feel my toes while I push a sledge forward, one foot (or meter) at a time.

The challenge: tell a travel story in a tweet. The results: funny, dreamy, inspirational. Read the best of #TLStory: tandl.me/VPdhe1

— Travel + Leisure (@TravlandLeisure) January 20, 2013

So, later, when I was scrolling through my twitter feed and came across a Travel + Leisure post (@travlandleisure) soliciting 140 character tweets of interesting travel experiences, I immediately had an idea to tweet about my Greenland trip. That whole three week adventure could be a book. Heck, that dogsled trip alone could be a book. So, why not try to capture the trip in 140 characters?

March. 4ft of snow. 14hr 50km 1st ever dogsled, airport 2 Ittoqqortoormiit. 1 hot dog, a candy bar & tea. COLD #TLStory twitter.com/theactivelife/…

— livingtheactivelife (@theactivelife) January 21, 2013

So, what about you? What's your best 140 character adventure?

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Originally posted in livingtheactivelife.com

Coming Full Circle

Goodbye 2012, hello 2013! Coming full circle with #ayearinmysocks. Started the year outside and began the next in my happy place: playing outside, by a river (albeit frozen) in/near the mountains, soaking in an epic view. I hope your's was just as sweet!

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Snow Day

It's been a particularly dry winter so far. Even though the mountains have been neglected, it hasn't been all bad. The lack of snow has meant that we have been able to get out and hike and trail run without having to bundle up in down parkas. In fact, I've been getting by just wearing my midweight SmartWool jackets. But, the truth is that it just doesn't feel like the holidays without a layer of fresh white stuff.

Luckily, winter showed up just in time for us to have a white Christmas. If fact, it seemed like winter greeted the entire country just in time for Santa's Delivery. Unfortunately, so did a nasty head cold. I'm just starting to feel like myself again. Regardless, it was a wonderful holiday and luckily, I was especially able to enjoy it vicariously through our golden retriever Bodhi.

There's nothing that compares to the joy of a dog frolicking through the snow. Despite battling a cold, I couldn't get out of taking Bodhi out for walks. But, it was totally worth it since watching him be so excited about walking in the snow made me nearly forget about my foggy head.

He has a ritual on nearly every walk that involves chasing bunnies...and squirrels and pretty much any other small furry mammal. But, when it snows, he tends to get a little side tracked. First, he scoops up snow as he trots along. I'm not sure if he's particularly thirsty or just loves the novelty of scooping up this cold, solid thing that immediately starts to melt when it hits your tongue. Second, if he has a bone (or any sort of treat), he promptly tries to 'bury' it under the fluffy white stuff. And, lastly, no walk ends without making some snow angels. This basically involves running and then diving into the snow and rolling back and forth while making a running motion in the snow.

It doesn't have to snow for Bodhi to remind me to appreciate the little things in life. Most dogs are good about reminding us humans about unconditional love and about living for life's simple pleasures. But, Bodhi also reminds me to run and explore like I'm a kid again. He reminds me that it's always a good time to go for a walk and get outside. And, he helps remind me ignore poorly timed head colds and to embrace the shorter days and colder temperatures and simply appreciate the wonder and beauty (not to mention fun!) of this mysterious fluffy stuff that falls from the sky.

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Originally posted in livingtheactivelife.com on December 25, 2012

backyard adventures: building a quinzhee

Haven't had a chance to winter camp in a while, but I've been getting the bug bad, and with the recent snow "storm" (read: 5 inches of snow on the ground), I decided to build a quinzhee in my backyard. It is not an easy task to complete solo when there is no snow base. In total, I probably spent about six hours building this thing.

I started out my putting on my snowshoes and stomping out a large circle, about seven or eight feet in diameter. This would account for a large enough space for me to lie in when I finished, plus one-foot-thick walls. I quickly morphed the base into more of an oval base, as I did not need the quinzhee to be as wide. I laid down a large garbage can into the middle to make the process of hollowing out the quinzhee easier (though I made some mistakes here… more on this below), and then began to pile on the snow.

I quickly ran out of snow in the corner of the yard I had selected for the snow shelter, and soon I was traipsing all over the yard, piling snow onto a tarp, and then dragging it back to the fledgling quinzhee. I quickly realized that I would not accomplish my goal of a six-foot-tall shelter. It would require more snow and more time than I had. Nonetheless, I piled and piled on the snow, eventually getting a four-foot-tall dome that I thought would suffice. Forget being able to sit up in the quinzhee; I just had to be able to crawl in and lie down.

The next morning, I began the process of carving out the inside of the quinzhee. Another Ideal that I had to ignore: when possible, create the opening such that the top of the entrance is lower than the sleeping chamber. This allows the cold air to sink down lower than where you are lying. Again, not enough snow to make this happen. (I read recently that no matter how cold it gets outside, the temperature inside a quinzhee will never drop below 28˚. Is this for real?!)

I dug straight in, eventually reaching the end of the garbage can. I began to dig around the bin, creating enough space to begin wiggling the can out. Once I extracted it, I would have a nice hollowed-out space that I could expand. A few mistakes:

(1) I allowed the snow to pack down pretty hard on top of the garbage can, which made the process of digging it out more difficult than it had to be.

(2) The garbage can has a tapered shape, narrower at its bottom than at its top. I was digging from the bottom end, so as I dragged the can out, I had to make the hole bigger and bigger.

(3) The garbage can had handles that jutted out from its side, and the handles kept digging into the ceiling and floor of the quinzhee, thereby halting the extraction process.

Post-garbage-can-extraction. I had to dig out a small window on the far end so I could alternate pulling and pushing the garbage.

Time and patience were key; I eventually removed the garbage can. And then I kept digging. And digging. And digging. Moving between a shovel, trowel, and ice axe, I carved snow off of the walls and ceiling, frequently pausing to move the snow outside the quinzhee. Oh, how I wish I had someone else there to help with this!

I put foot-long sticks into the sides and roof of the quinzhee so that as I carved out the inside, I knew when I was getting close to the outside. Apparently, one-foot-thick walls are pretty strong. Plus, I wanted to have as much space as possible in my already-too-small quinzhee.

Just long enough that I can fit inside, completely sheltered from the elements.

As I reached those sticks, I smoothed out the walls and ceiling, eliminating any sharp points where melting water would drip into the interior. Definitely do not want to be sleeping under a steady drip of water! When I finished digging out the inside, I removed the sticks and used my ice axe to widen the holes a bit for ventilation.

A view of the sky from one of the ventilation holes in the ceiling.

As you can see, it's not super tall, but I can crawl in and lie down comfortably. Two people can fit in there, but it's cozy!

Today, I went out for a hard run and then came back home to take a nap. I spread out a small tarp inside the quinzhee, put a Therm-a-Rest Z-lite pad on top of the tarp, and then laid out my sleeping bag on top of that. I climbed in and within minutes, I was toasty warm and fast asleep!

Here I am, bundled up in my sleeping bag, just having woken up from a nice long nap.

Eric Nguyen, SmartWool Athlete Ambassador January 1, 2012

Urban Trekking in B.C.

(A view from Jenny's apartment in Yaletown.)

This past weekend, I made my way back to the Pacific Northwest to visit a couple friends in Vancouver, B.C. It was a quick trip from Friday to Monday and we left a lot to be explored. But, it was also a great opportunity to reconnect with good friends and put on my tourist hat again.

I was especially excited about this trip for a few reasons. First of all, I was getting to see two of my best friends from college. I got to see them earlier this year at Jenny's wedding in San Diego and while we had a wonderful time, we didn't get to spend a lot of time catching up.

Second, I was getting to head back to the NW. Generally, I'll jump at any opportunity to travel back to my second home, especially this time of year when it's so dry in Montana, you feel like you just might break in half you're so brittle. I didn't mind that I might be headed toward drizzle and grey skies if it meant I could enjoy a little bit of moisture!

Lastly, I was getting out of the country. Yes, I wasn't traveling too far from home to somewhere exotic. But, as silly as it may sound, I made a promise to myself at the beginning of the year that I would get out of the country. I knew I had a ridiculous travel schedule in 2012 consisting mostly of weddings and didn't know how I would make it happen or more importantly where I would go. But, since it had been three years since I last traveled abroad (to Iceland and Greenland), I was getting restless. So, while Canada might as well be considered a distant cousin of Montana's, since I had to use my passport to get through customs, I would say it counts as much as anything.

During our mellow three days together, I was reminded why I love to travel. I love to see new things, go new places, and meet new people. So, I usually wind up trying to cover as much ground as possible. I have to admit that I often have to remind myself (or be reminded) that it's ok to sit still for a moment. Even though I know that it's impossible to see everything and go everywhere, I still try. I love to walk everywhere I can when I'm traveling and hop on and off every mode of transportation possible: planes, trains, buses, bicycles, boats, tuk tuks, dogsled. This time, we even took a water taxi from Vancouver to Granville Island to check out the market.

I love getting lost and then stumbling upon a side street or a market or a little hole in the wall shop or cafe that I never would have found had I been looking for it. I call this 'Urban Trekking.' The same way I like to bushwhack in the wilderness and stumble upon a mountain lake or a breathtaking vista point, when I'm in a new city, I like set myself in a direction and go and see what I find.

This time, I uncovered Stanley Park. Admittedly, since it was winter and my friend originally hails from California, we spent the majority of our time tearing up the asphalt. Had it been summer, we would have ventured up Grouse Mountain. Instead, we took in the view from the Top of Vancouver. But, on my last day in town, I headed to a large green spot on the map and found myself at Prospect Point in Stanley Park. It was breathtaking. Even though it was lightly drizzling and overcast, it was warm enough to wear my SmartWool hooded HyFi (in fact, I lived in my SmartWool all weekend) and take a run down the trails, through the tall evergreens to the seawall. Despite the weather, people were out walking and running. And, for me, the weather made everything feel calmer and pristine. Despite my inherent need to keep moving, I couldn't help but stand and soak it all in. And despite it being a short trip, it was amazingly wonderful. When I finally tore myself away to finally head home, I said a silent 'see you soon' and made a mental note to come back soon.

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Originally posted in livingtheactivelife.com on December 12, 2012

The Bike Room

Until a week and a half ago, our master bedroom in our two-bedroom apartment atop Seattle’s Fremont Hill, was the “bike room." A cozy, yellow-lit den housing all things shiny and mechanical, hydrolic and hydro-formed and carbon fiber and aluminum, rubbered and lubed and trued upon which our bike world was built. Part garage, part shop, part classroom, part stable. It smelled of mud and beer and citrus degreaser and on rainy nights I’d curl up in the dingy loveseat and watch Billy through a haze tinker with the bits on a half built steed.

Early on, when its contents were lean.

Rarely was the bike room tidy. But always it was organized in a way with its piles and clear tubs overflowing with bars, seats, grips, stems, posts and pedals---the delight of friends and bros who were over to have their own prized possessions serviced, re-bridled or re-shod. The work bench and drawers were kept strictly neat, as they held the tiny constituent parts and small tools.

Three large industrial mats protected the floor from the constant drizzle of grit and grime and chain lube. Ride and topo maps were tacked to the walls. And the bikes that were running also hung from the walls, preferably not too muddy. Those waiting patiently for parts stood or balanced on the floor or hung from the stands.

No bike ever kept its full spec for long. Parts were always being shuffled as new frames came in and old ones went out in the hands of stoked customers. Components arrived glinting, and were sold “gently used.” Two items were not to be sold: the hardtail frame that Billy helped design for Diamondback, and which was proudly displayed over the door, and the Mission frame with his name emblazoned on it.

And so, the bikes, built-up and in pieces, were shuffled constantly, before rides, after rides, in the evenings when they were next up for a swap of parts.

I didn’t always sit in the loveseat while Billy worked. Sometimes I sat on the floor learning how to fix a flat tire. I was always forced to struggle first. But that pop when the beads set meant victory. I learned how to build a cassette in that room; how to tighten down rotors; how to properly lube a bottom bracket. I learned how to install cranks; what ISCG stands for; and that servicing forks is a little like surgery. I learned that the ability to twist and turn and flip allen wrenches with your fingers like a real mechanic takes years to finesse and that, as I’ve told you, it’s all about getting leverage to break the crank bolt loose.

Oh, and that it’s my responsibility to keep my own bike clean.

In a way, the bike room was the nucleus of our ride world, the warm heart of activity and parts that made it all possible. It was the nexus point where experiences collided. Rides started and ended in that room. Muddy Bellingham shuttle days. Dry Hill P.A. downhill days. Tokul trail rides. Whizgnar. Vancouver Island. The Shore. The bike room was their convergence zone, and it caused a little magic explosion of NW memories… and dirt.

And when we couldn’t escape into the mountains, we could escape into the bike room. We could shut the door, shut out the world, turn on the tunes, tinker with bikes and let the conversation roll. Outside it was cold and rainy.

After Billy got a job as an in-house product manager, test parts and product began flowing in. The closet was already bulging with bike gear and snowboard gear; then backpacking gear with my new job. The back seats from the new Honda Element had to go somewhere. The fourth snowboard had to go somewhere. The road bikes were already de-ranked and living outside.

Sometimes bikes were shuffled into the living room. I began to sit on the arm of the cluttered loveseat.

So yes, all this was the case until a week and a half ago. That’s when we pulled the bikes down off the walls, along with the maps. We put the lids on the tubs and stacked them, put the pile of tires in a box. We stuffed helmets and pads and packs in more boxes, broke down the workbench and rolled up the mats.

Or rather, Billy did. I was packing up the rest of the apartment.

Then we stuck it all in the back of the Element---and the Subaru, and truck and moving van---and set our sights on West Seattle at the other end of town, across the bridge, and a golden three-bedroom rambler with a yard.

And---a garage.

An Ode to the Imaginary

This is an ode to the imaginary.

The imaginary, so beautiful in the nature of our mind, is the finest recollection we've got of the places we've been. It is also the places we seek, the ideas we can somehow access, and the course of our ship.

Without the imaginary, we could get swallowed by the horrors of the world. The lack of snow we wish to ski, the mysteries of untold hearts and the inevitable questions that run like a reel in our mind.

The imaginary is generous. It allows us to play with our thoughts and make them things, if at least for awhile. It is all we have sometimes. Like a map, the imaginary can take us off into some of the finest of lands.

It's up to you what you do with the imaginary. Maybe it rules you, keeps you trapped in a place. Or maybe it frees you, shows you what is out there and leaves a paintbrush in your hand.

Before you know it, you're back in real life. You're eating carrot ginger soup, reading a book and dreaming about mountains. Bob Dylan comes on the radio singing your song... You're sitting in the sunshine and feeling good... You are taking it all in... and suddenly you realize the line that separates the two is as fine as you'd like it to be.

By Sarah Uhl, SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

The Costco Run: An Amateur Mistake

This past weekend, I was planning my run for Sunday. I pulled up Map my Run on my computer and started to chart out the 6 miles. Typically, when I go for a run, I like to get out of the city and off the asphalt. Ideally, I run on trails and in nature. Even, if I'm in a park or on the rims and only a stone's throw from civilization, I can mostly trick myself that I have escaped, and I'm venturing into the unknown on my own little adventure.

However, for Sunday's run, I thought I would try something different altogether. The one thing I don't get to do while running is to run from point A to point B; usually, the run is an out and back run or a loop so I can end up where I started and where I parked the car (or left my house.) When I lived in San Francisco (or in London) and public transit was abundant, I had a few more options for starting somewhere and ending somewhere entirely different, then hoping on a bus or train to head home. A good friend of mine who lives in New York City mentioned that she likes to do this when she's running in the city. But, one of the downsides of living outside of a main urban center is the lack of transportation infrastructure.

So, to make up for the lack of public transit (and personal chauffeurs), I came up with a slightly compromised plan: I waged a deal with my father, who lives in town, to meet me at Costco about 50 minutes after I started my run. I knew he needed to make a 'Costco run' so I thought I could make Costco my destination. That way, I could start at home, run the 6 miles to Costco, enjoy the slightly downhill route, and have a ride home. And of course, I was looking forward to spending some quality time with my dad. ;)

After a little bit of grumbling and a little bit of convincing, he agreed. At this point, the little dusting of snow had melted and it was basically misting out: perfect running weather in my book and a perfect opportunity to test out some of my SmartWool layers.

I set out on my route, running down the familiar streets, winding through the neighborhood park. I tried to find my rhythm but per usual, it was taking me a little while to warm up. I felt sluggish, my shins were cramping and I wasn't even at a mile yet. "How am I not at a mile yet?!" I thought. "The map had said I should have already passed the first mile marker." At this point, I should have known not to continue down the line of thinking that my map making/reading skills were error proof (I'll elaborate on this in my next post about my misadventure in Thailand.) But, I didn't question myself, and simply assumed that the measurement was a bit off (which happens with Map my Run) and kept going. And going, and going.

When I hit a mile, I started to get skeptical. When I hit the second mile and was what I guessed was only one mile from Costco, I knew what had happened: earlier in the week, as we scouted the course for the annual Thanksgiving run (yes, we were being total geeks), we had converted the standard of measurement from miles to kilometers. In the process of mapping my Sunday run, I ignored common sense and accepted that Costco was 6 whole miles from my house which, had I thought about it for a second, I would have known better. I would have guessed it was closer to 3 miles and some change; effectively translated to 6 KILOMETERS! To say I was annoyed is an understatement. What's worse, I felt like an amateur.

Yes, mistakes happen. And luckily, in this instance I over calculated instead of under calculated. It would have been more than annoying had I projected that Costco was 6 miles away only to discover it was more like 10 miles away. And luckily, I wasn't risking life or loss of limb. Typically, miscalculations are only a problem when you're doing some serious backcountry expedition, navigating an ocean or scaling the likes of Everest. I was simply doing a weekend run from my house into the depths of Generica.

However, I made the ultimate sacrifice to do this run: I abandoned nature for the cold, harsh pavement of busy streets and bland, commercialized development of west end sprawl. In the past, whenever I had seen someone running along the barely there, unused sidewalk along 24th St. West or King Avenue, with 4 lanes deep of traffic whizzing by, car exhaust hijacking their breathing space, I could only ask myself why?! Puzzled as to how anyone could ever think that kind of exercise was worthwhile when they had so many other options at their disposal, options that included trees and rivers, animals and views, I could only shake my head. And there I was, one of the unfortunate few. Sure, I detoured through a graveyard and corner park. But, the majority of those 3 miles resembled Frogger more than they resembled a SmartWool ad.

But, I think the worst thing of all was the realization that I still had 3 more miles to run. When you miscalculate a distance you have to travel by self propulsion, not only does the first leg seem infinitely longer (or at least twice as long) as it would have had you calculated the distance correctly, but you become acutely aware that you are only half finished. Endurance sports are a mental game. If you set unrealistic or false expectations at the onset of the journey, you are going to make the trip much harder for yourself. And that was exactly what I did.

I arrived at Costco, not in my big truck and trailer but on foot. I was not there to stock up on bulk goods. I was there to cross a predetermined finish line. Instead, I was simply passing the halfway mark. I walked in, not feeling the satisfied sense of completion but the pang of mild defeat and humiliation. This might be a slight overexaggeration, but I was annoyed.

Ultimately, I had a choice. I could quit and forfeit running the remaining three miles. No chance. I had to do something to redeem myself. I could run home. Not going to happen. I had already braved the sprawl. I wasn't interested in experiencing my mistake all over again. So, I pressed pause on my run. I helped my dad with his Costco run, filling the cart with oversized bags of frozen salmon and enough asparagus to feed a small army. And, I pressed on with the original plan. We spent some quality time together and he drove me home. I regrouped. At this point, the snow started to fall a bit harder and a fresh, white blanket covered the streets and sidewalks. I put on a few more layers and strapped a headlamp and some Yak Trax over my shoes. It wasn't cold, only dark. I headed out into into the white, winter wonderland. All the unrest and confusion from earlier in the day gave way to the inevitable peace and calm that inevitably accompany those tiny water crystals falling from the sky. I started to run and almost instantly, everything fell into place. I was back in my natural state, away from the sprawl and headed toward my own, self-created adventure, into the white unknown.

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

it's (unofficially) winter

Although the official start of winter is weeks away, it is unofficially winter. Snow and ice cover the mountain tops and I am eager to get out and hike as much as I can this winter. And you can be sure that I'll have lots of SmartWool on when I'm out there!

Check out some photos from a recent hike I took with students from our Outdoor Program. We took the Falling Waters Trail up to the summit of Little Haystack and spent some time up on the ridge, before retreating below tree line, out of the wind and snow that beat down upon us! -- http://bit.ly/YstJkt

Eric Nguyen, SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Fall Rides

Fall is absolutely the best time to ride bikes: Cool, misty days. Friends always around and in town. Shuttle rigs always available. Perfect hero dirt. And the colors. Oh, the colors! Brilliant shades of red, orange, yellow, gold, bright green and dark evergreen, all painted on the same canvas---ready for us to ride our hearts out against.

Running in the Rain

One of my all time favorite films is Singing in the Rain and one of my all time favorite things to do is to run in the rain. Yes, singing and dancing in the rain is pretty awesome. Gene Kelly doesn’t have to convince me about that. But, singing and dancing are fun to do even when it isn’t raining. Running is a bit different. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I often have to work hard to enjoy running.

So, at this point, you might be wanting to ask me why I run at all. I’ve asked myself that. I think all of us have had to ask ourselves at one point or another why we do things we don’t absolutely love. Sure, there are plenty of things we have to do in life that we may not like. But, running isn’t an absolute. No one is going to tell you you have to run. It’s a choice. So, why do I choose it?

Well, first, I’m a big believer in mixing up my activities and adventures. It’s the best way I’ve found to keep my mind and body stimulated and motivated. Some of those activities I like better than others, but above all, I appreciate the diversity and the variety. And luckily, those activities I can do in the rain make them feel like that much more of an adventure, full of excitement and intrigue.

I’ve willingly asked myself if I’m a ‘runner wannabe.’ For some crazy reason, do I want to appear to others like a ‘runner?’ Do I want to be like all those enviable people in advertisements and commercials, looking so alluringly effortless in their run? It’s a valid question and I’m sure there are some people out there who started running or continue to run because they want to identify with being ‘a runner.’ And I don’t fault them. I don’t really care why you choose the activity you do if it’s a healthy one. But personally, I determined this isn’t my reason for wanting to run. I’ve never done anything because it’s ‘cool’ or to try to fit in. And more importantly, I guarantee you that this motivation would barely get me out the door. It certainly wouldn’t keep me running when my shins are hurting and calves are cramping.

Ultimately, I think the reason I like to run, especially in the rain, is to hopefully stumble upon that feeling of freedom. I’m not alone in this reason. Like a surfer, a runner can try, try and try again until they get lucky and catch a wave. For a runner, that wave is the feeling that you can run forever. The runner’s high. Body, mind, heart, lungs join in harmony and move as a single unit. It’s just you, no one else, nothing but your legs pushing off the ground.

So, the other night, I bundled up in my SmartWool (shirt, hat and socks) and rain jacket. I wasn’t worried about getting wet because I wanted to feel the raindrops on my skin and jump in puddles like I was a kid again. (Getting drenched and muddy becomes socially acceptable when running in the rain.) I wasn’t worried about getting cold because wool is the best running companion in less than perfect weather. It’s pretty simple: it keeps you dry and warm. (For those of you who aren’t as keen on venturing out into inclement weather, let me promise you this: merino wool is like a magic wand that turns bad weather into a walk on the beach.) My wool let me do what I wanted to do without any interruption: run.

As I ran in the dark and the rain, I ran for the freedom of it. With each step, I hoped it was one step closer to working with my body instead of battling against it. I ran through the pain and tried to run with the same passion as my dog who runs as if it’s the best thing in the entire world. I wasn’t running out of obligation or expectation. I wasn’t running to set any records. I was running for the simple pleasure of it, and if I was lucky, I was simply running to try to catch my wave.

Carissa Klarich // SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Originally posted October 12, 2012 on livingtheactivelife.com

Solo Overnight Pemi Loop

I finished my hike and after texting my wife to let her know I was still alive, I shot off another text to a few friends. It read: "Been awake for over 24 hours, 18 of which were on the Pemi. Never felt more awake or alive!"

Sunset over the Kinsman Range.

I had just completed a long-time dream of mine, to complete a full Pemi Loop in a single go. What made this trip even more exciting was that I did it solo and overnight. I caught the sunset from the summit of Little Haystack. I hiked in and out of clouds during the night, battered by wind and a short rain/sleet storm. I summited Bondcliff at 4am, just as the clouds cleared. Orion, the hunter, stood proudly overhead as the nighttime canvas glistened with stars from horizon to horizon. At times I wished I had someone there to share in the excitement and adventure. At other times I relished in the fact that I had all of this to myself. Greedy much?

Looking across the Pemi Wilderness to the Bonds.

The Details

Start: Saturday, 2 pm, from Lincoln Woods Visitor Center Finish:Sunday, 8 am, back at Lincoln Woods Visitor Center

What: Clockwise Pemi Loop, covering ~31.5 miles, 9 summits, ~9,160 feet elevation gain. (For more details about the Pemi Loop, check out David Albeck's page, as he's already done the hard work in compiling all the information one could ever need.)

Flume and Liberty at dusk. A tiny sliver of moon hovers overhead.

Highlights and not-so-highlights

High: Catching the sunset from the summit of Little Haystack. The heavy cloud banks created for dramatic lighting and contrast; the deep orange of the sun against a dark, ominous backdrop. Too beautiful for words.

Not so high: The fog bank that produced wind, rain, and sleet as soon as I summited Lafayette. Raincoat, rain pants, hat and gloves on. Ah… much better.

High: The descent from Garfield, past the Garfield campsite was not as bad as I feared it would be. This section features steep, wet, granite slabs and boulders that make me think the worst. Not sure if it was because I had overhyped it, or if I could only see short sections at a time in the dark, but for whatever reason, I got through this section pretty quickly.

Not so highs: The section from Garfield to Galehead dragged on and on. Likewise for the descent from Bondcliff back to the Visitor Center. The Pemi Loop would improve significantly if there were a way to just bypass these two segments.

Making a quick stop at the summit of South Twin.

High: I wasn't scared out of my mind descending from Garfield. Super steep, super wet, lots of big boulders. I think it helped that I kept my headlamp on its low setting so that I could only see 10-15 feet ahead of me. In other words, I could never see how far I would fall.

Not so high: All of the mud. It had been raining for much of the week, which left mud pits everywhere, to the point that many puncheons were submerged under water. I managed to keep my feet relatively dry for about 7 hours. Then I sunk in deep and gave up trying to stay out of the puddles.

Not so high: Cloudy skies for the majority of the night. Not only did I not get to hike under the stars, but I missed out on the peak window of the Orionids Meteor Shower.

The clouds that covered the night sky completely disappeared as soon as I summited Bondcliff at 4am.

HIGH: The clouds cleared just as I summited Bondcliff. And holy cow, the stars! I looked up to see Orion (my favorite constellation) high overhead, and the Milky Way traversing across the sky. And the stars actually twinkled! I did manage to catch a few meteors as they streaked across the sky. I spread out my Thermarest Z-Lite, put on a few extra layers, and just lay out under the stars. What a beautiful and humbling sight I beheld.

Looking out toward the horizon from Bondcliff.

This trip goes into the books as one of my most memorable adventures ever. The distance, the elevations, the time, the weather, the sky, the stars. My favorite mountains and trails. I would hike these peaks every day if I could.

Were there moments when I questioned my decision to make this trip? Definitely. That rain and sleet storm didn't help. The gusts of wind that chilled me to my very core didn't help either. At times, bouts of loneliness crept into my consciousness; after all, 18 hours is a long time to be hiking alone in the dark. But I forged ahead, knowing that surprises lay in wait around every bend and above the treeline. I knew that I would finish, and that I would have no regrets. And I was right.

A map of my trip, with elevations, times, and distances.

Check out this album to see the rest of the photos from my trip.

Eric Nguyen, SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

I'm officially an ultramarathoner!

I'm known for lengthy write-ups, but for this one, I'm going to try to keep things relatively short! After all, I could boil down my first ultra experience at the TARC Fall Classic to: lots of miles, an unreasonably fast pace for the first 30k, paying the price for those fast miles during the final 20k, lots of tripping and several falls (very uncharacteristic for me, especially on a relatively non-technical course), a scraped pinky that wouldn't stop bleeding, and a really tight hamstring that led to IT band and hip flexor issues, forcing me to stop regularly to stretch. There you have it… no need to read any further!

Woke up on race morning to chilly temps after our first frost of the year. I had packed my bag with every sort of layer imaginable, not knowing what I would want to wear. Given that we would run a 10k loop five times, I could always shed layers as I went along.

After registering and getting my number (396 -- a good number, I supposed, as it's divisible by 2 & 3 (and therefore 6), 12, and so on…), I walked around for a bit to acclimatize to the cold. We were all equally disadvantaged in that this was the first truly cold day of the season. In the end, I opted for shorts, t-shirt, running cap, and compression socks; I ditched the arm warmers and beanie.

I love the TARC crowd. They're a friendly bunch, and pre-race, everyone stood around, chatting and laughing, occasionally breaking away to jog a short stint and keep the muscles warm and loose. Someone came out dressed in the Trail Animal costume and led us in a loud animal roar as we hit the trail.

Lap One: We started off way too fast and despite efforts to rein in our speed, we were unsuccessful. I can't recall how many times I turned to Ian to say, "We're going way to fast." The course invited speed, and so we kept going, knowing that we'd feel it later on, but hoping that by some miracle, we wouldn't. At about mile 4, I tripped on a rock and staggered forward. I was able to keep myself upright, but not before scraping my pinky on a rock. Superficial wounds tend to bleed the most, and thus began my race-long efforts to keep my finger from bleeding to death. We came through the start area in a time of 50:11.

Lap Two: Similar to the first. Still way too fast. I could feel my right hamstring and IT band tightening up but I figured I could push through it, figuring it'd eventually loosen up. No dice. I tripped and fell at least twice during this lap. At one point, I looked up and saw a soft, pine needle bed in front of me and just let myself hit the ground rather than fight it. We finished this lap in about 52 minutes -- same running time plus the two minutes that we spent at the aid station.

Lap Three: More tripping. Stopped a few times to stretch as my right leg was getting way too tight. Hamstring, IT band, hip flexor. Going uphill, usually my forte, caused me some anguish. About halfway through the lap, Ian and another 50k runner pulled away and I settled into my own pace. A few miles later, I caught up to them -- this served to reinforce my instincts to not follow them -- but toward the end of the lap, Ian pulled away again. Finished this lap in about 55 minutes -- slightly slower running time, but most of those extra minutes were due to stretching and time at the water station. I also decided to find a band-aid at this point for my finger, which was still bleeding. Made sense, I guess, what with the all the blood rushing to my finger with each arm swing. The aid guy freaked out a bit, thinking that my finger was worse than it was. I have naturally crooked fingers and huge knuckles (exacerbated by climbing), so my finger looked like a dislocated, swollen mess.

Putting a band-aid on my finger before heading out for another loop.

Lap Four: There's something psychologically relieving about being more than halfway through, but knowing that many miles still lay ahead. Ian and I ran together for a good portion of this lap before he pulled away. I thought maybe I'd catch him later like I had in the third lap, but I had to stop way too many times to stretch. Not fun. Finished this lap in 64 minutes, many of which I attribute to finding a band-aid and to my multiple stretch breaks.

Lap Five: I went into this one feeling good and I thought that maybe the adrenaline of being close to the end would carry me through. That was a short-lived experience. I stopped to stretch at the usual spots on the course (usually after a hill) and at one point, I looked up in time to see a flash of pink. The top female finisher just flew by me and kept going. I didn't even try to keep up, and it was a good thing I didn't, because it wasn't long before I couldn't see her anymore. But I kept going. I plodded along, walking up some of the hills and trying to recover on the flat and downhill sections. I managed a "sprint" in the final straight to finish the last lap in 63 minutes and the race in 4:44:42. My first 50k was over!

Five days later, my legs feel great and I am itching to find my next ultra. Unlike the days, weeks, and months after my two marathon experiences in which I cut running out of my schedule, I've been running all week and I don't foresee stopping.

Here I am, "sprinting" into the finish.

Thanks to my friends -- Ian, John, Nick, and Paul -- who came out and ran various distances at the race. Thanks to Bob and Josh and everyone else at TARC who worked hard to organize and execute this race. Thanks to the TARC family and all of the other runners who came out and made my first ultra experience such friendly and memorable one. And thanks to Mother Nature, who graced us with a beautiful fall day.

Ian and I, post-race

Eric Nguyen, SmartWool Athlete Ambassador

Juneau Joe

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0dyetnOlJo&feature=youtu.be

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