2022 ITI 350 Skiing to McGrath

2022 Iditarod Trail Invitational: A Ski Racers Perspective

This was my 2^nd ITI, the first being in 2018. I italicized “Racers” in the title because that’s my background in skiing. I was racing before I was touring. Meaning I know how to go fast, want to go fast, and get easily frustrated when there are obstacles out of my control that prevent me from reaching my expectations of myself. Having followed the ITI for over a decade I classify skiers in the event into two categories: racers and adventurers. No one category of people are better equipped than the other to be successful in this event, they just approach it differently and therefore have different challenges. In general, racers come from a background of technique, aerobic capacity, and speed, while adventurers tend to be more versed in wilderness experience, survival, and long-term stamina. You’ve got to have all of these skills and abilities for the ITI but the participants background will determine how they approach it, and these two different approaches will result in different perspectives on the same experience.

I thrive on “racing”- I like to go fast, keep my mind and body busy modifying ski technique over the ever-changing trail surface, and even monitor my progress on an excel spreadsheet of anticipated speeds and times between checkpoints. I do a lot of math in my head figuring out where I’m at, how fast I’m going, and how long it’ll take to get places so I can plan out my food and hydration while plugging along. I have no problem skiing through the night, but I know my limit is about an hour or two into the second night before I’m trashed. I don’t sweat much which is good for winter sports and also for reducing water consumption. However, I don’t do well with stillness. My recent EKG(ECG) had my resting heart rate at 46, and combine that with Reynaud’s (shunting blood flow to my hands, toes, and heels when they experience cold) means that I can’t stop for long in the cold before I lose the ability to work with my hands and if my feet get cold it’s a game-over situation. I’ve also got a couple of herniated discs in my low back that, if I don’t monitor and move consciously, may flare up and incapacitate my ability to ski or walk. We all have our strengths and, for lack of a better word, “weaknesses”, but it’s knowing what they are and how to prevent or overcome them that gives everyone out on the ITI the ability to finish or at least know when to quit.

My primary strength is experience I suppose. I spend a lot of time skiing snowmachine trails, and if you’re an avid cross-country skier who’s never left the paradise of smooth, groomed trail systems you’re probably wondering why the average moving speed of ITI skiers is less than 4 miles per hour. Snowmachine trails are lumpy, bumpy, grooved, chunky, icy, and inconsistent. It’s an awkward dance over snow and you’re the only one who can hear the music. Music without rhythm. It’s not graceful to the untrained eye. Every moment is spent planning the next step while gliding over the next lump, hump, or ski-catching groove across the trail. The downhills are daunting. Skiing offers no ability to brake or check your speed as the trails are too narrow to snow-plow. Your only options are to take your skis off and walk in plastic boots or take the risk, point your skis downhill and hope for the best. Falling in snow isn’t what worries me in the ITI, it’s the risk associated with breaking the gear I’m relying on to get me through. A broken ski, pole, sled, or water bladder could easily turn into a life and safety concern, and at the very least slow speeds down to a crawl.

My 2022 Course Recap

Knik to Checkpoint 1: Delyndia Lake (aka Butterfly Lake for those who don’t subscribe to USGS or local government issued maps, as the official Butterfly Lake is actually one lake to the east)

The addition of a checkpoint at Delyndia Lake introduced a whole new variable to the event- trail navigation! The majority of the Iditarod Trail is straight forward- there’s only one trail and it only goes to one place so all you’ve got to do is stay on the trail and you’ll get there. Travelling to Delyndia Lake means connecting through the Big lake Trails, Willow Trails, and local use trails and trying to figure out which one of 100 possibilities will be the best one. It’s a gamble since there’s no way to know ahead of time what every trail in the area is going to be like. 2022 introduced a couple feet of heavy, wet “concrete” snow the week before the race, flooding the ice road on Big Lake and creating dangerous overflow conditions across all the lakes and swamps in the area. This left very few of the trails in the area broken in and traversable without a machine. I checked out Big Lake on my way to the race start and found the flooded ice road completely frozen over with smooth ice, and a well-packed snowmachine trail alongside it. If I could get to Big Lake I could shave a few miles off the start. But this meant I would have to break trail for a couple of miles and walk down a graveled road for another couple of miles. Not interested in walking, I planned on staying on the Iditarod Trail and go around Big Lake.

With temps in the 40s at the start, I threw some spray-on grip spray on my classic skis for the wet and soft yet icy conditions. The first few miles are uphill with narrow trails so skating isn’t really an option. I took my time at the start getting across Knik Lake and found myself near the back of the pack of skiers. I learned in 2018 not to go out too hard and get sweaty the first day. Just after sunset I’d be dropping onto the Susitna River where the temperature can drop 10 degrees (F) or more in just a minute. Using waxable classic skis, I quickly found myself on the tails of the skiers using the newer skin skis (classic skis with directional “skins” underfoot for grip). Wet snow is tricky to wax for, and combined with the chunky icy conditions of the trail my kick wax wore off in a matter of minutes. The tradeoff here was excellent ski glide but no grip underfoot. Every uphill was a bit of a struggle but I easily slid by the rest of the skiers on the flats. When I got to the Aurora Dog Mushing Trails, which I had previously noted were untouched after the last snowstorm, I noticed that someone had taken a snowmachine on it. Great! Now I could take the shortcut to Big Lake! I turned north and was relishing in the thought of an easy day for about a quarter mile. Having just passed the last skier before turning onto the mushing trail, I didn’t want to turn around and admit I took a wrong turn. So I decided to break trail through a foot of icy crust-covered snow for the next 2 miles… and soak myself in the sunny 45 degree heat. But it was only 2 miles, then 2 miles of walking on the graveled icy road to Big Lake.

When I got to Big Lake, I found the ice road and got on the glassy smooth ice and double-poled my way across at about 15 mph until I got to the main drag of the ice road. Residents had been driving through the foot deep overflow, breaking the surface ice and creating what can only be described as frozen chunky salsa. No worries- there was a glorious snowmachine highway created on the snow surface alongside the ice road! Firm, smooth, and just a lip of softness to give my skis an edge. A quick switch to skate-skis and I’m off across the lake! Just a couple of open water areas (from the lake residents unsuccessfully trying to drive to the ice road) to navigate around and I’m on the familiar territory of the Susitna 100 course. There’s probably a hundred ways to Delyndia Lake but being familiar with the trails and their typical usage, I have no need for a map and quickly get to Delyndia Lake. There are two access points on the southern side of the lake, and the checkpoint at the second one. The overland trail between these points has a significantly steep hill, walking for both skiers and bikers. Knowing this, when I got to the first access point I quickly hopped onto the lake to see if the “crust” had set up firm enough to ski on. Sure enough it had! I decided to crust ski around the peninsula separating me from the checkpoint. It’s a touch longer than the overland route but it’s smooth, flat, and firm! My only concern was if the crust was solid the whole way or if I’d find myself breaking through into the dreaded overflow halfway across. As I rounded the peninsula, I saw the first checkpoint and bee-lined it across the lake to the cabin. No trail necessary! I thoroughly enjoyed it as much as I could, knowing the trails that lie ahead wouldn’t be nearly as accommodating.

Checkpoint 1: There’s food, water, a fire, and a warming hut for the racers. I ate my pre-made wrap for dinner, refilled my water, and grabbed a cookie before getting right back on the trail. It was still fairly warm but I was sweaty and couldn’t afford to start cooling off. The sun was just starting to set as I departed, 7PM.

Delyndia Lake to Checkpoint 2: Yentna Station

Departing Delyndia Lake, the trail the bikers were all using was mush. My skis were sinking into the point I couldn’t see them and the bikers were all pushing. It was too warm for the snow to set up. I didn’t envy the bikers at this point but knew it would only be a matter of time until the tables would turn. Ski on. The only sure route to the Susitna River at this point was the Iron Dog route, which would take us a few miles south of the shortest route but would be faster than breaking trail for 7 miles. Using the marathon skate technique on my skate-skis I was able to get to the Susitna River fairly quickly, keeping pace with the bikers. Once on the Susitna River, the trail changes dramatically. It was narrow, icy, and full of frozen overflow. I switched back to classic and plodded along waiting for the intersection with the main highway of a trail up the Yentna River. At the Yentna River I was back at skating, with a tailwind(!), and did a little leap-frogging with some bikers. 15 miles of easy-peasy skating to Yentna Station and it was time for a break, 1:22AM and 53 miles completed.

Yentna Station: It’s a well-marked and easy to find landmark along the Yentna River. There’s a main log lodge with food available for purchase and even bunks to rent for rest. I pack real food for the first day so I hung up my wet clothing to dry above the wood stove and ate my second wrap while I dried out and relaxed on a well-used couch. Taking my first real break, I reviewed my status, replenished my fanny-pack with snacks from my sled, refilled water, and tended to the quarter-sized blister on my palm. DOH! Not a blister only 50 mile in!!! I was prepared with a blister kit just in case, but opted to try out one of the woolen bandages that were handed out as sign-in swag. (The wool-aid bandage not only held up until McGrath, but my blister actually healed and went away by the time I finished!) After resting and taking 2 hours for personal maintenance, I headed back onto the river at 3:20AM Monday morning. Sleep would come in another 18 or so hours.

Yentna Station to Checkpoint 3: Skwentna Roadhouse

Temperatures are always dramatic on the river, and our 45F temps of Sunday afternoon turned to -9F by 5AM on the Yentna. At these temps on the river I opt to classic ski instead of fighting the friction of the cold snow. By 9Am it warmed up into the single digits again and I was back to skating. Pretty uneventful as I only encountered a handful of cyclists passing me by. Skiing the sunrise is a pretty magical thing, as the tiredness that comes from the cold dark night slowly transforms into a golden and glistening landscape. Ski on. Right before Skwentna I encountered the first (and only) significant overflow. I watched some bikers post-hole to get around it, but being on skis and pulling a sled I was able to skim across the edge of it without getting wet. Arriving at the roadhouse at 11AM, 82 miles in, I was right on time for a large helping of lasagna and some hot coffee.

Skwentna Roadhouse: A large dining area, with rooms available and showers and towels. Definitely one of the best places to stop and rest- but if you plan on sleeping you have to get a room, no napping in the main area. Coffee and cold water were free, but hot water you had to pay for. After some personal care and gear organizing, I was prepared for the next stretch to Finger Lake. I would blow by Shell Lake to save time and get to the Finger Lake checkpoint before sleep deprivation could take it’s toll (lesson learned from 2018 was as soon as it gets dark on night 2 of no sleep it’s almost impossible to stay awake even when moving). Depart Skwentna Roadhouse 12:45 PM Monday afternoon.

Skwentna Roadhouse to Checkpoint 4: Finger Lake

It’s warm and sunny, and a flat trail to the base of the hill leading up to Finger Lake. At the base of the hill I switch to my classic skis with kicker skins and essentially walk up until it levels out, then remove the kicker skins and enjoy the rolling hills leading to Shell Lake. I cross shell lake, stop next to the lodge (a nice large cabin with decent burgers) and switch to skate skis. The rest of the way to Finger Lake from Shell Lake is mild terrain crossing swamps and stands of trees, but the bike ruts tell a story of soft trails and even my skis punch through quite a bit. I know at this point that by continuing past Shell Lake Lodge that I should arrive to Finger Lake around 9PM, just after dark and tired enough to sleep well in a crammed wall tent. As expected, I arrive at 9:23PM Monday, 118 mile in, and the tent is already full of bikers but I manage to squeeze in. After 31 hours of skiing, a quick burrito and some fluids and I pass out quickly.

Finger Lake: There’s an uppity lodge this checkpoint utilizes but participants aren’t allowed to go there, as the guests aren’t there for us. And based on the smell of the many underlayers drying by the wood stove in the wall tent, I wouldn’t want us in there either! The food provided though was great, and pooping in a 5-gallon bucket in the snow was a much welcomed amenity. This is the first of two drop-bags that racers can send out for themselves. Batteries, handwarmers, and food only. As we never know what the conditions will be like, everyone sends out more than they need and a LOT of stuff gets left behind. I just grabbed my whole bag, grabbed some goodies for my fanny pack and threw the rest in my sled. After a solid 6 hours of sleep, with an hour or so on each end of that taking care of gear and myself, and by 6:11 AM I’m off again, on the trail to Puntilla Lake (Rainy Pass Lodge).

Finger Lake to Checkpoint 5: Puntilla Lake

This was my second year so I generally have an idea of the terrain and which ski setup to utilize between checkpoints. The terrain between Finger Lake and Puntilla Lake, however, is a struggle. It’s got some wicked steep sections, mild hills, and flats. I can’t make up my mind and whatever type of skis I’ve got on always seem like the wrong ones. “This would be faster on skate skis…” or “This would be easier on classic skis…” Eventually I just give up and stick to what I’ve got on and figure that keeping moving is faster than switching gear. With good snow, a lot of it could be skated. This year, the icy crust on everything made for fairly fast conditions but left no control with skate skis. Just keeping the ski going straight was nearly impossible so metal-edged classic skis provided the least amount of struggle with the lumpy ice balls.

About 5 miles out I started feeling ‘pangs’ in my low back. I stopped and contemplated turning around and calling it quits at Finger Lake. There was plenty of tough terrain ahead and I was having concerns about my herniated disc flaring up and losing mobility in my legs. At this time a biker was backtracking heading my way. After a quick chat he was gone. Here’s where things get tricky… there’s now an ice road alongside the Iditarod Trail, and it veers in and out of sight. The cyclist informed me it bypassed the dreaded Happy River Steps and that it was “fantastic”. I swapped out for skate skis and dangerously blew down the ice road. Skis chattering underfoot on the ice-chunk surface, clenching for dear life. The road had been groomed last when the snow was still warm and wet, leaving it a chunky, icy mess for skis. (But I’m sure it was fantastic for biking!) Skating was a change in movement that seemed to free up whatever was nagging at my back, because I never had another hint of an issue the rest of the trip. I did bypass the Happy River Steps and after crossing Happy River, I packed my skateskis on my sled and began the steep trudge back up from the riverbed to the narrow, wooded trail that lay ahead. After Happy River there are a lot of hills, and the trail is for the most part narrow and wooded. Too narrow to slow yourself down while on skis, especially this year with the chunky crust of a surface we had to work with. The ice road did meet up with the trail again and again, and it might have been faster but without knowing the actual alignment I didn’t’ want to end up going the wrong way and just stuck with what I knew. Enter sled break number one. On a twisty, narrow downhill my sled rolled on one of the corners and snapped the homemade joint that attached the pole to the sled union. I did intentionally create this weak point at the end of the pole, as a break higher up on the pole could render it useless. The downside was that it wasn’t a simple part switch. In order to use my spare part, I had to drill out the rivet with my leatherman, create 2 new matching holes in the spare part, and get a spare pin to line up and fit through both parts. About 15 minutes after the break, as I was just starting to pack back up, a friendly biker from Canada caught me and offered some help. I sent him on his way, swung my hands around to warm them back up (so glad it was only 25F out!), and continued on. I was still making good time and would reach Puntilla (aka Rainy Pass Lodge) before nightfall.

Puntilla: There’s a new bunkhouse for racers! A lot of bunks, hot water, snacks, woodstove and ropes to hang wet gear on. This is where I started noticing a disadvantage to skiing. By the time I would get to a checkpoint I would be at the tail end of the biggest mass of cyclists. Meaning I had to get creative in making room for myself to sleep, or in this case take one of the upper bunks. I ate some food, set out gear to dry, and did some organizing before laying down to get a good rest. My plan was to get fully rested and blow through the Rohn checkpoint (Rohn only has a small wall-tent that’s not warm enough to dry anything, and it’s the last checkpoint before the longest stretch of trail so it fills up quick). I was hoping for 8 hours of sleep, but every cyclist that came in after mee seemed to think it was cold (because they were wearing wet clothing) and kept the woodstove stoked. After 2 hours I was laying in my underwear, sweating, and unable to sleep. After struggling for another hour I gave up, got dressed and left for Rohn shortly after the Canadian cyclist. Even if we weren’t traveling together, there’s comfort in knowing there’s someone else doing the same thing as you out there.

Puntilla Lake to Checkpoint 6: Rohn

By Puntilla the snow had lost its icy crust and was a mix of fresh and wind-blown slab. PERFECT for classic skiing! I threw some kick wax on and was keeping pace with the Canadian cyclist as he mixed up riding and walking on the uphills. It was dark, not too windy, and visible skies. So much better than the 2018 ground blizzard with 10 foot visibility! All the way up to Rainy Pass is probably the best skiing I’ve had on this trail- or best snow at least. Pretty uneventful other than scaring up some ptarmigan (rather they scared the snot out of me!). At the pass I took the token photo of the sign, and cautiously started navigating down towards Dalzell Gorge. At first it’s alpine, low-grade point your skis and go with a little speed control here and there. Then all at once you drop into a small valley that slowly gets brushier, twistier, and even might traverse some avalance debris. A tight trail, complete with collapsing snow bridges and stream crossings leads you down to the river. Upon reaching the river, the sigh of relief from making it down the gorge intact is quickly vanquished by the realization that you’re not in Rohn yet… just a few more miles across the ice though.

Rohn: This checkpoint is a wall tent with a wood stove and grill. Two sausages and a can of soup are offered, and half of the tent is spruce boughs to sleep on. Maybe 5-6 people can sleep at once but it gets tight really quick. Don’t plan on getting good rest or drying any gear out. I opted for the quick meal, taking care of personal matters and getting out of there. No need to hang around shivering. The only trouble is that it’s another ~70 miles to the next checkpoint and no sleep between Puntilla and Nikolai is a really tough thought, let alone accomplishment.

Rohn to Checkpoint 7: Nikolai

With the mild temps I decided not to fill my second water bladder and counted on getting water at Sullivan Creek. I was warned that the trail was all moguls due to the Iron Dog race happening during warm temperatures the week prior- this turned out to be true. Anyway, I left Rohn and started across the Kuskokwim River to the trail. It’s not uncommon for there to be overflow and/or open water along this stretch. Just before getting off the riverbed and onto the trail, I gingerly skied across the breaking ice of the last overflow, and luckily it was just more ice underneath. (I later learned that I missed the next bout of overflow by about an hour or so- where there’s video of a biker wading through waist-deep water.) I got onto the trail and yes, it was nothing but undulating moguls dug in and out from the snowmachine tread between the snowmachine ski tracks. The trail quickly turns into a steep hill one can only walk up, and this is where the trail rises above the river and from my experience gets you up and out of the cold sinkhole of Rohn. (I’d rather bivy here than at the checkpoint if I had to.) Once at the top of the hill things leveled out and the moguls disappeared- but not for a good reason. The snowpack quickly diminished and soon turned into intermittent white-ice on the trail and then disappeared for good. I intentionally drag my backpack on a sled so I can carry it if I have to, but I despise having things on my back in the winter- both due to the sweaty mess it makes your back but also dealing with hydration becomes more complicated. Hoping the dirt wouldn’t last too long I chose to drag my sled across the dirt and gravel. It was maybe 10 miles until the white ice re-appeared on the trail, maybe 1-2 feet wide, but it was enough to strap the skis on and try to thread the needles of ice path together to stay off the barren dirt sides of the trail. Slowly but surely things turned back into the icy crust that was at least white, and once I took the turn at Farewell Lake the moguls began again. And again. And again…. if you get the point. 😉 It was mid-afternoon by the time I made it to Farewell Lake and the sun was beginning to set. From Farewell Lake to the Bear Creek Cabin there are a lot of small, semi-steep hills. Combine this with snowmachine track-width white-ice moguls and things get a bit dicy. The only skiing to be had was double-poling up and down each mogul, including up hills and no ability for speed control on the downhills. As night approached, I started feeling unsafe with the conditions. Not only did the trail limit skiing, but occasionally the 3-foot deep ruts would get narrow enough to catch my sled and yank me to an abrupt stop. Eventually the force of my momentum proved too much and broke my sled connection at my hip-belt. I did manage to find the broken pieces that were flung off to the side of the trail, and was able to piece them back together and secure them with a hose clamp. After 18 hours since leaving Puntilla without rest, combined with the treacherous conditions with falls and broken gear, I decided to get a quick nap on the side of the trail in the trees to get refreshed 10 miles before the Bear Creek Cabin (about 9PM). Just a quick nap on a z-rest with a sleeping bag tossed over me I got about an hour of sleep and was back on the trail. After passing the Bear Creek Cabin, and being exhausted from all the double-poling up and over each mogul, I stopped again for a quick 1-hour shiver-bivy at 3 AM- only 12 miles from my last nap. This is where the race gets real! Someone on a snowmachine had used the Bear Creek Cabin after the Iron Dog, and their sled had smoothed out most of the rutted moguls between Bear Creek and Nikolai. This meant that I should have a better time of things at least. After my second quick nap, I continued on (still double-poling with the narrow trail) until Sullivan Creek (which never freezes over). The bucket on a string wasn’t there this year so I had to post-hole down to the creek and carefully fill my water without stepping or sliding into the water. There are a couple of other streams near Sullivan Creek that also seem to rarely freeze. They’re small but still too wide to step across, so they did take some time to unhook from the sled, slip trash bags over my boots and carry my gear across for each crossing. Not terrible but definitely cumbersome and time-consuming. Biking across these would be a non-issue. Daylight was coming as I approached the Salmon River turn at the fish camp, and by that time I was feeling pretty worked and exhausted from making the push from Puntilla over two nights and difficult & slow conditions. The 11 miles from the fish camp turn to Nikolai are fairly inconsequential other than the trail markers are off by about a mile or so, and do really seem to drag on for longer than they should. I was able to mostly marathon-skate into Nikolai, arriving by noon on Thursday.

Nikolai: They say “look for the square building”. Well, EVERY house and building is square and there are fat-tire bike tracks everywhere. And no sign on the checkpoint building. But someone from Nikolai always seems to be outside to point me in the right direction like I’m lost (which seems silly given how small it is, but after being on the trail for so long every extra unnecessary step is one step too many). The checkpoint building is 2-story, tan, and yes, square. Inside there’s snacks, burgers, etc. Even room to dry out gear and set up your sleeping pad to catch some sleep. Here’s where I made a strategy mistake… for some reason, while out on the trail, I had gotten it in my head that Jim Jager’s record from 2002 was 4 days, 20 hours. Arriving in Nikolai at 3 days, 22 hours gave me plenty of time for rest! So I spent 6 hours at the checkpoint which included 4 hours of sleep. (I would later find out Jim’s record was 4 days and 18 hours… so had I not broken out my gear and slept there would have been a chance, albeit a slim chance, of getting under Jim’s time if I could maintain an average of 5 mph.) BUT I slept…

Nikolai to the Finish: McGrath

The river route was in so I wouldn’t have to walk the hills of the overland route! The temps were in the mid-upper 20’s, the trail was wide and flat, and skate-skiing was on! With good, unnecessary rest under my belt I took off around 6PM Thursday. Mostly flat, downriver skiing, with the major river meanders shortened via overland trails. Sounds nice, but sometimes the trail went up cut banks which required heaving gear up to the top and climbing a snowy wall in ski boots! Nonetheless it was shorter and easier than any other route (as long as the trail is put in). The trail from Nikolai to McGrath always seems to be one of the consistently better trails, and is really nice to finish the race on- always leaving me in a much better mood than the previous 100 miles!

(NOTE TO SKIERS: The overland route is the shortest, but also the most hilly. There’s a road the last 7 miles, and it may be plowed with a snow surface but it may also only be a single-snowmachine width trail. The river is only slightly longer if the cut-throughs are in, but if they’re not it’s about 12 miles longer than the overland. You never know until you get there- or find out what everyone else experienced at the finish!)

Once seeing McGrath, it’s good to have an idea where the finish is since I’ve never seen a directional sign anywhere for the finish and it’s a mentally tough thing to be in McGrath and be wandering around trying to find the finish… P.S. it’s tucked away on a dead end road along the most western “north/south” road. I arrived at the finish, found out I had the times in my head wrong, and enjoyed some food and rest. Guess there’s always next time! 😉

2022 Iditarod Trail Invitational 350 & Susitna 100

Well, I know I said after doing the ITI 350 one time (2018) that I’d never do it again. I also said this year that I was going to take it easy on the Susitna 100 and probably quit early. So either I’m a liar or I just live in a state of denial. 😉

Susitna 100

With the Susitna 100 only being one weekend before the ITI 350 most people opt not to do both- and with good reason. However, I thought that maybe offering to leaving late and be a course “sweep” would be a way to get some easy miles in a week before the ITI. The Susitna race directors were OK with that but said they’d rather have me on the course during the race. So I entered the race with full expectations of not pushing myself and gave myself an 80% chance of bailing early and getting a DNF. (Especially since my January Covid fatigue lasted until the weekend before the Su100 start.) My plan was to play it by ear based on how I felt since my 2022 ‘training’ was mostly barren due to fatigue and a lot of rainy weather. Long story short, I was back and forth with Ben Marvin of Palmer (who beat me in the 50-miler last year) for the first two ‘laps’ of the modified Su100 course, with Ben beating me to every checkpoint. He was skiing really strong and I had no intentions of being able to keep up with him. I even told him I wasn’t racing him this year because that’s what I honestly thought and didn’t want to get it in my head to push myself harder than I should with the ITI 350 only 8 days away. The trails were REALLY fast this year but were heavily grooved and bumpy- so skiing was squirrely and a bit dicey. It was mostly a double-pole and marathon-skate race for that reason. My feet and shoulders were tired early on but my legs never got sore or tired even at the finish, that’s how fast it was!

Anyway, back to the race I “wasn’t” racing: At the end of the second lap (3 total) I had caught up to Ben and when he stopped to get some clothing/food/water at the aid station I just kept going. I had way more than enough water and plenty of food handy in my fanny pack. My skis felt fast so I slowed my pace/tempo and just pushed more glide out of my skis. Seemed like the same amount of effort but with more speed. I put 14 minutes on Ben going out and another 13 (ish) on the way back. And for the first time ever in the Susitna 100 I felt GREAT at the finish. I’m not going to lie though- I do have some guilt about telling Ben I wasn’t going to race him and then taking off at the end. All I wanted to do was make him work for it! 😉 What a great athlete to ski with. I had the most fun I’ve ever had in a race joking around with him throughout the day.

ITI 350

As I write this we’re 2 days from the ITI start. I feel recovered from the Su100 and am not feeling any residual fatigue symptoms from Covid. All of my preparations have been for -40F temps and high wind conditions. This year it appears as though the biggest concerns will be the warm temps (20s and 30s) and overflow (when the weight of the snowpack pushes the ice down below waterline and the trails turn into linear ponds or streams). Which route to take? The shortest and most direct routes are also the ones most likely to have overflow. So now it’s all about figuring out how to be prepared for the potential of having to ski through waterlogged trails. Everything in my sled will be in a trash compactor bag. Extra extra socks and gloves. Oven bags for inside my boots. Trash bags for outside my boots (yes, they clip into the ski bindings and only leave small holes which is fine for short distances). Extra trash bags. Duct tape. I drag my backpack on a sled so if I have to carry my gear I can. I also bring two pairs of skis and poles. Both skis and poles do break, especially on these trails, and if they do on this event you’re SOL walking in ski boots until you reach the next checkpoint (or further).

Why I choose a sled over carrying a pack:

A lot of opinions and debate on this and to be honest I’m not interested in arguing or debating this with anyone. I’ve spent more than enough time skiing with both methods, so the following statements are put here to give some insight from my perspective and experiences. Everyone just needs to figure out what works best for them. The biggest influences for me are 1.) the weight of the pack, and 2.) whether you’re skating or classic skiing.

Sleds: you can carry more gear, keep the weight off your legs, easier to maintain hydration using a camelbak under a jacket, easier to manage temperature and moisture. The downside is there’s more drag so it IS slower. For the ITI350 there’s enough gear to carry to ensure survival in the event of not making it to a checkpoint that I choose a sled. Also with the distance guaranteeing a multi-day trip, moisture management is much more crucial to avoid being soaked with sweat when the temperature drops or you stop long enough to cool down. Getting wet in this event (from overflow or sweat) is probably the most dangerous thing out there.

Packs: If you can keep them light (and not be a liability on the trail because you didn’t bring enough gear to ensure survival), they’re definitely faster than pulling a sled. That’s the biggest advantage. This is perfect for the Susitna 100 when it’s easy to keep the pack under 20 lbs. and the race is short enough that the gain in speed is worth it. But with packs there’s also no hip-banging from a sled pole as you go over lumpy terrain. Other than that packs are really hard to deal with (quick and easy) hydration especially below 0F, it’s impossible to not have a soaked back and clothing, it’s more difficult to carry extra skis & poles, and it’s more difficult to get gear/food/etc. out of than using a fanny pack with a sled. The only time I’d choose a heavy pack over a sled is if there’s tight terrain (i.e. single ski track through trees like Arctic to Indian overnight) and I’m classic skiing with backcountry nordic skis. Skate skis and classic racing skis tend to use foam cores which just won’t hold up to the extra weight and rough trails. Go ahead, try it.

Anyway, with the fresh moisture-laden snow and warm temps this year I’m looking forward to a ‘hopefully’ faster year than 2018 when there were 200 miles of dry, wind-blown sandpaper on the trail- but I’ll have to wait and see what new challenges present themselves this year!

Kenai 250 Preliminary

Kenai250_Map

Kenai 250 Distances

I know the math on the distance totals above doesn’t add up exactly, just take it as an estimate for reference only. You’ll know when you’re on a trail or a road.

This is a grass-roots ride of closer to 260 miles, more or less, from Hope to Seward and back. About 110 miles of dirt or paved roads connect almost every mountain bike trail in the northern Kenai Peninsula. This isn’t for someone who ‘races’ with the only goal being to win or who needs their races to be orchestrated. You’ve got to know your personal limitations and abilities, your gear, and especially your risks. I’ve been with racers who put themselves, other racers, and entire events at risk because of their decisions. I have no interest in being associated with those people, but looking at the roster this year I know there will be a good, strong field of people I trust pushing themselves through the night. Because there is no prize or money in it, the participants are in it because they truly want to be out there.

I had been eyeballing this event for a couple of years and this year I happened to look at the website 19 days before the start. A little short-notice on getting prepared but with some focused saddle time and TRX workouts for two weeks the ride feels possible. At 39, I’m definitely not as fast or focused on biking as I used to be. However, by taking a step back on seriousness I have been having a lot more fun. I still set unreasonable goals for myself but they’re more of reference points for me to judge how the event is going on a whole. For instance (I know I’m a dork like this): I broke down every trail and road segment, estimated a reasonable speed for each, and came up with how much time to anticipate. I added these times up to come up with the end goal. As I’m riding, I’ll be able to look at my speed on my GPS and see how close I am and adjust my end goal as I go.

My performance isn’t based on my goals, my goals change based on my performance. I guess that’s the thing about self-supported ultra’s: you can only do what you’re capable of and an experienced rider knows that if you push too hard too soon you’ll pay for it later. If your goal is a steadfast number you risk sacrificing your body. Don’t get me wrong- it’s a wonderful thing to push yourself through what you THINK is a limit and find yourself in a whole new level. Some people, however, have the mental aptitude to push beyond our ACTUAL limits and cause physical damage to our bodies. I wasn’t born a natural athlete. (Usually picked mid-range somewhere in elementary school for teams during recess and gym class, on the “B” team throughout school basketball, etc.) What I did find I had was the ability to not stop. The ability to separate myself from my body and push through anything. This isn’t bragging by any means, it’s just how I understand it. The downfall is that I’ve got to live with the damage I’ve caused by being able to create this separation. Some people will find they have to break through mental barriers to find what they can achieve, and others may need to learn they actually have physical limits, and learn to accept that they may be different than someone else’s. Every body is different.

SPIRITUALLY SPEAKING

“Deha” is sanskrit for “soul vessel”, or the physical body that our consciousness resides in. If a soul is eternal and our bodies are merely the vessel which our consciousness created to reside in, it seems almost cannibalistic to not care for our bodies and to treat them in a way that damages them. It’s disturbing to think that a consciousness can just use a body like it’s replaceable, as if it can just get a new one in the next lifetime. In a way it’s being disrespectful to oneself, abusing the privilege of being able to do these things and have these experiences. Your higher self created this body for you, and our conscious selves can so easily take it for granted.

ANYWAY… moving right along for those of you not spiritually inclined:

As much fun as biking is I honestly prefer to cross-country ski the long races. I know it’s more work and typically slower, but it’s just where I feel more at home. This event is June 21st and it’s summer so it’ll be a bike ride. I’ve had some success in 24-hour mountain bike races and road bike ultra’s, but that was ten or more years ago. I used to (for lack of better description) DESTROY myself during these races. I would put myself into so much pain that after the finish I would lie down and just writhe in pain for a few hours before succumbing to fretful sleep. For many (but not all), the grace of receiving an injury is that it gives you time to reflect on what you’re doing, why you’re racing, and what’s really important to you. With a low back injury that took all but five years to come back from, I never really “came back”.  I just don’t push myself to those limits any more. I like to enjoy the journey and be able to function at the finish. Sure there will be hard work and some “endure”ance required and I will be exhausted at the finish. And yes, I will probably push myself a little too hard at some point.

Usually the first reaction from people is “WHY DO YOU WANT TO PUT YOURSELF THROUGH THAT?” It’s hard to describe “WHY” these type of events feel good, but for me they feel necessary. They’re so physically demanding that you get a chance to break through all the mental barriers and societal obligations/demands and get to your core. To the heart of yourself. And know that you’re fully responsible for your situation and how you’re feeling. That you’re capable of getting yourself out of any situation that arises. With enough awareness and forethought anything that arises won’t be a “problem”- just another challenge to work through.

I’m not a particularly good technical rider, so the downhills are typically my weakness. I’m also not a particularly good hill climber, so the uphills aren’t my strong point either. This sort of leaves flat pavement, and I’m 6’2″ and catch a lot of wind. Soooooo… it seems like my best shot at being ‘competetive’ is to minimize stopping and being efficient when I do have to stop. Exploit my strengths. Honor my weaknesses.

 

The goal for the 2019 Kenai 250: To be present and aware with the current situation throughout the ride. To finish healthy and intact. And finish in 30 hours- because it hasn’t been done and is probably unreasonable. (Just thought I’d throw that in there so you’re either scared of or laughing at me!!!) 😉

But in all honesty I estimate between 30-40 hours. Only time will tell.

 

All Skied and Done

A remarkable experience, and I’m grateful to have been able to participate. I entered this race under the pretense that this is going to be my last ultra.

The plan: I had a goal of breaking the 4-day barrier, which on an excel spreadsheet seemed possible. And now that I’ve seen how long I can push between breaks I believe even more so that breaking the 4-day barrier is possible, given the right conditions for the adequately prepared skier. My hopes were to be able to skate-ski until the climb to Shell Lake, and then skate-ski portions of the trail after that until after the Bear Creek Cabin area, and then skate-ski the last 100 miles. (Hoping to be able to skate-ski about 200+ miles of the course.) I was prepared for classic skiing the steepest hills and narrowest trails, somewhere between 50-100 or so miles. I was wearing mid-range skate-ski boots that were fairly flexible, and carried both classic and skate skis and poles. My sled was essentially a legit backpack with a sled on the back that I could easily pick up and hike with if something broke or the snow got too deep. I felt I was well prepared, and for the most part I was. I just wasn’t prepared for the extremity of dry snow that was to follow…

THE START: Too Hard Too Fast  I had done multiple trips over the past few months (and years) on the first 100 miles of the course, covering all except the first ten miles from Knik Lake. So I started on skate skis. First mistake- there’s a lot of climbing on narrow trails the first 10 miles so after about a mile of struggling I switched to classic. After 11 miles I got to the Burma Road crossing and  was DRENCHED with sweat. In not wanting to have to stop to get warmer clothes when temps dropped that evening, I had dressed in all my warmest layers at 20F start. After Burma Road, with the trail widening and mellowing out, I mostly skated  the next 20 miles to the Susitna River via “Trail 11”. Before dropping onto the Susitna, I finished off the entire pizza I was carrying in ziplock bags inside my jacket. I was still in the early-race panic of making every second count (this soon turns into minutes and then hours) and I couldn’t seem to chew fast enough. If only they made pizza soup! Immediately after dropping onto the Susitna River, I took a drink of water and heard the ominous sucking of air from my camelback- meaning I had already run out of water! I made it another hour (5 miles) before deciding to stop and melt some snow in lieu of arriving at the first checkpoint dehydrated and trashed. In a matter of 20 minutes I had unpacked, melted 2 liters of water, and repacked and was on my way. (I’ve got a secret method of making jetboil stoves work down to at least -30F, but won’t divulge this publicly for safety reasons. And no, putting a freezing canister inside of your jacket is not it.)  I was back and forth with some bikers going up the Yentna River, and arrived at Yentna Station to a warm greeting, and only about an hour behind where I wanted to be per my original plans.

YENTNA TO FINGER: Going Uphill, Things Start Going Downhill: I spent roughly an hour gathering myself at Yentna before proceeding to Skwentna. The route to Skwentna was mostly skate-skiable for the first 20 miles. After that the trail got too narrow and classic was key. At Skwentna I helped myself to a whopping plate of spaghetti, put a carriage bolt through the tail of one of my skis that started to delaminate (the process of the plastic base separating from the ski). I debated sleeping but it was mid-day and might as well be outside when it’s easier to stay awake. So I skated the next 10 miles to the base of the climb up to Shell Lake. As soon as I got up the climb, the winds started picking up. I stopped at Shell Lake for an awesome burger, and as I was taking my last bite the lake disappeared before my eyes. The first ground blizzard was here. I set out quickly to make use of the next 30 minutes of light as I proceeded to get blasted by wind and snow for the next dozen of miles of swamp crossings. This is where things got ugly for skis. The snow was so dry, no glide was possible. This was the start of what I’ll refer to as the 200 Mile Shufflefest. Wide open swamp trails, slight grades up for a few miles and then slight grades down for a few miles to Finger Lake. What could have been a 5-7 mph skate-ski turned into a 2mph shuffle into the wee hours of the morning with no sleep for 35 hours, leaving the last 2 miles into Finger Lake being a series of “2-minutes of skiing followed by waking up and another 2 minutes of skiing”. All the while being blasted in the face by snow pellets and wind. Blech.

LEAVING FINGER LAKE: Traveling with a Companion  I went to sleep in the wall tent without setting an alarm. I trusted my body to know what I needed- waking me up after 3 hours, ready to go. The first runner (Scott Hoburg) had gotten in shortly after me and was sleeping next to me. I ate breakfast, packed up, and took off with Scott right beside me. I was still hoping to skate-ski and probably wasted a bunch of time figuring out it wasn’t worth it as Scott and I leap-frogged our way to Puntilla Lake. I was taking it easy on the up-hills, trying not to break a sweat and be soaked as the sun set that afternoon. When we got to Puntilla Lake that evening, the reports were severe wind and ground blizzards going over rainy pass. Both Scott and I being rookies and neither of us having been over the pass before, we decided to wait until 3AM to start up again and hit the pass in the daylight. We hunkered down in the warm cabin, dried all our gear, and I emptied my heaviest food items into my belly. Most notably the 2-pound burrito my wife Megan had made for me, which was perfectly heated through on the woodstove.

I was up at 1:30 AM after 5 hours of sleep, had some hot Tang and a large bowl of barley cereal, and tended to my blister prevention (which worked!). Scott and I left the cabin at 3:45 AM Tuesday and proceeded to get blasted on the 10 miles to the Rainy Pass cutoff. Periods of light winds and glorious moonlit mountains would instantly become gale-force whiteout conditions where we couldn’t even see our feet. Things calmed after the cutoff as we headed up the pass. We got to the top of the pass around noon with a Finnish biker who had bivy’d out near the top. On the way down I once again tried to skate-ski but was halted in my tracks. The snow was so dry and so drifted that runner Scott was keeping pace with and sometimes beating both me and the Finnish biker. We literally had to PULL our sleds down the mountain!

DALZELL GORGE: Being Prepared  We had one open water crossing going down the gorge. I was swift. Unhook sled, skis and poles off and toss across the creek, garbage bags over boots, pick up sled, hear ‘splash’ in creek and get sinking feeling in gut but nothing comes to mind, cross creek, put everything back on and get ready to go. Now where’s the lock-nut for my sled pole? The thing that keeps my sled from moving between 4 and 8 feet behind me, jerking me around?  Sinking feeling returns… the unknown splash.  When I picked up my sled, the locknut had flung off of the pole and landed directly in the stream. Never to be seen again. I tried to deal with the uncontrollable pole for about a mile before I stopped and put a hose clamp on it to keep it at 8 feet long. More length than I wanted but I didn’t have any other choice. Why did I bring a hose clamp? Because I was using round things (ski poles, sled pole) and you can’t count on duct tape working when it’s cold out. Being prepared.

Luckily for me the most harrowing thing I encountered this entire race was the first ice crossing. A waterfall had created a sloped ice bridge across the creek. Wearing plastic ski boots, I thought of getting the buckle-on ice cleats out of my pack. But for some reason I was feeling rushed. Stupidly. I put my skis and poles in my left hand, my sled pole in my right hand for control, and started to walk softly on the sloped ice. Sloped to the river below. It took about three steps to fall, sprawl myself out, and hope that some part of my body would catch on something. That extra two minutes of putting on ice cleats would have been good insurance. I did stop sliding, wiggled my way to a snow patch on the ice, and had a quick and intense lecture to myself about risk management. After I crossed, I waited to make sure that Scott made it safely, as I didn’t know if his running shoes were studded or not. All clear, and we were on our way to Rohn.

LEAVING ROHN: The Biggest Push of THE BIG PUSH  Once in Rohn, we were greeted by two bratwurst and a can of soup. Oh, and a couple of dedicated and super awesomely helpful hosts! I was hoping to get an hour of shut-eye before taking the big leap of 70+ miles to Nikolai. Timing was such that if we started in the night, we would be in the darkness while we were the most fresh, and finish by early evening when we were exhausted. We would have daylight during our most sleep-famished times. Perfect. I laid down but after about 10 minutes I had so much anxiety about the next stretch that it wasn’t worth wasting time not sleeping. Scott and I headed out at 7PM. For the first six hours we would leap-frog, depending on who needed to eat, swap layers, etc. I can’t say we were working together, we hardly talked, but we were traveling at the same pace and were able to use each other to keep moving. One of us was always trying to keep up with the other. And it was never consistent.

THE 200-MILE SHUFFLEFEST: This is where most people might start wondering “But isn’t skiing faster than running?” That’s what I thought going into this. Truth be told, when I was following Scott I noticed that each one of my footsteps was shorter than his. We’re about the same size (I’m 6’2″ with a lot of leg) so height wasn’t it. The snow was so dry that it was like skiing on sandpaper. When my ski touched the ground it stopped. The additional gear of skis and stiff ski boots, combined with a comparably heavier sled meant that I had to have a faster turnover to keep the same pace. Most of the downhills were so steep and narrow that I had to walk them anyway for my own safety. There was no aerobic capacity needed for these miles. It was simply shuffling my feet as fast as I could maintain. There was a clear line of efficiency and just spinning my wheels. That was about 2.8 mph. We were trying to maintain 3.0.

Going through “The Burn” was exciting, as it was hilly, we had a full moon and clear skies, and it was somewhere in the -20’s. What I had trained skiing in -33F weather was proving insufficient, and I ended up wearing puffy pants, putting toe warmers on my thighs, and a body warmer in my vest to keep warm as we passed numerous bicycle bivies. Scott and I traded places taking what is called either “snow naps” or “shiver bivies”. We were warm enough and just had the cobwebs of sleep in your head, so we simply would get into a stable position and shut our eyes. Inevitably it’s too cold to sleep so if you don’t wake up from the anxiety of it all, you will wake up from starting to feel cold, in which case you just get moving again to warm up. Personally, I have circulation problems so I never got more than 30-seconds into it before getting up. (I probably had a pound of handwarmers with me as well.) Anyway, as one of us would pass the other we would inevitably wake up and follow suit. And then we watched the moon set as the sun was rising behind us. Truly a beautiful place to be.

30 MILES TO NIKOLAI: Time to Trash Ourselves  We arrived at the Bear Creek Cabin turnoff around noonish (+/- 3 hours), and I decided I needed to take a 15-minute power nap before continuing the next 30 miles. To go to the cabin was an extra two miles out of the way which adds another hour onto our time- not worth it if you’re doing well and it’s sunny out! I set my alarm, and we laid on our sleds for 15 minutes in the sunshine and proceeded on. I debated melting snow, but we were over half way and my camelback was still about half full. When we crossed Sullivan Creek there was a bucket on a rope to dip in the creek, and I filled up my insulated water bottle (only to find out ice-cold water in a frozen container will instantly freeze the lid on making it inaccessible, so I ultimately just carried some extra ice on my belt). We made the final turn to Nikolai as the sun was setting, only 10 miles to go! With five miles left, both Scott and I ran out of water, but we can make it two hours easy if we keep it low. Then my feet started aching something awful. Every two minutes I had to stop and wiggle them around and try to stand on my ankles to relieve the pressure. Classic skiing in stiff skate-ski boots had finally taken it’s toll. My heels and the balls of my feet were so bruised they couldn’t stand any pressure. Add to that the fact that all cross-country ski boots are made to be non-breatheable and you have one soaking wet, waterlogged foot. (My wife will attest to the rotten stench when I got home. Literally smelled like roadkill and I’ve never been know to have ‘stinky feet’ before!) Anyway, the Eternal 5 across the swamps to Nikolai left me pretty much trashed from foot fatigue, dehydration, and sleep-deprivation (I would assume the same of Scott, but I haven’t talked to him since he left Nikolai). We had pushed over the pass and completed the longest stretch of the course with nothing more than a power nap. My plan was to sleep for 3 hours in Nikolai and get into McGrath, the finish, the next afternoon.

Now I turn my story solely to myself, as I can’t vouch for anything regarding Scott’s experience after this point. Everything I’ve heard about Scott beyond Nikolai is third-hand at best. What I do know is that as we entered Nikolai, Scott was talking about hanging around for a bit to get to see the area in daylight. I thought that sounded nice, and I was going to give myself three hours of sleep and play it by ear from there. 50 miles sounds short after a 110+ mile push, but without rest you’re now looking at a 160 mile push, mountain pass included. While eating our two burgers and downing some Cokes to replenish our sugar levels and hydration, Scott saw the race tracker and noticed Dave and Gavin about 10 miles back. Instant motivation. He was packed up and ready to hit the trail in about 10 minutes. Seriously? But a part of me understood. He was in a race with other runners. I was just out there doing my thing. That type of determination instantly motivated me. I went from hardly being able to walk on my bruised and swollen feet, to hardly being able to walk on my bruised and swollen feet in ski boots in a matter of 30 more minutes. I felt compelled to be out on the trail with him. But my boots had shrunk significantly. I tell people I couldn’t get my boots on, but truth be told I painfully forced them on and stumbled around the checkpoint gathering my gear until a voice of reason spoke out. Tab Ballentine, a biker whom I had met and befriended at several checkpoints, had been watching me. He said something to the effect that were he in an earlier stage in his life he would be doing what I was doing, but he knows better now. He understood, yet he had some serious advice. I knew better than to head out without rest and without operable feet. But some of us have this inner drive to test ourselves just a little bit more, to ignore our pain and achieve what most would seem as impossible. It’s like a disease amongst the ultra’s. And it can be dangerous.

Anyway, I settled down, unpacked my sleeping bag and hoped that by the time I woke up that the swelling in my feet would go down.

LEAVING NIKOLAI: Skiing at It’s “Finest”  I woke up at 8AM Friday to Dave Johnston and Gavin packing up. I tested out my boots and was able to get them on with a tight fit but no pain. Temps had risen to the teens so I was hopeful for some skate-skiing. I put my skis on and almost fell on my ass. What was going on?  I haven’t felt this is days… GLIDE!  It took about 10 minutes to catch Dave and Gavin, zipping down the trail in ecstasy. After an hour a group of snowmachines passed me, and after 20 miles I saw where they had passed Scott. After some quick speed calculations in my head, I figured I should be running into Scott somewhere around the river/overland route fork. When I got near to where I would see Scott, I was getting excited to see how he was doing and how his night went. I was so busy scanning the terrain for him that I never noticed where his tracks stopped. It confused me and the only things I could come up with were that he either took the river route as I was heading up the overland route, or that he flagged down a snowmachine in exhaustion and got a ride back. The latter being the least likely for someone like Scott.

The entire 50 miles from Nikolai to Rohn almost made up for the 200 miles in the middle. Averaging between 5-8 MPH, actually skate-skiing, and being in mild temps- the entire 10 hours was absolute fun! The finish almost came too soon, except that it was becoming twilight and I didn’t want to get my headlamp out so I guess I was ready. A small group was waiting at the finish to greet me, and the bikers who had already settled in were super helpful in making sure I had everything I needed at the finish. Meal, clothes, etc.

One of the biggest surprises for me was all the online support I saw when I finished. I hadn’t given much thought to advertising for myself as this is a very self-serving sort of thing, but my wife Megan had put the word out and posted updates the entire week. I feel very honored and grateful to have had such support from afar! It was a challenge, it was tough, and I am blessed to have so many positive people in my life. Thank you all for cheering, and thank you for being a part of this adventure with me. I had more energy and awareness than I expected and I believe it’s from the good vibes and wishes I was sent from all of you!

Race Your Own Race

Probably the toughest thing to do if you’re a competitive person and you’re around a bunch of other racers is to RACE YOUR OWN RACE. This means you focus on yourself, pay attention to how you’re doing, and accept that your performance is a direct result of what you were able to do with your bodies own natural capabilities.

For example, I was never a natural athlete growing up. I did OK, but definitely never the strongest or fastest kid, usually picked in the middle to end of the team lineups in grade school. As hard as I tried throughout the years, there was always that kid who skipped class to smoke behind the dumpster who could whoop anybody’s ass in a 100-meter sprint. It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I found out I had ‘deep pockets’. If I could tame my intensity, I seemed to have no end. I would finish a 50K ski marathon, having gone as fast as I could, but wasn’t actually tired and would go on to do some other event later that day. With this being said, racing ultra-marathons such as the Iditarod Trail Invitational is a true test of how deep your pockets really are. How far can you dig and for how long? The only problem is when you’ve dug a hole into your pocket in the Alaska wilderness you can quickly find yourself in a dangerous place. But that discussion is in a previous post.

Throughout the 2018 ITI there were so many opportunities to lose track of why I was there. I was there to race MY race. When I found myself worrying about other people or how far I was behind my original goal, I realized I was racing SOMEONE ELSE’S race. The second you start becoming concerned with where someone else is and start making decisions or change your efforts in regards to how they’re doing in comparison to yourself, you begin racing in their race and you stop being present in your own race. You have now become a competitor in THEIR race. You have stopped being the creator in your own experience. All of your energy is now being put into their race, not yours. You’ve lost the ability to monitor yourself and put yourself an increased risk of fatigue and injury. Not to mention that you’re no longer having fun in your own experience since your concern is now all about worry about how you compare to somebody else instead of just being happy with who you are regardless of what the results show.

Even without another male skier out there, this was by far my biggest challenge.

It started 10 miles in. I was switching from classic to skate, and as I was ready to take off here comes Lindsay with a big smile on her face. I was soaked from wearing too many layers in the sun and warm temps. I was busting my ass, sweating too much to have fun, and here comes someone looking like they’re enjoying their day out in the sun!  As I take off, I decide I need to start taking it easy so I can wear-dry my clothes by the time the sun sets.

Next comes the bikes on the Susitna & Yentna Rivers. We were traveling about the same pace, but I had run out of water from sweating too much the first 10 miles. I had slowly passed up 3-4 cyclists and was getting thirsty. 13 miles until the first checkpoint. Another 2-3 hours of exercise without water. If I stopped to make water all the bikes would surely pass me, all the hard work I had done would be negated. Reality check: Make water now and get to the checkpoint feeling OK, or keep moving and get to the first checkpoint trashed and dehydrated. I didn’t want this race to be miserable. So I stopped. 20 minutes to unpack the stove, melt 2 liters of water from fresh snow and pack back up. The cyclists had all passed me back up, but I got to Yentna Station and recharged in an hour and was out. I would have been their for another hour or two had I not made water.

I had gotten to Finger Lake in the wee hours of the morning, after repeatedly falling asleep while skiing the last six miles. Without eating, I was down and out for 3 hours of sleep. When I woke up the first runner was sleeping next to me. (Damn, caught by the runners!) The last 20 miles had been a slog in dry snow with some wicked headwinds. Skiing had been halted to a shuffle. I got some breakfast, packed up and was out of Finger Lake. Runner Scott Hoburg had left the same time as me. After having to stop and fiddle with some clothing & gear as I got started, Scott and I were back-and-forth. My ego said that I shouldn’t ever be behind a runner. But I found myself starting to work too hard and get too sweaty again, not taking care of myself as Scott was making sure to stick with me. So I took a quick stop to gather some food and let him ahead. Race your own race. I continued to walk up and down the steep climbs and descents at a comfortable pace that would keep me from getting sweaty and cold when the sun went down. Having to constantly leapfrog and get sleds past each other on the narrow trail wasn’t worth it to me. If I raced how I wanted to I wouldn’t get to the next checkpoint worn out and I’d be ready for Rainy Pass.

Rainy Pass Lodge: 8PM, reports of intense wind and ground blizzards going over the pass. Being a rookie, I decided to wait until 3AM to leave so I wouldn’t be going over the pass in the dark in ground blizzard conditions. I was willing to deal with either darkness or high winds, but not both at the same time as a rookie who had no idea what the pass was like. Scott and I headed out together in the wind ad 3AM. Got to the pass around noon. Perfect.

The stream crossing snafu where part of my sled pole went down the river was totally random, as I took my time to do the crossing right and not get wet feet. I was being careful and attentive, I just had no way of knowing I had put a half turn too much when loosening the locknut and freed it from the pole. Sending it directly into the center of the stream when I picked the sled up. It was too perfect- for some reason it was meant to be.

The slanting ice bridge. I should have taken a picture. The first icy crossing in the Dalzell Gorge was formed by a freezing waterfall into the gorge, creating a strong, solid ice bridge across the river. It was ice, and it wasn’t flat. Off come the skis, detach the sled from my waist. Contemplate taking out my ice grips from my pack but get worried about the extra time and that Scott would catch me again. Can’t I just get ahead and stay there? He seemed determined to stick with me. So I look at the crossing again and decide that if I step on the couple of snow patches that have bonded with the ice that I can probably make it. Skis and poles in the left hand, sled pole in the right, and tiptoeing onto the ice. I quickly run out of safe real estate and decide to stop on the snow on the edge of the ice where it meets the waterfall. A little steeper ice but it has snow on it. WRONG CHOICE! That snow hadn’t seen any traffic and was a loose layer of wind crust and hadn’t adhered to the ice yet! On all fours I go, sliding toward the edge of the ice bank to the river below. Quickly searching for any rocky bits or adhered snow patches to get one of my four limbs on to get some purchase. Plastic ski boots are not my friends right now. I stop sliding, but now need to find a way to right myself and get across. Shuffle on my belly? Try to stand up? It would be easier if I didn’t have both hands full!  Somehow I did get across and think to myself “If I wasn’t worried about where anybody else was, this wouldn’t have happened. Let’s be smart for now on.” Not sure how prepared Scott was for ice, I wait to make sure he gets across the ice safely and then continue on. Wake up and race your own race.

The rest of the way to Nikolia Scott and I were evenly matched. The dry snow and having to deal with skis, poles, and a fairly heavy sled kept us about even. I initially planned on a 1-hour nap at Rohn but my mind wouldn’t let me rest so after 15 minutes of trying to sleep I decided to head out at 7PM for the next 70 or so miles, getting the darkest hours out of the way while I was most rested. Scott was up for it and we were back and forth, keeping eachother awake. Neither of us would stop to ‘snow-nap’ unless we were in the front, waiting for the person behind to catch up and wake us. A pretty good system actually to shake the cobwebs and not be in too much danger of sleeping too long and getting too cold. The thermometer on my jacket read -20F in the fog of my breath.

We got to the Bear Creek Cabin trail around noon, and I decided that a 15-minute power nap in the sun was due after that arduous night. I was going to take one whether or not Scott was. I know how much help that 15-minute recharge would be for the brain. I had been nodding off in the daylight for the last 2 hours, sometimes tripping on my skis and poles into the soft snow beside the trail. We both leaned up on our sleds and woke up to my alarm 15 minutes later, directly heading back down the trail. I never nodded the rest of the day. I knew what I needed and took the break- racing my own race.

Getting into Nikolai, my feet were aching worse than they ever have before. I knew after the last push that I needed a couple hours of sleep.  My plan was to do some gear maintenance (like thaw my boots from my skis) and eat, sleep for 3 hours to recharge, and try to skate ski to McGrath. Temps had risen so there should be some glide. Scott saw on a computer the locations of the next two runners and decided to take off. I knew we needed rest, but something in me wanted to stick with him. I know I had the same mental capacity to start the final 50 miles but I really doubted how I would feel in a couple of hours in the darkness, again. Within an hour of Scott departing Nikolai, I was fully dressed and prepared for another 50. I could hardly walk, and could hardly stuff my swollen feet into my boots. After some logical questioning from a cyclist who had been watching me stumble around, my ego caved. Race your own race. You can start now but will be in a world of hurt. There’s no difference in what you’ll achieve whether you start right now or wait for the swelling in your feet to go down and recharge your mental capacity. Fully dressed I went to sleep. Race my own race. Don’t race anybody else or even the clock. This is how you’re doing and this is what you need.

I woke up to Dave Johnston and Gavin (runners 2&3) packing up after an hour or two of rest. I ate some breakfast, had some coffee (first of the race!), and gave my boots another go. I was able to get them on with only slight discomfort, so skating should be OK. The trail was warm (mid-teens) and skate-skiing was a go!  About 10 minutes in I passed Dave and Gavin, and I was feeling great!  Compared to 2.5MPH, the new 5-6MPH speeds felt like I was flying! I could get this last 50 miles done in 10 hours! I was hoping to run into Scott to see how he was doing about 20-30 miles in but he had backtracked and I never saw him. I pushed hard and maintained my speed the entire way into McGrath, feeling like I was actually RACING! It was finally worth the energy to push myself a little!  I was so thankful I had rested in Nikolai and RACED MY OWN RACE.

After all, the only person that can fully understand your accomplishment is yourself. Nobody else had the same experience in your body as you did.