Our satisfaction with the things we do and experience is directly related to our expectations. Whether it’s the big summer blockbuster movie we go see, or our performance in the local 5K, the enjoyment we derive is strongly linked to what we thought was going to happen going in.

And this is why I LOVED running four miles today.

It’s all about perspective.

You see, I’m an endurance mountain runner. I love pushing my body out of its comfortable place and making it kick into its endurance gear, then chug along in this mode for hours. I love avoiding the civilized world and twisting up trails that get narrow and overgrown. I love when on snowy or muddy days, there are no footprints on the trail, aside from the ones I leave behind me. Running is my peace, and I have let it grow to become one of my defining identities.

I also have a lousy back.

I have had two surgeries for herniated disks. For periods in my life this has also become one of my defining identities, and not something that gives me joy.

Last year was a good one for my running. I had a strong season that included a couple 50-mile trail ultramarathons, “training run” road marathons, I paced for a 25-mile section of a 100-miler and a Grand Canyon rim-to-rim-to-rim crossing. I set a PR in a 50-miler in June, and all told, I was feeling pretty invincible by the fall. Through the whole year, the shortest run I went on was six miles. As an endurance runner, I have trouble justifying anything shorter than that because I am barely warmed up and don’t really get into training my endurance cardio. I also don’t have a ton of extra time in the week, so to put on shorts without getting much beyond a warm-up usually makes me decide to put that time toward a different activity.

Then, in October, the pendulum swung the other direction. While training for the upcoming ski season in a dry land class (run by my wife, but we’ll try not to blame her!), I re-herniated the disk that I had operated on in 2005. Now, I knew that the odds were in my favor, that I might recover without requiring a third surgery, but it was still quite a disappointment. The orthopedic textbooks will tell you that the majority of these will resolve without surgical intervention by around six weeks. Long story short, that didn’t happen. But luckily, I wasn’t experiencing debilitating weakness as I had in 2005, mostly just discomfort and some bizarre sensory things that are hard to describe. Some days it would feel like cold water was dripping down my leg, or that there were ants running around the outside of my calf, or that someone had taken one of those long circus balloons and was blowing it up inside my butt and leg. The problem was that my back hadn’t read the textbooks, and the symptoms kept going on. Some days there was encouragement, some days seemed worse, but there were no days where I felt like I was beyond the issue. I was stuck in the limbo of not being good enough to do what I wanted, but not being bad enough to let anyone operate on me a third time. I worked on stretching, core strengthening, physical therapy, had a nerve root injection, tried meditation. Once, in January, I tried to just “power through it” and went out for a road run; this was probably the worst solution and set me back months.

Then, over the past few weeks, I began to notice that I was having fewer symptoms, or at least more manageable ones. I dug out bushes and installed a retaining wall in my backyard, waiting for the inevitable day flat-on-my-back afterward, but it didn’t come. I took a couple hikes in the foothills behind our home, and didn’t really have big flare-ups afterward. I started running down after hiking up Mt. Van Cott, and still, nothing worsened.

So, today, I went for a run.

Four miles, up Dry Creek. Just to the saddle and back. This is the first part of the most common eight-miler that I run, so it’s very familiar to me. I have names for some of the rocks and embankments, even “rock b-gone” where there used to be a rock that eroded down the hill one day in the thaw from winter in 2008. It’s a run I wouldn’t have taken last summer. If I only had time for a four-miler then, I would have chosen something else to do. However, my perspective is different today, so I went. I kept a vigilant check on any progression of symptoms, I told myself that if things started to flare up, I would turn right around. Chugging along the gradual climb, I felt cautiously optimistic about my body’s response. Being out on the trails, actually on a run, I felt amazing. A mile and a half up the moderate, persistent slope, I was passed by another runner who I vaguely recognized from the local ultrarunning scene. I held my ego in check, trying to remember if I had ever been passed on this section before. I thought about making a shirt with “Rehab Run – Returning From Injury” on the back, so guys like this would know not to look to catch up to me when I was back full speed.

Then, I just smiled and remembered to be grateful for where I was on this beautiful, sunny day.

I don’t know how my body will react tomorrow, or to the next run I attempt. I still have that feeling that I’m not “beyond” the injury. But, every step – both literally and figuratively – makes me appreciate the journey, and keep hope for what I might accomplish tomorrow.

Mark D. Scholl, M.D., is a Cloudveil Inspired Mountain Ambassador and an orthopedic surgeon. He is a team physician to the U.S. Ski Team, U.S.A. Rugby and Solitude Mountain Resort. He is an ultrarunner, skier, fly fisher and will do whatever his two-year-old daughter asks.

“What?!”

That was how the day was shaping up. I was standing on top of a 35-foot SnowFlex ramp in Copper Mountain’s new indoor jumping facility called Woodward. The young guy who just gave me the instructions, which I was really having trouble doing, had just walked me and my kids through an hour-and-a-half lesson on how to fall and jump into a foam pit. The part he left out was the part about this ramp. Now don’t get me wrong, I was all about doing these jumps, but I guess I thought we would kind of step our way up to it, not start there as our first jump.

The day started chill enough. We started by learning to tumble on a padded floor. The whole idea at Woodward is safety, and pushing your limits in the air. As we stretched and talked, they went through all the ways to fall correctly on the pits and floors. The funny thing is, tumbling at this altitude, 9,800 feet, kept making me feel like I was on a roller coaster, and I kept having to get drinks of water to settle my stomach. My kids thought that was funny. We went through the ways to land in the pits, and the swim to get out of the foam pit. I don’t think I ever really thought about it much; I thought you just got up and walked out.

No.

You have to sorta kinda swim – like getting out of deep pow when you don’t have poles and it keeps moving. The first flip I landed from the bounce floor put me under the foam, which I was not expecting, and resulted in my crawl-swim-flop technique to get out. Believe me when I say, it’s more work than I thought.

Once we got that all down, it was on to the tramps.

There we learned proper body position in landing and how to work on keeping our bodies under control as we shoot through space. I was looking for more control in flight with my skis. I tend to overshoot landings, smacking hard when I come down. Also, I tend to lean back, which at certain times can be a really bad thing to do. I don’t want to launch a 50-footer, but I do want to style the jumps I do hit. Whether it’s a rock in the backcountry or a kicker at the resort, I want to feel like I’m in some type of control.

After the tramps we headed for the SnowFlex Ramps.

The SnowFlex are ramps made out of a fake lawn-type of material. They feel a lot like riding on a groomer of hardpack. You can’t carve it, but you get the feeling like you’re on snow. Of course I was in shorts and T-shirt, but hey, I did have my skis in right!

We started with a really gentle hill that ended with a halfpipe. The roll in was about a 10-foot drop, but very gentle. Mayah and Will passed the first time, stopping a few feet short, but by the third time, they were dropping into the pipe and really having fun.

Next step was a higher ramp into the same terrain park and halfpipe. Again, they both passed, watching me twice, then jumping in and really having a blast.

Then came the biggie …

They decided to sit out, but I figured that’s the whole reason I was there. On my first drop, the instructor asked that I sideslip it to get the feeling. I didn’t argue with him in the least. Sliding my skis over felt like dropping into a super-fast elevator, but also super-cool.

Then it was back up, and the simple command I mentioned at the top.

“Do I really need to point the whole way???”

The smile and nod told me everything I needed, and with a grin and a prayer, point ‘em I did. In a second I was into the transition, and then launching the kicker over the pit. I even managed a sucked-up, hands-forward charge, then, poof. I was in. And man, I was hooked!

It was awesome.

To fly out over that stuff, knowing you won’t get hurt, is amazing and fun. I felt like a little kid again, and can’t wait to head back.

That was the advice of the guy at the Park Service desk for the IMAX movie at the Grand Canyon when we told him we were planning on running across the canyon the next day.

“Really bad idea. We’ve had 15 deaths in the canyon so far this year.”

Good thing we didn’t tell him we were planning on running back, too.

There were four of us on the trip, two guys and two gals. I was the only one with any ultramarathoning experience, but the other three were legit endurance athletes who had done LOTOJA, run marathons, completed Ironman triathlons and were in good shape. Two of the others even had a top-20 finish in Primal Quest last year. I was cautious about taking the group of ultrarunning newbies out to something of this size, especially self-supported, but ultimately felt quite safe that the group could handle the effort. Our plan was to run the Bright Angel Trail from the South Rim across the canyon to the North Kaibab Trail, check out the North Rim and head back across to the waiting car at the South Rim parking lot. It would be about 47 miles and a little over 10,000 vertical feet of climbing with the same of descent.

“Have you girls done any hiking before?”

Ooooooh, that was completely condescending, and from Park Service guy’s female partner no less. Sure, we understood that it’s part of their job to discourage folks from taking on the canyon in a challenge that might be above their ability, but launching a clear gender dig like that was uncalled for. I could see the steam coming out of my friend Ivy’s ears as she pleasantly let the chick in the Ranger Rick jacket know she had done a bit of hiking before. The understatement of the trip from a woman who has done 10-day adventure races of more than 500 miles. As a bemused and thoroughly pissed Ivy replayed the patronizing question the rest of the night, I knew at least one of us would make it.

Morning came early, but turns out it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to have started even earlier. The whole day proved to be a series of little compromises that allowed us to finish, but with more of a “solid B” grading of the effort. The first compromise was for food. Mickey D’s opened at 5 a.m., so instead of being over the rim by 5, we decided to be on the doorstep of someplace for a little hot grub at that hour. Seemed reasonable, but by the time we got into the park and were dropping down the Bright Angel Trail, it was 6:02. Not to mention that my belly was full of a foreign, greasy ball of goo. Somehow, none of us ended up with any stomach problems at all through the day, which may have been one of the most important “good luck” elements of the trip.

The start was (obviously) all downhill, and my approach to descents is usually “don’t fight it.” I love bombing the downs, especially technical sections where I have to lock in on my footwork. This is a part of mountain running that beginners tend to overlook, but you can make up loads of time by shelving your fears of the Superman layout-style fall and pushing the tempo just a tick past the comfort zone. The Bright Angel Trail is the most-used trail in the canyon and is reinforced with logs to prevent erosion. Unfortunately, the logs were spaced out just wrong for the legs of the girls, and they needed to maintain a moderate pace on this stretch. I initially started to feel like we were letting an opportunity slip by not pushing our pace; we were in shadows, the day was still cool, and we had gravity on our side. Once I saw how the trail wasn’t really fitting the stride of the girls, I started recalculating how the day would go.

We had set a cutoff time for the North Rim based on the theory that we wanted to be on the climb out, around the Indian Gardens campground, by the time the sun was down. The forecast predicted an overnight low of 29 degrees, and I was concerned about hypothermia. The last time I had run the Grand Canyon, in 2004, I watched another rim-to-rim-to-rimmer stumble out of the dark canyon a couple hours after my group, delirious and in significant hypothermia. I didn’t want to see this in any of our party this year, so we stashed warmer gear and some food below Indian Gardens and planned to be back there by dark, when the cold would set in.

Past the river, we talked about the timing, and I let the group know I didn’t think we would be climbing out of the canyon by dark if we went all the way to the North Rim at the pace we were going.

“So?”

I was with Adventure Racers.

I had a mountaineering mentality about cutoff times, which was why I felt we had to have one and I was getting anxious about missing it. My friends had the “keep going ’till you get-er-done” mentality from Adventure Racing and weren’t concerned about sunset or getting a little chilly. We each did have at least one long-sleeve layer with us, and hiking an established trail out of a canyon with headlamps in the dark is not the same as traversing an exposed snow field, rappelling a 30-foot drop or crossing a 40-degree scree zone when coming off a summit. I listened, and was convinced it was not a dangerous decision for the experienced people we had to keep going.

O.K. then, we were committed to making the push, even if it meant dragging out of the canyon after midnight. More little compromises that were based on reasonable decision making, but kept us farther from that “A+” effort.

One of the things about ascending out of the Grand Canyon is that you always know where you have yet to go. If you see rock and no horizon, you still have more to climb. It’s natural to look up, but it’s a really bad idea. At some points, it doesn’t seem so far, yet there are miles and thousands of feet yet to climb. You see others ahead, and cross paths with many on the bustling trail, but the important thing is to keep moving. The heat of the day was bearing down upon us, and the rock continued to tower above. It was starting to get a touch grueling, but: left foot, right foot.

Then, people day-hiking down started giving more encouraging reports – “Only two miles from the Supai Tunnel,” “about a mile and a half,” “you’re almost there.” I played leapfrog with a group of girls who were also from Salt Lake City, keeping amused by eavesdropping on their detailed descriptions of the sizable puddles of mule waste we would encounter. I came to assume from their horror that despite being tough as nails, they were not country girls. Finally, got back into a bit of a rhythm and put a little distance into that group, reeled in a few others and got my summit push on. I could begin to hear the bustle of the rim, a low grumble of conversations, and then, distinctly, I heard a car door shut! What a welcome sound, for that could only mean one thing … up a straight stretch and around a turn – whoop, whoop!

The North Rim was burgeoning with hikers and sag wagoneers. Trees obscured it, but I was confident there was a horizon again.

After a couple minutes, the group was together at the top and it was time to give a good look into everyone’s eyes. One unwavering truth is that if you go back in for the return trip, ya gotta get out. Amy seemed a little serious about hitching a ride back to the South Rim and I’m sure she could have given a little damsel-in-distress (blink-blink “I’m just sooo tired” blink-blink) and had a dozen volunteers, but I think the “Pain is temporary, Glory lasts forever” spirit got a fresh breath in all of us, and we steeled to the challenge.

Smiles and a little giddy laughter carried us back into the canyon. I suppose if I think hard, I can recall some places were a little sore, but I mainly remember being so happy to be going downhill again. It was different, and my body needed a little different.

Despite all the grind and occasional misery of the adventure, the people we ran into on the trail were truly wonderful. Never was that more embodied than shortly after we dropped back into the North Rim Trail as we crossed paths with a group we had recently passed on the way up. They were a bit surprised to see us going back toward the South Rim again but had encouragement and a heaven-sent offer – “Do you want any real food?” After a day of gels, bars and gel blocks it’s hard to describe how amazing that sounded. They generously passed off some trail mix and chips and then, like a shining idol descending from the skies, the most wondrous ambrosia: a glorious hunk of summer sausage!

It was probably no more than three and a half inches long and standard summer sausage diameter, but the four of us descended upon this hunk of salty, meaty delight like starving hyenas on an impala carcass baking in the Serengeti sun.

Eyes narrowed and tensions heightened as the morsel was passed around. As the flesh nugget made its final round, I went to savor the final, delicious bite. I raised the barely half-inch cube toward my watering mouth, when Amy interjected, “Hey! That’s two bites.” My hair raised and I glared defensively. Are you kidding? This bite was the size of a Starburst! After a long pause, I dropped my shoulders and bit off half the chunk (more like two-thirds) and gave her the last taste.

Revived, we were back to the trail and quickly back alongside the river. The sun was dropping and I wanted us to stay on some sort of a pace with many miles and a “little climb” to go. We continued to caterpillar along, spreading out at our own paces and then coming back together to ensure everybody was doing well. I held off on my headlamp as long as possible to keep my vision sharp at dusk along the river. Animals would be coming down to the water at this time, and I didn’t want to get tunneled into a headlight beam and surprise any four-legged friends. Through a stretch with tall reeds that had occasional game trails crossing, I popped out some intermittent clapping like at dusk in bear territory. The mountain lions that are the largest carnivore in the park are rare, but even a startled mule deer can be aggressive. I saw two mulies near the water, but no close encounters that night.

I expected the light to disappear like a switch when the sun dropped away from the canyon, but instead it was a lingering twilight. Ever so slowly, the dimmer dropped on the day’s light, and then the first stars came into view. Once the star parade had begun, it rapidly evolved to a jaw-dropping extravaganza. Stars and planets, sweeping galaxies and twinkles you can only catch out of the side of your eye. They all came pouring out into the dark night’s sky. A couple shooting stars even darted across the canvas, but at that point I had only a solitary wish, for the horizon at the South Rim.

Making the Colorado River Bridge was largely encouraging, other than the knowledge that “it’s all uphill from here.” Most surprising at this stage was how temperate the air remained. I had been worried that the sun dropping would bring rapid cold and drive our risk of hypothermia, but the warmth continued to radiate off the sun-baked walls of the canyon in the still night. It was actually quite pleasant for a night hike as we pushed toward Indian Gardens.

Near the gardens, we recovered our stashed clothes and food. Timing was perfect, as it was starting to get a bit crisp in the evening air. The push out for our team then evolved into little personal battles. The pitch dark became like blinders, narrowing each of us into our own headlamp stream. The sore places became less like little bruises and more like ice picks, and the cold wind started to pick up as we neared the rim. The lights from the South Rim were hovering above us, but for a long time never seemed to get any closer. Legs were calling out for rest but when we stopped moving, the cold started creeping in around the edges like the frost on a winter window. Don’t look up, don’t look up, aaargh, still so far away. I started making deals with my mind: “Four more switchbacks and you can check how far we are again.”

Past the Three Mile Restroom and one more meeting of the caterpillar to make sure we were all going to make it, then it was smell-the-barn time. I knew I wouldn’t stop again until the rim. I have to say, I had forgotten there were TWO stone tunnels toward the South Rim, because when we got to the first, I was a little too eager that we were nearly home. I had thought it would be no more than a couple hundred yards from the tunnel to the rim, but if you don’t judge that from the correct tunnel, it can be a bit disappointing when you’re still grinding along 10 minutes later. Once we hit the second stone tunnel, the little lightbulb over my head was bright enough to guide us back to the South Rim.

Well after midnight, we wandered, dazed, into the lobby of the lodge. No finisher’s medal, no massage school students with a tent set up, just a round of hugs and a guy kind enough to set down his mop long enough to snap one picture.

I don’t want to go around telling anybody how to live their lives; heck, I usually don’t know what’s coming next in my own.

But.
If you haven’t.
Go to the Grand Canyon.

Writing the reasons to see it are like trying to capture the canyon in a photo.
Go and you’ll understand.

Mark Scholl, M.D., is a Cloudveil Inspired Mountain Ambassador and an orthopedic surgeon. He is a team physician to ReAL Salt Lake of the MLS, the U.S. Ski Team and Solitude Mountain Resort. He is an ultrarunner, backcountry skier and amateur snow science geek.

I ran track in high school, but never was a fan of the stress that it induced. I liked running, however, not racing. I didn’t like the pre-race butterflies, the side aches or the high expectations that I set for myself. Some people are competitive by nature and love it, but I am not one of them.

So when my friend Lauren started talking about the local Tinman Triathlon — a 740-yard swim, 10-mile road ride and 4.5-mile run — I entertained the idea briefly, but shrugged it off. Not only did I dislike the thought of competing in a race, I am not a swimmer. The run and ride wouldn’t be bad, but I really don’t like swimming. The thought of swimming in a lake at eight-thirty in the morning with a horde of other people smashed around me was nauseating.

Somehow by early August, myself and most of our friends had been “talked into” the Tinman. Instead of lounging by the lake, we were practicing swimming and talking about technique — and still doing some lounging. I must say, with practice, swimming was not so terrible and was actually a bit relaxing and peaceful. That may have been due to my very slow pace and the beauty of the lake sitting under Mount Shasta.

The morning of the race it was 42 degrees — was I really going to jump in the lake in my swimsuit? I had a hard time getting into the lake when it was 65 degrees. Upon arriving at the lake, it wasn’t the temperature of the water that scared me; it was the number of people that were milling around the parking lot. The Tinman was supposedly a small-town, mellow, great first triathlon. However, the turnout for the Tinman was more than double than it was the year before; more than 600 competitors showed up. It was awesome seeing so many friends and familiar faces. However, I am not sure that small Dunsmuir Rotary Club was prepared for that number of competitors.

The race organizers only planned for three swimming heats, which meant that 140 women were all swimming at the same time. Now, I have never competed in a triathlon, but that seemed like a lot of bodies squeezed into a small area. And I was right; the swim turned out to be more horrifying than I imagined. It kind of reminded me of lemmings running all over each other only to jump of a cliff. The swimming techniques that I had practiced were out the door.

Doggy paddling and the backstroke became my new best friends and got me to the turnaround point, where the pack thinned and I actually was able to put my face in the water and swim. After what seemed like a few hours, I made it back to shore relieved that I was out of the water and wasn’t completely last.

Transitioning into my bike shoes and helmet was harder than I imagined. What once seemed like an easy task became confusing and difficult. However, once I got onto my bike and was on solid ground, I felt more at home. I had some serious catching up to do, so I put it into high gear and started racing. Once I started pedaling, and passing people, the fear lessened, the adrenaline pumped, and I think I actually started to enjoy the race.

I made some headway on the ride, but again felt a little lost at the running transition. Changing shoes was never so complicated, and my quads felt like to two ice blocks. The course was an out and back, so I saw all of my friends at some point during the run. Seeing everyone push it hard and still smiling was definitely the highlight of the triathlon.

Once it was over and we were all laughing and hanging out in the parking lot, I was glad I had done it. It was a beautiful morning and what a great event to share with friends. The Mount Shasta contingency did quite well in the race; everyone finished under an hour and 30 minutes. Lauren ended up being the second female finisher, and I even managed to finish sixth amongst the female competitors and first in my age group.

Maybe deep down inside there is a bit of a racer in me.

Mariah McPherson is a Cloudveil Inspired Mountain Athlete.

My goal this summer is summit all of the major peaks in the Teton range. The weather is finally getting nice in Jackson and it’s time to start bagging some peaks. I decided to start out with one of the easier peaks to summit, the Middle Teton, to get myself into shape.

Approaching the Meadows at the base of the Middle Teton

The Middle Teton is basically a long hike.

I am accustomed to summitting in running shoes. There is still a lot of snow in the Tetons, so I brought along an ice axe just in case. And the best part of climbing up is glissading down the snow fields on the way down. I’m really glad I brought my ice axe. Without it, I would not have made the summit. In hindsight, crampons would’ve been nice to have as well.

Eric and I summitted at 11:45 a.m. and had the summit all to ourselves. It was beautiful up there.

The snow made it a little more difficult to go up, but made the going down a lot more fun.

Next up Teewinot. …

Jess McMillan is a Cloudveil athlete, a champion freeskier and badass kayaker. She calls Jackson Hole home.

Four stages. Three days. One Kinetic Rock-n-Roll Road indoor trainer.

Yes, as its name implies, the “stage race” I did last week was totally and completely done indoors. Take that Tour de France riders. Who among you has the mental toughness to ride indoors? In perfectly beautiful weather? For over thirteen hours? Thirteen. Hours.

Give me Mont Ventoux any day. Please.

Now, I’ve proved — numerous times — my capacity for repetition and boredom exceeds that of a normal person (I submit my training sessions for the 24 Hours of Sunlight randonee race this past winter and the race itself as examples). Still, the Tour de Trainer took me to places I had never before gone. And hope to never again go. The 25-minute “time trial” and the 45-minute “crit” weren’t horrible, but the 75-mile road race (3:30 hours) the first day and the 105-mile road race (5:30) the last day rank amongst the longest hours of my life.

I didn’t devise the Tour de Trainer to see if I was capable of swallowing my own bile for hours on end, but because a broken collarbone has had me riding indoors since the middle of June. The first week-and-a-half weren’t horrible because 1.) Since I couldn’t weight the arm attached to the broken collarbone, the “workouts” were generally short and 2.) I discovered the first (and second) season(s) of The Wire at the Teton County Library.

Going into the second full week post-surgery though, I could weight the handlebars equally with both hands. Which, of course, to me, meant I was ready to ride outside. My doctor felt differently though. Trying – for once – to be a mostly compliant patient, I promised I’d keep my training indoors. He asked for a month. I told him I could give him another week.

The gears in my head immediately went into overdrive. What – besides watch episode after episode of The Wire — could I do to get myself through another week of indoor riding? Was there any way I could make it interesting? Is there anything I could do to make it a week that counted?

It may have taken others longer than the walk through the waiting room at Teton Orthopaedics to come up with the idea – if they ever would — of taking their favorite stage race and bringing it inside, but, as I’ve already explained, when it comes to boredom and repetition in athletics, I’m a superstar. Idiotic ideas come to me naturally. Easily.

Tour de Trainer – based on The Elkhorn Classic — started the next day. The day after that, I had to hide all the knives and razor blades in the house. Still, I pushed on. Half-way through the final day (“half-way” being about 2 hours, 45 minutes), my eyes had rolled to the back of my head and I wanted it to be over more than I’ve ever wanted anything to be over before. (And that includes an Elk Mountain Grand Traverse in which, thanks to the first asthma attack of my life, the last eight miles took my teammate and myself as long to do as did the first 37 miles.)

But, because I am a—perhaps even the – Stubbornness Superstar, I didn’t end it, even though all I had to do was unclip and step down onto the floor of my office. I could have called it, stripped out of my bike shorts, and been lounging on my couch eating Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and Ben & Jerry’s in two minutes.

Now that it’s over and my eyes are back in their proper place, I realize that this particular silly idea did help me. The next time I’m doing something that seems to suck – say, skinning uphill for 24 hours, biking 115 miles and 15,000 vertical feet in one day, or riding up Mont Ventoux — I’ll think back on Tour de Trainer and realize it doesn’t suck. At all.

PS – Since I haven’t actually yet ridden up Mont Ventoux, I am only guessing that it can’t suck as badly as the Tour de Trainer. If anyone wants to further my quest to write on the finest investagatory journalism and fund my testing of this, give me a call.

In short:
Pros of Tour de Trainer

I didn’t get fat.
I won every stage. Off the front.
Feeds could include toasted Thomas’ English muffins with Nutella and peanut butter.
Renewed appreciation for riding outdoors, even in Biblical rain, hail and/or snow.

Cons of Tour de Trainer

You can feel the insanity as it sets in.
Talking to yourself.
Talking to the cats.
Hearing the cats talk back to you.
Having to hide all the sharp objects in the house.

As a climber I’m always looking for ways to tackle those inspiring and often blank walls I find myself drawn to. It could be a variation to a contrivance I want to try when I’m out with my friends drinking PBR’s on the weekend, or it could be the international dream project. After returning from Mallorca at the end of 2007 and being a little disappointed with my climbing there, I decided to start training with Athletik Spesifik. I was already pretty satisfied with my climbing ability but I wanted to see if I could squeeze the lemon any harder. Seven months later I went to Rocklands and had a great trip, having successfully elevated my climbing to my next personal level.

The value of training in a program like this is different for everyone. In my case, I already had the discipline and work ethic, just not the guidance. Dave’s approach to training helps you put your effort where it pays dividends in climbing. He mixes it up, keeps it interesting, and Dave is a real hawk-eye when it comes to form and safety.

If you live in the Denver / Boulder area I would consider giving his program a look. Taking revenge on your project from last season is sweet, sweet nectar indeed.

Editor’s note: The Jackson Hole version is called Mountain Athlete with Rob Shaul. Before trying a session, I wrote it off as a distraction from mountain pursuits, not a complement. Now, I’m trying to figure out how to strike a deal so I can go to the ass kicking hour-sessions twice a week.

Cloudveil Athlete Chuck Fryberger is in Europe promoting his climbing film Pure.

I don’t mind giving up a weekend of great skiing to get in my first outdoor road rides of the season. But I haven’t gotten any road rides in. What have I got? The longest 26 minutes and 33 seconds of my life. On what very well might be the world’s oldest elliptical machine in the basement of the place I’m staying.

It hasn’t been for lack of trying though.

Last Wednesday, when I was getting all excited to ride outside for the first time since November 28, the weather channel neglected to mention Cheyenne was set for several days of winds – and we’re talking steady gales here, not gusts – in the neighborhood of 135 miles per hour. (Note: This is just my amateur guesstimate based purely on television footage I’ve seen of hurricane winds.)

But I thought I could take them on. My first full day in town, fortified with the best green chili burrito I’ve ever had (if you’re ever in Cheyenne don’t miss it: Luxury Diner, 1401 W. Lincolnway), I drove out past the strip mall hell that has unfortunately become Cheyenne’s main drag. I found Horse Creek Road, which trusted sources said I could count on for a 60 mile out-and-back ride. Arriving there, I could see why it got five stars on mapmyride.com. There was a big shoulder and little traffic. But, what was this? The wind was batting my parked car – a 3,000-some pound GMC Savana – around like a toy.

I opened the side door from the inside, pushed my bike out, and then followed myself. A battalion of tumbleweeds came at me. I stood my ground, locking, and shutting the door. I noticed Horse Creek headed directly into the wind. “Wind is the best training partner,” I told myself. I maneuvered my bike onto the shoulder. I got on. I clipped in. I pedaled. Or rather, I tried to pedal. I clicked into my easiest gear faster than you can say “I can’t believe I gave up face shots for this.” I was in a gear I don’t even need when riding up Teton Pass. But there I was in my 34/27. On a totally flat road.

I got moving. 5.1 miles per hour. One hundred feet up the road, the wind ripped the sunglasses from my face. 4.5 miles per hour. I collected them and continued on. Aberrant gusts from the sides first pushed me one way – into the dirt – and then the other – into the road. 4.9 miles per hour. It was like I was practicing my standing stop. At .2 of a mile (notice that decimal point), I decided I didn’t need to be this stubborn and turned around.

Without a single pedal stroke, I headed back to the van at a brisk 15 miles an hour. Wait, 17 miles an hour. And then, just as I drew even with the van, 18.2 miles an hour.

Enter the elliptical machine. And bitterness that I traded a weekend of powder for the possibility of riding my road bike outside.

I’ve been in Wyoming long enough to know you shouldn’t shoot to do any sport that doesn’t involve snow (or ice) in February. A few too many mind-numbing workouts on the indoor bike trainer can make you think crazy, though.

There had still better be some great snow when I get home.

When not breaking endurance records, freelance writer and über athlete Dina Mishev blogs on Fleece Fashionista.

As I prepare to escape the Hole for law school and a more intellectual path, I am struck by a phenomenon that so many Jacksonites have felt over the years: the skiing in these mountains has a gravitational pull comparable to that of our Sun. The sad state of the snowpack this winter has certainly made it easier to think about leaving and locking myself in a library, and after discovering this little marvel there is nothing holding me back.

I mean, skiing has so many risks – ACL tears, frostbite, avalanches, out of control skiers, long lift lines, getting turtled in the backcountry, scary gondola towers, expensive gear, a 300-inch winter and crowded parking lots.

With this new machine, I can avoid all these risks and be the skier I always knew I could be.** Without people in my way, unpredictable weather and expensive gear, I would have been Bode Miller.

And now I can be both badass on the slopes and in the courtroom.

I can wear a suit to workout in or tennis shoes that match my new machine.

And, while it’s about as expensive as a season pass to Jackson Hole, the lifetime use, the comfort and the stories that will emerge from this machine that I can tell my law buddies in the bar will far outweigh staying in this place with majestic, cold mountains and beautiful shiny new tram cars.

One day, maybe I could even take my inside skiing skills abroad to the what looks like the best place to ski indoors: The Desert. But, that’s for another post.

**According to the German Pro-Idee site, the ski simulator was designed with the help of ski instructors, sport scientists and physical therapists. The device simulates near accurate motions exactly similar to the real sport. It will “vibrate, rotate, tilt – exactly like a real ski descent.” Even the set of ski poles is an integral part of the simulation. With the Alpine Ski Racing 2007 software, you can ski in 32 different races at 18 different venues, including Beaver Creek and Chamonix. You can try six different races in three different divisions at three different levels. The money you save on plane fares, equipment and lessons alone should motivate you to buy this wonder machine. It’s like Wii for the hardcore.

Peter Griffin lives on a couch near Snow King.

At the Snowmass race, Len held his own, riding laps just a couple minutes slower than Lance and helping their three-man team to victory.

As winter sets in here and the snow starts to fly, Len and I have been trying to squeeze in as much riding as we can, unlike the rest of the Backbone crew, which is solely focused on skiing now.

Len and I were plotting our winter training yesterday, talking about getting in one road ride per week, with lots of gym time and skate skiing to maintain fitness. Then I stumbled across Lance’s winter training plan as explained by Chris Carmichael on Bicycling.com.

Lance’s Training Outline
2 x per week 5-5.5 hrs endurance pace
2 x per week 3-4 hrs endurance pace with 2 x 20minutes at just below LT pace (380-400watts)
1 x per week Tuesday-night ride
1 x per week 3-4 hrs with 2 sets of 4 x 20seconds max effort x 40 seconds recovery
1 x per week–day of for travel, rest.

Uhh yeah, Len, you’re going to have a tough time keeping up with Lance next year.