white mountains 100

I knew I should do a big walk yesterday -- leave at first light, walk all day, get home after dark -- but I wasn't feeling particularly motivated when I woke up. I half-complained on the phone with my mother that it takes a fair bit of umph to leave for a 10-hour walk. 
A few months ago, I signed up for the White Mountains 100, a 100-mile winter trail race in the White Mountains north of Fairbanks. You can race it on bike, ski, or foot; lacking a fat bike, and wanting the bigger challenge, I chose foot. Now the race is a little more than a month away, and for various reasons, yesterday was the last weekend day I'll have for training. I spent most the day at home, enjoying the return of sun through my south window. A little before three, I laced up my shoes, grabbed my headlamp and some bars, and headed out.
There are different approaches to the WM100. The first two years it was held, my friend Trystan won the foot division by walking. Others ran, or tried to run, but Trystan ultimately moved faster and stopped less than anyone else. Now the race has gained some recognition -- the roster this year includes several racers from the Lower 48 and a guy from Australia -- and attention from experienced ultramarathoners. My friend Dan, who's been running ultras, is coming up, along with his training partner. And then there's this guy, who's been running 100-plus miles a week in training. Last year, the ultrarunner Laura McDonough won the foot division in 30 hours, 41 minutes -- 40 minutes faster than Trystan's best time.
I took dirt roads to McGrath and then followed the Old Steese toward town. Thoughts came and went. I listened, half-focused, to Johnny Cash reading the Bible. I like having a goal in mind when I walk. This time I decided to walk to Mark's. I took a wandering route, and it was 6 o'clock by the time I reached his house in town. We chatted for a bit about a snowmachine trip we're planning. Then I filled my bottle with warm tap water and took off.
Mark and I signed up for the White Mountains together, after volunteering for the race last year. He's a ways down the wait list and might not race, but imagining him there has been a good motivator. If not for Mark, I probably wouldn't have signed up at all. 
I've done most of my training with Ian, who's not even racing. He lives next door, and I think we have a similar training ethos. Or at least he doesn't protest too much. One day, when he planned to accompany me for a few miles, we walked 20. It was all we did that day -- walk -- but somehow the day filled with friends, chance encounters, good food. We watched the sun rise and set. We ate lox at Lulu's. For the second time in six months, we were among the first on scene of a major structure fire. On another, cold, 27-mile walk, our midway goal was Boston's, where we watched the Olympics and washed down greasy food with hoppy pints. With Mark, we walked 22 miles on the Chena River, watching the Yukon Quest teams pass on their way to Whitehorse (photo above).
I'm looking forward to the race as a test. Assuming I finish, I'll be thrilled to know I can walk 100 miles -- think of the trips one could plan! But training for it has also been a treat.
After Mark's, I walked to Carl's Jr. and got a turkey jalapeno burger, then went to visit another friend. I like connecting the places I usually drive. I've walked to the post office, the supermarket, the video store. It takes longer, but it's possible. It was dark now, and the goal of staying cool enough to not sweat had left me chilled despite above-zero temps. I was also getting bored. I had a cup of tea and tried to decide whether to go big or go home.
My friend gave me the kick in the butt I needed. I stopped at a gas station and bought some crackers and candy, then walked past the UAF farm and out Sheep Creek. I listened to New Yorker fiction podcasts. Under the last streetlight, I retied my shoe and put on my balaclava. I chugged a half-frozen Starbucks DoubleShot. It was cold in the valley, and I welcomed the uphills.
I made it to Ivory Jack's a little after ten. The bar was still open, but I kept walking. The checkpoints in the race are 20 miles apart. From here it was 10 or 12 miles to home.
Breathing into the balaclava had caused my glasses to fog and then ice up, so I'd taken them off. I could see the road in the light of my headlamp and the trees on the horizon and not much else. Then a blurry light appeared in the east. I scraped my glasses clean and watched the green aurora spread out across the sky. Later I saw a patch of red, the first I'd seen in years.
Cars slowed as they passed. I waved to show I was there by choice.
I was chilled and probably dehydrated. The balls of my feet, which I'd failed to duct tape, had the feel of blisters coming on. 
A Fresh Air podcast with the director of American Hustle got me to Fox. And then I was home.
When I checked this morning, I'd done 35 miles. I'll take better care of my feet in the race, and drink more. And if the challenge seems too great come race day, I might just ski instead.