Winter training in Alaska

So getting on the bike trainer for another day of intervals just seemed like torture yesterday. I don't know why but I was dreading it all day long. On Saturday I was supposed to have done intervals, too, but as soon as those big fat heavy snowflakes began falling, I went for a run. I just love running in the snow.

So I knew that yesterday, there were no excuses: I had to ride. Of course, I don't HAVE to do anything, if the truth be known. I could sit on my ass all day and eat chocolate chips out of the bag (one of my favorite pasttimes). I could read a book. Or go to the movies. Or organize my underwear drawer or whatever.

It's just that my pysche doesn't work that way. Because as much as I complain about sucky Alaska weather and hard grueling workouts, there is really nothing better than the post-ride/run/dog mush/ski high to be enough motivation to keep coming back for more. I guess in a way I'm addicted to training -- even though I'll never be the best, I just enjoy that natural energy that comes from challenging myself to better heights.

But at 3 p.m., I wasn't feeling that love. I had the bike set up, my gear on and my water bottle filled, but I was having one of the worst inner battles about whether or not to follow through on my ride. The rational part of my brain knew that the effort would be worth it, that I'd have that after-ride glow that keeps me powered through the day (and keeps headaches at bay, so there's reason enough there to be motivated). But the "person who is ready to ride her bike on actual pavement" was in on this battle too, thinking, "Trainers suck. Yes, they are a necessary evil, but why do you live somewhere where a third of your training miles take place on a stationary trainer?"

It went back and forth like this for a few minutes. Andy (my husband) had gone out on an errand, fully expecting me to be on the bike by the time he got home. So when he walked in the door and said, "I thought you were riding" and I bit his head off like he was an unruly child, he had every reason to be perplexed.

I fiddled around with a few other things, finding reasons to put off the ride, and then finally just strapped on my shoes and got peddling.

And PRESTO. My mind and body fell into the rhythm and within 2 minutes -- just two stinking minutes -- I could think of nothing I would rather be doing. Even when the harder part came of pedaling the higher-powered intervals I was comfortable -- sweaty and struggling -- but comfortable with the well-known routine that is my life on a bike.

I just don't get it -- I sometimes wish my mind was not so complicated -- that we humans just "did" things without the turmoil that comes with "weighing the options." Hell, I don't want options. I want to run. Bike. Write. Love. Play. Create. I want my brain to just stop messing with my heart and let me see a path that is simple and clear.

I was sort of bummed when Lance Armstrong announced his non-retirement from cycling and has rejoined the ranks of the pro cyclists. Like all the other pro athletes before him who made the big comeback because they could not leave their glory days behind, I thought, "Ugh, you should have stopped while you were on top."

But actually I sort of get why he did it now (and I'm not complaining that I get to see him in the news more often either!). Not that I'm even remotely close to that sort of ability, but the fact remains we all have our comfort zones -- those routines and things we do that come naturally and do not seem forced. Lance once said -- and I can't remember where I read it because I've read so much about him, all his books, articles, etc. -- that in retirement, he was afraid he would miss the absolute knowledge in what each day held: training, training and more training. To have days sprawling wide open before him, to be filled with whatever he wanted, was more daunting to him than tackling a four-hour hill climb at 400 watts avg. for days on end. Yes, it's insane, but that's his life.

So, on my tiny scale back here in podunk, Alaska, I got on that bike trainer and felt my own comfort zone settle in immediately. Why I had that battle of wills, I don't know because it goes against my comfort zone. But knowing that I ultimately did what comes most naturally to me, I do understand. It's how I stay sane. It's how we all stay sane -- no matter our "comfort zone" -- baking, sewing, running, biking, building, reading, etc. Unless they're destructive habits, I think we all owe it to ourselves to abide by those comfort zones and learn to tell our inner naysayer to take a hike.

Finding focus

My mind is wandering today. There's something about Mondays that seems to prompt this sort of behavior in my head. On Sundays, I go to bed with my to-do list long and ambitious. I've had the whole weekend to look around the house at everything that needs to be done and know that THIS is the week it will happen. From writing to working out to home-improvement projects to, well, whatever, THIS week I will do it.

And here it is, 1 p.m., and my list is still sitting in front of me.

So I'm wondering what other people do to find focus? I'm not one of those militant types, strict about schedules and good about following rules (this habit did not serve me well as a younger person, by the way). But I do have a need to be busy, and if I don't have a to-do list looming, I feel like I'm wasting time.

What is the balance between the two? How does one stay on task but not SO on task that they miss the fun in life, the spontaneity that comes with tossing the list aside and reading a book all day or turning the one-hour dog run into an all-day adventure? How do we feel accomplished yet not overworked? I don't know if I'm ever going to find that balance -- maybe it's a character flaw that has me always chastising myself to do more.

The thing is, I throw the to-do list away all the time, opting for the all-day mushing or reading or playing with the kids. But I don't lose the guilt that comes at the end of the week, knowing the things on my list did not get accomplished, either. And that's what bugs me.

In writing, as in training for any sport, it does take some bit of militant attitude to keep going, and I remind myself of this when my mind or body starts to wander. You know the wornout cliche, "No pain, no gain?" It applies to both writing and training for a sport.

Today, for instance, I want to run outside instead of doing the bike trainer ride my coach prescribed. I want to read a book I'm into instead of finishing the freelance stories whose deadlines are looming. I want to call my sister and talk for an hour instead of finishing the painting on a home project we've got going.

But I have to stay focused, remember my to-do list, and peck away at it bit by bit. I have to find that balance but keep that focus. And, more important, I have to be at peace with it all rather than have this inner struggle about what I "should" be doing.

So that inner struggle is what prompted today's post: How do we get that balance? How do we stay focused yet still have fun? I wish someone out there had the perfect answer to this conundrum. Because my head aches thinking about it all the time and it would be so nice to check off "Mellow Out" on my to-do list!

good, better or best

As I ran the sled dogs along the Inlet this morning, I watched Carson, pulling as if her life depended on it, sprinting so fast that poor Inca -- my kind, gentle-spirited co-leader -- could barely keep up. Behind him, Otter ran right on his heels, pushing him even harder, making him run faster than he felt comfortable going.

I felt bad for him and kept slowing the team to keep him happy and performing within his abilities. The dogs were raring to go, so it wasn't an easy chore. They ran excitedly after having several days off.

It's strange how one thought will lead to another and another -- in what might seem like a random pattern but in the end really makes some sense. Because I watched Inca, who really is the most well-rounded dog on my team -- gentle, strong, lovable and smart -- and compared him to Carson, who can be bitchy, nippy but runs like the wind. She's the best at what she does, whereas Inca is an all-around great guy who just can't quite make the speed.

So watching Carson made me think of my conversation with Willie Hensley last week. I met with Hensley, a respected Native elder, business leader, social activist and now book author for a freelance story I'm doing, and as we talked, he admitted that he has never been a "specialist" in any one thing, opting rather to explore the interest of the moment and see where it takes him. (He also happens to be one of those people who is successful at just about anything, too, so it helps).

When he said that, I could relate. I sometimes think I am lacking, this inability to focus intently on ONE thing year in year out. Look at Lance Armstrong (my personal crush, but that's another story...). Cycling is what he does. What he knows. How he operates. Because he puts 110 percent of his being into that activity, he has become the best. (and best-looking, but again, that's another story...)

Me, I can't seem to operate like that. Instead of becoming obsessed with one thing, I find myself bouncing from one to the next to the next, trying it all out, but never really deciding "This is it." I love backpacking, hiking, running, cycling, dog mushing -- you name it. And while I've won a race or two and have improved vastly at most sports I've tried, I can't say that I've ever really dedicated my whole life to that "one" thing.

So, my thought is: Is this normal? Should I have a "true passion" for one thing? To be a successful writer, athlete, mom, etc. do I need to give it 110 percent? Or can I split those percentages into fractions and sample a little bit of everything?

I guess the easy answer is that "To be the best, you have to focus 110 percent." That's how Lance has done it, after all. That part is easy enough to get. But again, Lance is the VERY best.

I mean for we mere mortals: Is having, say, three athletic passions mean it will somehow lessen our ability to perform at our peak? I know, in my heart, that I've never reached my potential in any sport I've tried merely because I have not WANTED to. Instead of riding, riding, riding everyday, I sometimes want to go for a run. Instead of pushing, pushing, pushing myself on every ride, I sometimes just want to pedal around and see the sights.

Part of me knows this is OK. But there's another part of me that says that is a copout and that I should work harder, train longer, ride harder.

Same goes with writing, and here again, is why I'm thinking of Willie Hensley as I run the dogs along the Inlet today, watching a thin, welcome layer of clouds scud across the skyline.

Is it OK that I write the freelance stories, take on varying topics, meet different deadlines, just for the sake of writing? Or should I focus, focus, focus my brain and get the real story written? It's there -- I tell myself if I just get started it will come. But at the same time, will it just be drivel? (I'm saving that for this blog, see?!) I think I'm too scared to try.

I can rationalize. I can say I have to make a living. I have to have something to do (Ask my parents, my husband, my kids, my friends: I've never been good at "sitting around.") But I guess there's a tiny part of me that hopes these story assignments will spark some flame that will get the writing ball rolling.

Or will it just be another "thing" that I add to my to-do list because I can't be content with what simply "is."

No offense to Kenny Rogers, but I'm no real fan of his. Call me ambivalent. But I THINK this quote is attributed to him, and for that I've always liked his way of thinking. (And by the way, if you know WHO is the real author of this quote, LET ME KNOW!) But he said he'd rather be good at a lot of things than great at one.

And that quote has stuck with me. It appears to be the mantra by which Willie Hensley has lived, too, and that's a good reason to be hopeful for good things, too -- Hensley's a cool guy. Maybe I just need to accept what is, and follow suit. I have a good role model, after all.

Getting started

So, how do you begin writing a story? As I sat across the table from Willie Hensley today, sipping Kaladi coffee and listening to him talk about his new book, "Fifty Years From Tomorrow," I wondered, "How could this guy, who has done so much for Alaska, and been so influential in the state's development condense it all into this cluster of pages that I'm holding?"

Listening to him talk, I thought about my own work, mentally compared it to a kindergartner's scribble, and felt it lacking.

Willie's story took more than three years to tell, but I've started reading it and can't put it down. His honesty about growing up in a village is so refreshing after so many Outsider stories that glorify the life of Native Alaskans. That's not to say there is nothing worth glorifying, either, the way he describes summer camp and the beauty of the region outside Kotzebue where he grew up. The descriptions conjure a purer, albeit harder time, and I felt a certain naivety to my own life here in the suburbs of Anchorage, which really isn't what the rest of the state is about at all.

So, having this conversation with Willie made me think: How do you start a story? How do you put one sentence down, keep going and keep going, until you have a book in hand? I should be able to answer that, having written my own book -- but it was a guidebook, more of a resource than the putting-down of feelings and emotions on the page. I've written articles, too -- some of them thousands of words long. But those, too, were the compilation of a specific topic -- a person, a place, a destination -- and the focus became clear early on, making it safe to take that first step.

What I'm getting at is the larger picture of telling a story on many levels. Willie's story, for instance, is about more than just "growing up Native." He touches on morality, humanity, religion, politics, family, love and struggle. He somehow weaves it into a tale that tells more than just the story of his life, but represents an entire culture that is being ambushed by outside influences on a daily basis.

So, he got started on this story. And it grew. And grew. It got so long, his editor made him cut it by 50 percent. He didn't like it, but that's the writer's life, so he did his best.

We talked for an hour. I could've listened to him all afternoon. Articulate, funny, thoughtful and a little bit of a rebel, his stories kept me planted in my seat until he finally announced he had to get back to work. My reason for meeting with him -- to write a short profile on his book for a magazine assignment -- seemed so inconsequential after hearing him talk.

After more than an hour of chatting, I thanked him for his time, tucked my notebook into my bag and got up to leave. Crossing Sixth Avenue to head back to my car, though, I realized I forgot to ask him -- "How did you start? What was that first line that got the book moving along? Is there some easy answer that can make the idea of sitting down to write a book that less daunting?"

I'm dragging my heels. I know it. The book is in there, like a tiny dervish that I'm scared to let free. My nickname, after hiking the Appalachian Trail in 1993, was Chaos. I was named so after the times I'd come into the trail shelters and have what the other thru-hikers called a "pack explosion." One by one, each piece of gear came out of the pack, until a pile of fleece, camp food, cooking gear and sleeping bag/pads were strewn across the shelter floor.

Then, like a bird cleaning its nest, I'd reorganize each piece creating my "home" for the night from my few posssessions.

I want to look at my writing that way, as if I can just have a "word explosion" and then reorganize all that chaos once it's down on paper.

But I'm scared, I guess. I haven't let myself do it, for fear that the words will be empty, the possessions worthless. The Chaos in me remains buried, waiting for that secret formula -- that "first sentence" to propel me forward.

Biting off more than I can chew?

So, in my mind I'm thinking about the six story deadlines looming. I've committed to six stories in one month, and fear that this might be, what should I say, A TAD TOO MUCH?!

I mean, what is wrong with me? I made a conscious decision months ago to only take the assignments I want, so that I have time for other things, like going for long runs, adding extra intervals to the bike workouts, running the dogs for entire afternoons. Things like doing laundry and dishes and cooking inspired meals that will make my children smile.

The thing is, I sort of want all these assignments. Each one seems like a challenge, some easier than others, but still.

So instead of actually sitting down and working on these stories, here I am, calculating the math of how much time I have for each one. Let's see: 26 more days, divided by 6 stories gives me about four days for each, at 8 hours a day (OK, 4 hours if I'm really honest with myself) - wait, that's only 16 hours per story.

That's not much time.

But then I get to thinking about pay. Some of these things only pay $200 per story, and at 16 hours per story, that's a paltry $12 or so. I might as well work at McDonalds. Maybe I DO have time to go skiing, dog mushing and running after all. I'll take the $600 stories seriously, but $200? Come on now.

See? This is looking up already. Freelancing can be such a manic way to live. I've been doing it, at varying levels of intensity, for more than 10 years now, and it still doesn't get any simpler. There's the constant job searching, the careful negotiating, the endless waiting -- for an assignment, a paycheck, an answer from those faraway editors who don't seem to think we writers have lives and schedules, too.

You know what? Forget this computer. I have plenty of hours left in January. The sun is out, the temperature has finally climbed to a whopping 3 degrees below 0.

I'm going mushing.

New year, new hopes, new deadlines!

As the mercury plummeted even LOWER today, my brave new goal of running outside regardless of the temperature went straight out the window. I mean, come on, this is getting RIDICULOUS. It was 23 degrees below 0 this morning, and it's only gotten up to a whopping 15 below right now.

So, I'm digressing, but that' s because I'm all sweaty from running on the treadmill in a house that feels like a Brazilian rain forest (68 degrees) compared to what's outside (15 below, although admittedly very wintry and beautiful). I must not be thinking clearly.

The point of my rambling is to say welcome to my new blog, one of the millions of pointless ramblings that people are posting everywhere, but one that I hope will become like a loved child -- cared for, nurtured and shared with other writers/athletes/etc. (see my bio for details).

I do, however, have a goal in mind this year, and I think this one I can stick with because it has NOTHING to do with the temperature. And hopefully, this blog's point will indeed make it worthwhile.

I have many passions -- my family, the environment, the fact that the Republicans didn't worm their way into office, good food, good wine, etc. And likely you'll get to hear about all of them from time to time.

But this blog is focused on two of my particular passions, that of writing and fitness/outdoors. Of all the things that matter to me, I have found that these two particular obsessions are best fueled by the encouragement of others. At no other time have I been more amped up by my road cycling than after beginning to work with a coach. Having that daily encouragement and direction really propels me to do my best -- whether he has me doing puke-prompting intervals or easy 5-K runs.

The same is true with writing. I don't know about all of you other writers out there, but I find ideas swirling through my head all the time and inspiration comes at the oddest moments. Some of the those moments I have the sense to stop what I'm doing to write them down, in case they lead to something. But at other times, I just let it slide and perhaps miss an opportunity.

So, if anything, this blog will force me -- and hopefully anyone else out there who wants to share -- to get more of those thoughts down. Isn't that what all the experts say? To be a writer, you have to write, write, write. So even if what I'm plopping down here on the page is a bunch of BS, at least that part of my brain is going to be engaged this year.

Who knows where it will lead? Wanna come along?