Battles with a Sleep Monster: Jotunheimen Rundt

It was 24 hours before the start Jotunheimen Rundt, and our group of 10 (8 riders and 2 support) was in Lærdal with no where to sleep. The house we had rented on AirBnB had been double booked somehow. In the chaos that ensued, the guy renting out the house found another house outside of town for Sigmund, Kristin, Noëmi and Fredrik, while Audun, Marius, Ingebord, Vibeke, David and I drove 45 minutes to Sogndal to crash in a friend’s basement. We didn’t get to bed until midnight, but at least we weren’t in a rush the next morning.

Since Jotunheimen Rundt started at 9:20 pm, the day before the race was an odd one to say the least. I ate, napped, packed my drop bags, snacked, watched Tour de France, repacked my drop bags, picked up my bib, delivered my drop bags, ate even more and took one final nap before putting on my kit. It was time to see what would happen if I tried to ride my bike all night and most of the next day.

Start - Vang (86 km)

David (in blue and yellow) and Kristin (smiling) in the sea of riders before the start.

At the start, a couple of hundred riders milled around nervously. Most were kitted out in the race’s reflective vest, and everyone had red back lights and white front lights. When the gun went off, the field rolled to a creaking start. Our team of 8 riders started together, but soon we were stretched out in the big, fast moving group we were immersed in.

Headed out of Lærdal (I am in blue).

The first, flat stretch up the valley passed in a blur of dripping rain and easy pedalling. A hundred red tail lights snaked up the road ahead of me. I kept an eye out for my teammates. I was looking forward to riding in a smaller group. Such a large group behaves like an accordion, slowing and speeding up with the slightest changes in terrain. I was hyperalert, scared riding into a back wheel and ending my race early.

Finally the climb to Filefjell, the first of the three passes on the course, began in earnest. Our group of 8 found each other, and I declared that I would be taking it very easy on the climb. I switched my watch to display my heart rate, keeping it consistently between 150 and 160 BPM, and mentally prepared myself to be passed. To my surprise, no one did, and when I looked behind me, I realized there were 40 or 50 riders on our tail. It felt strange to be deciding the pace for all of these people, but I figured they would pass if they wanted to, and resolved not to worry about them.

I wasn’t hungry at all, but forced myself to start snacking nonetheless. As I had told people repeatedly before the race, Jotunheimen Rundt is basically an eating contest. You don’t eat, you don’t finish.

The climb flattened out for the final section up Filefjell, and our large group fell into drafting formation. As I caught a wheel, my heart rate sunk to 130 BPM and I was suddenly very cold. I tried to put my jacket on while on the bike, but I was off balance and didn’t feel safe with all the people around me. So I stopped to put my jacket on, thinking I would be able to catch to group. Fat chance. Luckily Marius had seen me disappear off the back of the group, and helped pull me up to the others.

It was raining now and starting to get fairly dark as we crested the top of the climb and headed downhill. I didn’t want to ride too close to anyone for fear of falling. Now wet from the spray of the road and the rain, I began to shiver uncontrollably. Marius, Audun and I had lost the rest of our group and were riding behind some other riders. Partway down the descent, Marius launched into an attack, and, wanting to warm up, I jump on his wheel.

It was wet, it was nearly dark, I was shivering and the road flew by below me. It was surreal, but at least the hard pedalling was warming me up. Miraculously, the rain stopped and we hit dry pavement the last stretch before the aid station at Vang.

Vibeke and Fredrik were there with the black van, offering to fetch things for us and coaxing us to eat more. It was a chaotic stop, and I felt like it took a long time when in reality we were only there for 8 minutes. If only I knew how long we would spend in the aid stations to come!

Vang - Fagernes (59 km)

The section between Vang and the next aid station at Fagernes was flat, fast, and mercilessly dry. We quickly set up our double pace line and began moving quickly through the flats. I soon saw riders other than our eight rotating into the front of the line and realized we had picked up twelve riders. This would be a theme for the night. The eight of us seemed to have some sort of critical mass to vacuum up other groups into our pace line. I suddenly recognized a gruff voice, speaking Northern Norwegian dialect, shouting at two riders in front to “shut up, put your heads down, and ride!” and that we had picked up Tingvoll Bicycle Club.

I was exhilarated that we were moving so fast, but starting to feel sleepy. It was the darkest part of the night now, and I resolved to drink some coffee at the next aid station.

When we got to the aid station, there was no clear direction about where to pee, so I spent about 5 minutes wandering around looking for a sheltered place to squat. The longer the race went on the less shy I got, but this was still relatively early. By the time I had my cup of coffee in hand, everyone else was ready to go, and all of a sudden I had an overwhelming feeling of not wanting to continue.

“I don’t want to do this!” I whined to Audun, on the verge of tears. “This isn’t any fun!" You knew this wasn’t going to be fun, a voice in my head said, get back on your bike, and take your double espresso gel. 

The woman at the aid station table told me if I wanted to quite I could have a warm blanket and wait for the bus. This only strengthened my resolve; my race would not end here! I clambered back on my bike and headed up the second pass, Valdresflya.

Fagernes - Beito (38 km)

The 38 uphill kilometers between Fagernes and Beito are a blur of fatigue and grouchiness. I grew so tired I felt that ever fiber of my being wanted me to go to sleep. The fatigue was a monster, here to do battle until I gave up. We were climbing slowly, steadily.

It was slowly getting lighter out. Everyone said sunrise would make me feel better. I wasn’t sure I believed them. I’m not cut out for staying up all night. I wanted to lie down and close my eyes and give up and not care. I had almost stopped eating, and all I could thinking about was getting to the next aid station so that I could quit.

At the Beitostølen I didn’t even bother picking up my drop bag. My teammates around me were rushing to fill their bottles and changes clothes, but I just sat down and cried. I told Audun and Sigmund that I wanted to quit, and to my surprise they told me I could if I wanted to.

“If you really aren’t having any fun, you can just stop here,” they said. I was somewhat put off that they didn’t even try to convince me to continue. I realized that if I was going to keep going, the decision was going to have to come from me and me alone. Right then and there, I just wanted to stop and give up. But I realized two things:

1) I would never forgive myself if my only excuse for quitting was ‘I felt really, really sleepy'.

2) Everyone said it would get better at some point. If I quit now, I would never know if I would have passed that turning point.

My teammates were getting restless, so I grabbed my warm gloves and some food from my drop bag and threw myself on my bike. If it didn’t get better, I resolved, I would quit at the next aid station.

Beito - Randsverk (66 km)

From Beitostølen, the climb continued and I continued to feel awful. My contact lenses were itching and shifting. I sang a few songs to try to cheer myself up, but didn’t succeed.

Part way up Valdreflya, we passed the black van where Vibeke and Fredrik were asleep (they had taken a short cut past the past two aid stations). I almost crawled into the van and went to sleep with them. I told myself when they drove by us a little later I would quit.

It was a beautiful morning. Mist obscured the high tops of Jotunheimen in the distance but the landscape around us was open and green. Through my sleepiness, I felt happy to have made it this far and be able to see this landscape.

Enjoying the view over Valdresflya

A solo man in black cycling attire had joined our group after Fagernes, and I chatted with him, telling him I was thinking about quitting. He encouraged me to keep eating and drinking, so I did, although I had forgotten to refill my bottle in the aid station.

The was a small descent before the final climb to the top, and I felt my eyes shift out of focus and try to close, despite the fact that I was riding at nearly 50 km/h.

We crested the top of Valdresflya around 6 am, and as we began to descend something inside me snapped. I was leading the pace line, riding fast into the fog, and I began to shout song lyrics into the wind. I was awake! The night had ended! There was a turning point!

Riding in the rain on the way into Randsverk

Elated by my newfound awakeness, I was chatty and perky the rest of the way to Randsverk, despite the fact that it had started raining again. Now that I was feeling better, I could see everyone around me struggling in their own way. Ingeborg mentioned she was having knee pain, while David was having trouble eating. When we rolled into Randsverk, Vibeke and Fredrik were waiting for us with encouragement, and help, and (for me) new contact lenses.

Marius and Sigmund are excited to keep riding in the rain at Randsverk.

Randsverk - Lom (44 km)

Heading out of Randsverk, I was a new woman with new resolve. Now that I had found the turning point I was on a high and determined to make it around the mountain.

There was a long, fast, joyful descent to Otta valley, where I caught Marius’ wheel and we rode as fast as we could given the wet roads and our state of fatigue. It was raining, but my combination of Castelli Gabba jersey covered with a rain jacket, wool socks with neoprene shoe covers, and wool leg warmers was keeping me toasty and happy.

My main problem now was eating. Most everything I put in my mouth made me nauseous, and the thick gloves I wore made it difficult to open plastic wrap around energy bars and so on. I had to put morsels in my mouth, swallow, and then wait for the wave of nausea to pass before eating any more. An eating contest, an eating contest! I reminded myself.

During the rolling ride into Lom, the sleep monster attacked again. It was just as painful as the first one, but this time I knew I could battle my way through it. Still, when I stopped to pee by the side of the road I almost lay down on the soft moss and didn’t get back up. Ingeborg was in serious pain now, and had launched ahead of us to make it to Lom as quickly as possible.

Tired but resolved to see this through in Lom, with Audun in the background.

We ended up taking a very long break at Lom. I ate my soup and went to the bathroom and was ready to go fairly quickly. Others than me were suffering now. Ingeborg was crying in a chair, loathe to admit defeat by way of a painfully swollen knee. David was slowly spooning soup into his mouth, staring off into the distance with a glazed expression on his face. Outside, Noëmi was riding her bike around the parking area, ostensibly to keep warm. I let them have their time. They had given me mine.

The scene at the aid station in Lom

Lom - Sognefjellet (50 km)

Leaving Lom was a psychological victory, although I was queasy after downing a mixture soup, coke and coffee. We still had 136 km to go, but I somehow felt that if we left Lom, we would make it to the finish. The cyclist in black who had been with us since Fagernes was still in our group, and would finish along with us, glad to have found people who held a similar pace to himself.

The first 20 km out of Lom were flat and we fell into our pace line efficiently. Then the climb started in earnest. Everyone drifted into their own rhythms, and the sleep monster came out to do battle again. Will you just GO AWAY already?! I wanted to shout at it. It would not.

I talked, almost aggressively, to everyone around me. Keeping my mouth moving kept me awake, and slowly the sleep monster crept back to its lair. When I started talking with Kristin, I realized that she was in even worse shape than me. Despite going multiple rounds with my sleep monster, my legs and the rest of me were in good shape.

David and I on the climb up Sognefjellet

Later during the climb, I noticed David drifting off the back of the group and decided to hang back to see if I could encourage him. Audun dropped back to join us, and managed to coax to cookies and candy into him. Then Vibeke (who is David’s fiancé!) drove by in their van, and that perked him right up. Satisfied that I had helped everyone I could, I shot up the road towards Sognefjellet at a relatively hard pace. I found myself wondering if my body should feel that good this late in the race!

We had another long break at Sognefjellet. I had entirely stopped caring about how long this would take us; my only thoughts were to helping everyone to the finish line. Our support, Fredrik and Vibeke, had managed to commandeer a large area in a tent where we could sit and warm up. David and Kristin were struggling and both took the time to change their clothes and eat properly. I was still getting nauseous from most food - even the fresh waffles that I had looked forward to at this aid station! I would try at little bit of everything until I would something that felt appealing in my mouth. In this case it was chicken soup and 'vørterøl' - unfermented beer (strange combo, I know).

Sognefjellet - Luster (42 km)

It was foggy at the top of Sognefjellet, no epic views for us today. There were patches of snow on the landscape around us, and I was glad I had warm gloves and a wool shirt for the long descent. The first section was rolling hills, before the road descended steeply from Turtagrø. From here the race clock was actually paused to discouraged dangerous riding.

The sleep monster reemerged on the descent.  My eyes were once again trying to close despite the high speed and hairpin turns. I shook my head back and forth, telling myself to concentrate on what I was doing. This was not the place to make stupid mistakes. It struck me as I flew by a camping car headed in the opposite direction that doing this descent in the shape I was in might possibly be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

Snacking at the base of the descent from Sognefjellet

We paused at the base of the descent to discard extra layers before rolling the flat section to the final aid station at Luster.









At the aid station, I was elated to only have 40 km to go. At the same time, 40 km seemed like a frustratingly long way. “Aaaarg!” I yelled unintelligibly as we rolled out of the aid station, in sleepy pain, in happiness, in determination. The yell snapped me awake again, and I remained that way for the rest of the race.

Luster - Finish (45 km)

From Luster we spent 15 km drafting in flat terrain before hitting the final, small climb to Marifjøra. Marius surged ahead, and Noëmi and I pedalled along ahead of the rest of the group chatting. My legs still felt great, and when we passed Vibeke and Fredrik blasting music at us, I stood up and made a show of climbing hard.

On the final climb from Marifjøra

The group gathered for the descent, and the final 15 km into Lom felt like a victory lap. Oddly, my stomach had chosen this time to get hungry and I began eating some of the sandwiches that had nauseated me for hours. We hit a head wind along the coast for the final kilometers, but rode hard in our excitement and crossed the finish line as one, in 19 hours and 26 minutes.

Team photo after the race

Epilogue

Jotunheimen Rundt is the hardest race I have finished, and I feel stripped bare and rebuilt by the experience. I was physically well-prepared, but nothing can really prepare you for the rigors of racing all night except… racing all night. I absolutely would not have finished without the patience and encouragement of my team (Audun, Sigmund, Kristin, Marius, Noëmi, David and Ingeborg) and our biggest fans who drove nearly all night to cheer us on (Vibeke and Fredrik).

David and I, finally lying down and closing our eyes at the finish line. (It felt awesome)

Will I do it again? At the moment I’m more keen on focusing on running, but never say never!

- The Wild Bazilchuk

Gearing up, part 2

Jotunheimen Rundt starts this evening (!), and I feel surprisingly calm. I'm still most nervous about the prospect of racing all night, but I have to believe it will be OK somehow. It’s taken me all six months of training, in addition to 4 years road biking, to finally admit to myself that I can do this. What follows is a recap of some of the training it took to get there. (Also see Gearing up, part 1)

From a beautiful day training on the Jotunheimen Rundt course

The race starts on Friday, July 7, at 9:15 pm (Central European Time). You can follow my progress through different checkpoints on Eqtiming.

Long ride 6: Around Tyrifjorden

This was, mentally, the toughest ride I’ve done. I decided it would be good idea to go for a long ride the day after Holmenkollstafetten, the relay where I trashed my legs by running for three different teams. My legs were groaning from the moment I climbed on the saddle. It didn’t help that it was raining steadily for the first three hours of the ride. Despite wearing shoe covers, a rain jacket over a wool shirt and bike jersey, leg warmers, thick gloves and a buff, the cold slowly sunk into my bones. My weary legs couldn’t muster the energy to create more heat. After 30K, I was thinking about cutting my losses and quitting, and I told David and Audun as much.

“Just keep going a little further,” they said, “You can decide when we get to the crossroads in 10K.” There was no discussion of quitting at the crossroads. I just put my head down and continued pedalling.

I grew colder and more miserable as we continued. Although the rain stopped, my feet remained numb. Once we were in Vikersund, halfway around the lake we were circumnavigating, we stopped for lunch at a fast food place. Normally I object to longer breaks during training rides, but wearing thick gloves made it extra hard to keep eating, and I was desperate to stop and warm up my feet.

Hot chocolate, chicken nuggets and french fries provided me just enough motivation to continue on, although I was grumpy for most of the ride (sorry Audun and David!). I’m proud to have gotten this one done, although I couldn’t have done it alone. I’ve now invested in thicker, more waterproof shoe covers, and I’m crossing my fingers for less rain around Jotunheimen.

Long ride 7: May 17th parade to Drøbak

May 17th is Norway’s national holiday, and after a celebratory brunch, Audun, Vibeke, David and I took the boat across Oslo fjord and pedalled around Nesodden peninsula. We practiced drafting, and I had the exhilarating experience of leading the group on a steep downhill. With three rides on my wheel, I felt like I had to go extra fast, and both Audun and David noted my daring descent. I hope this means my bike handling skills are getting better - this is certainly important in a 20 hour race!

Long ride 8: Fjorden Rundt (race)

Separate race report here.

Long ride 9: Lillehammer-Eidsvoll 

The same weekend as Birkebeinerløpet, I decided to ride my bike home to Oslo from Lillehammer, a ride of a approximately 200 km. “Riding 200 km the day after racing a hard half marathon sounds like a bad idea, Molly!” you might exclaim as you read this. And you would be right. I felt mentally drained, and met moderate headwinds early on. I was riding alone, and I felt demotivated by the wind and my tired legs. Ultimately the wind caused my pace to be much lower than I had hoped, and I would have easily been riding to 8 or 9 pm to get home. So I threw in the towel and jumped on a train from Eidsvoll, after riding 120 km solo. Although I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to persevere, I think this was the right decision.

Long ride 10: Recon on the Jotunheimen Recon course [part 1][part 2]

All the stoke on the Jotunheimen Rundt course!

Three weeks before the race, most of our team met and spend a weekend training on the Jotunheimen Rundt course. We stayed at Ingeborg’s cabin in Vang, along the first section of the course. The first day we set out to bike from Vang to Lærdal, where the race starts, and back.

The views!

We set a moderate pace and practiced our drafting formation, chatting and eating and generally enjoying ourselves. The mountains along the road were still partially covered in snow, and shone in the sunlight. If only we could have weather like this during the race, then everything would be easy!
I had taken two rest days earlier that week, and felt fresher than I had for a long time. Even after completing our 210 km right, I felt as though I could have continued and for the first time felt confident about completing Jotunheimen Rundt.

On the way to Beitostølen in more beautiful weather

The second day we biked to Beitostølen and back, around 75 km, on a little of which was actually on the course. I felt tired when we started biking, but my legs woke up after an hour or so of riding. The only major mishap was when I blew a snot rocket so hard that I gave myself a raging nosebleed!

This final weekend was the perfect end to the bulk of my Jotunheimen Rundt training. Let's just hope I can find that happy place again tonight!

- The Wild Bazilchuk

Adventures in Asia

Business trips can be a somewhat disappointing form of travel since you are, most of the time, working. Since I work in the electronics industry, I've had the opportunity to travel to China, Taiwan and Japan several times. I often joke that I see more of the inside of airports and hotels than I do the actual country, but I try to seize opportunities to experience the countries I'm in as much as possible.

My two main outlets are good food and running. China is easy for the former, but not so much for the latter. Traveling along with a foodie colleague who happens to be Chinese means eating a lot of great, authentic cuisine. We order a lot of different dishes to share, and they are placed on a rotating, round plate on the middle of the table. It's great for trying a lot of different food - if you dare!

Social dining in Shanghai

Cantonese in Dongguan

And then there is Japan, where everything comes in perfectly laid out, delicate bits.

Lunchtime bento box at a meeting.

Just don't ask me what it is I was eating - most of the time I couldn't tell you! The glass on the left in the picture below was actual filled with seaweed in some sauce that we drank.

All sorts of delicious and strange things at a traditional Japanese restaurant.

And then there is running. Sometimes I am forced to hotel treadmills, but more often than not I'm able to wander the streets and local parks around where ever I am. This time I was in Asia for two weeks, and had the weekend in Taipei. Since I'm becoming familiar with Taipei, I planned a grand day out in Yangmingshan national park on the outskirts of Taipei.

Starting from the end of the metro at Xinbeitou, I followed the steep road winding upwards towards the mountains, passing sulfurous vents indicative of the hotsprings the Beitou district is famous for. A hot spring wasn't very appealing just then. It was hot and humid, and I found myself quickly wondering if the three water bottles in my pack would hold me through the day.

Beware of monkeys. Too bad I didn't actually see any!

After slogging up the road for a while, I found a clearly marked turnoff to Mt Shamao. I had originally planned to bypass this peak, but the cool forest trail looked much more appealing than the road.

The uphill was mostly steep stairs, and I hike aggressively, relishing the tough effort of climbing. I met several other hikers, which I always find reassuring in foreign countries.

Steep and hot! On the way up Mt Shamao.

From the top, I scuttled back down to the road and purchased some more fluids before heading for the first big objective of the day, Mt Qixing.

Mt Qixing as seen from Mt Shamao

Mt Qixing was clearly a popular hiking choice, unsurprising since this is the highest mountain in the region. Although I often wear headphones while running alone, I took out one to be able to listen properly to my surroundings as I passed people. That was when I heard the chorus of what must have been birds. One of the birds would start making their trilling sound and others would catch on, so that the sound spread through the forest like a ripple in a pond. The sound would grow until, as though there were some silent signal, they would stop.

The path was mostly stone steps, on Mt Shamao. After passing through the forest, the surroundings turned to thick bamboo and then grass, taller than my head. Near the top, the wind began to blow, and by the time I topped out it was nearly strong enough to blow off my cap.

On top of Mt Qixing!

I stopped for a quick snack on top, but actually started to cool off pretty quickly in the wind. Randomly, a guy carrying a road bike (!) appeared on the summit. Other hikers on top clearly asked him what the deal was in Chinese, and I wonder what he answered!

The view from Mt Qixing

I didn't rest for long, since there were more summits to climb! I descended quickly down the opposite side of Mt Qixing. The next section would be a few kilometers to get to the trail up Mt Datun, and when I saw the bus stop at the base of Mt Qixing I nearly quit. I was starting to get tired, it was hot, what was the point? But I reminded myself that a long day with lots of vert was just was I needed to prepare for my summer races, put on some motivating music, and shuffled on.

Steep stairs and tall grass in Yangmingshan National Park

The path up to Mt Datun was - surprise surprise - stairs! Stairs are fatiguing in a completely different way than a regular trail, as you have to take the same sized step every time. On the way up Mt Datun I entertained myself by watching blue-tailed lizards dart away from their sunbathing on the steps. One of the lizards was a little more lazy and I was able to photograph it:

Lizard!

The Mt Datun traverse passed over three peaks. After the first peak, I hit a 'real' trail, without stone paving, for the first time all day. It was then I understood why they went through all the trouble of building stone walkways. The soil was slick clay, and even though it hadn't rained for several days the surface was slippery.

The trail was also very grown in some areas. I was bushwhacking through grass taller than my head. I had seen signs warning about poisonous snakes, and I was a little worried about stepping on one. I solved this by swimming forward in the grass with my arms, so I could see the trail ahead of me.

There is a trail somewhere behind me.

The final climb in the Mt Datun traverse was the steepest of them all. There was a rope that I used to pull myself, hand over hand, up what was probably a 40 degree slope. But finally I stood on top, and just had a long downhill to get back to the metro at Xinbeitou.

It grew hotter and hotter as I descended back into the valley, and I rewarded myself with a large bottle of juice that I drank on the spot before getting on the metro. What a great way to spend a Sunday in Taipei!

Strava here

- The Wild Bazilchuk

Race report: Fjorden Rundt

Fjorden Rundt is a 200 km bike race around Trondheim’s fjord, and falling just over a month before Jotunheimen Rundt, was the perfect test race for our team. Since the location of our riders is split evenly in Trondheim and Oslo, 7 hours apart, we don’t get the opportunity to ride together that often, so Audun, Marius and I made the journey to Trondheim to meet the rest of the team.

This was actually my first road race ever. It was very low key, with no timing mats and even no start line. There was just a guy with a clipboard who called everyone’s name and then shouted GO!, and we were off.

Hanging on to the tail end of a large group of riders at the beginning of Fjorden Rundt.

Our group of 6 riders latched on to a peloton of 40 riders, hanging on to the tail. It was exhilarating to ride in a big group like that. Sometimes it was no work at all to keep up, but when the top of the peloton crested a hill top group stretched like an accordion, and those of us on the tail had to pedal like mad to prevent falling off the back.

The jerky pace was a bit stressful, so when some in our group fell off the back, we decided to start our own grupetto, which was better practice for Jotunheimen Rundt in any event. Soon I began to struggle with our pace. I felt fine on the flats and descents, but watched my heart rate shoot through the roof on every little hill. Was this a sustainable pace for 200K? Would I even be able to keep up with our team during Jotunheimen Rundt?

Most of Fjorden Rundt is punchy, rolling hills, but there is one longer climb after 30 or so kilometers. On the climb, I watched Noëmi and Fredrik bolt up the hill like they were on a two hour ride. I felt miserably inadequate. Was I doomed to be the weakest link on the team? Were the hours and hours spent riding this year all for nothing?

I finally made the wise decision to stop looking at my heart rate monitor, and just enjoy the beautiful, sunny day. This would be a test: either I would blow up due to the too hard early pace, or I would learn that I could keep this harder pace for 200K. I keep my own, easy pace on the hills, and Marius and Audun would help ride me up to the group after hill tops.

As the race continued, our team began to ride more like a well-oiled machine, practicing our double paceline formation until it felt natural. The advantage of the double paceline is that you can chat with your partner as you go along, and with good company the kilometers passed quickly. On our way we passed several stragglers who had lost their groups for whatever reason, and let them draft off of us for a while.

Sigmund rides towards the bad weather.

With only 20K to go, it began to rain heavily and we called a stop for rain jackets. I was just glad we had had sun for most of the day! It was really wet, with dirty water spraying up from the road, soaking every inch of me not covered by rain jacket.

On the final climb to the finish, we saw another team a couple minutes ahead. “Let’s go, we can catch them!” someone shouted. I put my head down and rode hard, but, in my mounting fatigue, fish-tailed into Fredrik’s back wheel. I yelled unintelligibly as I flew off my bike into the ditch on the side of the road. It took me a moment to take stock, but I realized that I was fine, with the exception of blooded knees. Shaking a little, I got back on my bike and we road calmly to the top of the hill and the finish.

From the left, Sigmund, Marius, me, Audun, Noëmi and Fredrik at the finish line of Jotunheimen Rundt.

I later noticed I had bent my front wheel, and I’ve added crashing to my list of Jotunheimen Rundt fears. Since I crashed, at least partially, because I was tired, won’t the chance of crash increase exponentially as fatigue mounts? I guess I will just pound caffeine and try to stay lazer-focused.

Strava here, results here

- The Wild Bazilchuk

Race report: Birkebeinerløpet

The terrible weather forecast for the week leading up to and the day of this year’s Birkbeinerløpet was a blessing in disguise. Although I originally hoped to beat my time from last year, I had to adjust my goals when I saw how much it was going to rain. Birkebeinerløpet is a trail half marathon, with damp sections at the best of times. After five days of steady rain it was sure to be an absolute mess.

Free from my time goals, I was only nervous about starting in the elite women’s wave. Visions of being dropped by the elite field during the first kilometer danced through my head in the days leading up to the race. But I knew my time last year had qualified me for this wave, so I told myself I belonged there.

My strategy was very simple. The first half of the Birkebeiner course is rolling hills and technical terrain; the second half is downhill on fast, mostly gravel trails. Knowing that there were no hills to speak of in the second half, I resolved to race boldly and start much harder on the first section that I had in 2016. The downhills would take care of the themselves.

Wet OSI team selfie at the start of Birkebinerløpet.

I warmed up in the drizzling rain with my friend Hanne Marte. We jogged the first couple kilometers of the course, and found them to be every bit as bad as I feared. I discovered that the wet grass on the edge of the trail was often less slippery than the soap-like mud on parts of the trail.

A gun sounded at Birkbeiner stadium, signifying the depart of the men’s elite field. Hanne Marte and I lined up and wished each other luck, but I let her drift towards the front of the pack while I stayed in the back half. The women’s elite field was surprisingly small, only forty or so women. The gun sounded for our start, and we were off, winding around the stadium before hitting the first steep climb into the woods.

I had clung on to the tail end of the field during the fast start, but starting passing women already on the first hill. The first few kilometers were relatively tranquil. The men’s elite field was far ahead of us, and the women’s elite field soon became so spred out that there was only a dozen or so women in my immediate vicinity.

Every time I hit a hill, I pushed myself to surge up it, gradually leapfrogging my way past several of my competitors. I blew threw the first aid station without breaking stride, wiping away the rainwater that was dripping from my hair into my eyes.

Then the chase packs started to show up. The first non-elite waves in the Birkebeiner are faster than most of the elite women, so soon our quiet forest was filled with men, huffing and puffing and weaving around us. I tried not to pay them much attention, and I continued picking the best possible line through the terrain, letting them take the more dangerous lines to pass me.

Mud, glorious mud.

It was slippery out there. On several sections we were forced to choose between slanted, wet rock or knee deep mud. More afraid of falling and hurting myself than I was of getting covered in mud, my exposed calves soon blended with the black 3/4 tights I was wearing. The rain stopped, but the mud continued.

I suddenly noticed that my bib was falling off. The paper had gotten so wet it tore at the safety pin attachments. I hastily unfastened the offending safety pin and shoved it through some fabricate and the paper of me bib, hoping this would hold. It didn’t; the two top safety pins came undone once again a little later in the race.

Mud spa?

There was a timing mat at 8K, and I realized I had no idea whether I was ahead or behind of my previous time. I also kind of didn’t care. This was a completely different race than last year, and all I could do was race by feel. I felt pretty decent, all things considered.

I had chugged some sports drink at the aid station, and it first made me have to burp, and then I got a side stitch. My mind abruptly wandered to the demon side stitch of Oslo Ecotrail 2016. No, I told myself, I REFUSE to let it get that bad. I am going to keep running, and this side stitch will go away. This time my body listened to me, and the side stitch faded.

We were over the worst of the hills now, and I was looking forward to the downhill. Suddenly, I tripped and went down on both knees. Three women passed me, asking if I was alright, as I picked myself up and charged on.

“I hit my knees pretty hard,” I admitted, “But they’re numb, so I’ll think about that at the finish line."

I latched on the trio of women, relishing the opportunity to race with them. I was last in the pack at first, but eventually climbed behind the leader. I struggled to keep her pace, even as we headed into the downhill section, but knew that clinging on with all my might was my best chance of a strong finish.

We dropped the other two women, and I struggled to close the gaps that appeared between me and the leading woman as we dashed madly down mudslicked slopes. I lost my companion with around 4K to go, by being too timid in a particularly muddy section. I wasn’t interested in crashing again.

Coming through the home stretch.

Before the final kilometer, the course throws a final, steep hill. Rune, a team mate from OSI, was standing on the hill, cheering with all his might. I sprinted up the hill, lactic acid surging in my legs as I told myself only one more K!

I hadn’t dared to look at my watch for most of the race, afraid of being discouraged by what was sure to be a slower time than last year. During the last couple kilometers I had started to glance at the elapsed time, doing some quick mental arithmetic. It was encouraging, and I ran hard for the last kilometer, hoping to squeak under 1:40 once again.

Imagine my surprise when I stopped my watch at a time of 1:39:00, 24 seconds faster than laster year! The race leaders were slowed down nearly 3 minutes compared to 2016 by the muddy conditions, which means 1:39 this year would be worth 1:36 or 1:37 in a drier year. And far from being at the tall end of the elite women’s field, I finished 23rd out of 44! My knees were blooded but soul was soaring with the satisfaction of a race well run.

Mother-daughter post race pictures. Note the equally muddy calves.

Mom and Dad also raced the half marathon distance, running respectable times despite the adverse conditions. My friend Hanne Marte blew it out of the park in 1:33.

Greta races in the kid's race

After the race, I watched some friends of the family running the kid's race. It was pretty entertaining to see 10-years coming through the final stretch of the 1.5K race, fists balled up and faces clenched in apparent agony. I hope I can race with that much pure intensity and focus; I feel like I was pretty close to that at Birkebeinerløpet this year.

- The Wild Bazilchuk

Race report(s): Altering expectations and unexpected outcomes

I’ve run two short, but otherwise very different, races in the last two weeks, and I've been reflecting on how different the outcomes were.

Since I don't have any running pictures from either of the races, here's an unrelated running picture from Norddal, Sunnmøre, a couple of weekends ago.

The first was Fornebuløpet, a road 10K, held on May 31. I wanted to use Fornebuløpet as a gauge of how my fitness was coming along, hoping (as always) to PR. Unfortunately, I got a cold the day before the race, and woke up on race morning with a very sore throat. I felt awful at work all day, and considered dropping the race, but decided to do it anyway, partially because a large delegation of runners from my new team OSI would be there and I wanted to join them.

I started in the 40-42 minute wave, which is a little fast for me, and found myself running the first kilometer in 3:46. For comparison, my average kilometer time during my personal best 10K was 4:18. So, yeah, probably not a smart move, although in my defense the first kilometer of Fornebuløpet was slightly downhill. For the rest of the race I gradually slowed down, running my first ever positive split in a 10K. (For you non-runners reading this, positive splits, or running slower in the second half of a race than the first, is general considered a bad thing.)

I finished in 43:36, only 38 seconds off my PR. Considering my cold, and the stupid hard start, this actually wasn't so bad. Still, I’m not please with the race, and the main reason was that I gave up. As I saw my pace slow, I mentally checked out and couldn’t summon the effort to make myself go faster.

Around kilometer 8, I ran passed my friends from OSI, who cheered for me. With that boost I was able to finish a little harder, proving that it wasn’t my legs that were cooked, but just my head that had given up. Given that I wasn’t so far off my PR, I wonder what I could have done if I could have mustered a little more effort for the last 5K?

The second race was Rett til Værs, a 4.1K uphill race on technical, slippery terrain. I had really low expectations going into this one, given that I had raced a 200K bike race 2 days before (more of which later). I only hoped not to run too much slower than last year. I managed to convince my speedy friend Urd from OSI to join me.

“This is the easy part,” I enthused as we warmed up on the steep dirt road that makes up the first 1.5K of the course, “Afterwards it’s much steeper and rooty and rocky. And it all ends with 100m sprint across a bog!"

The low expectations and focus on enjoyment at Rett til Værs led to a great performance. I started conservatively on the first section of dirt road, and was able to pick off a ton of runners during steep and technical second half of the course. I set a course PR by 1 min, and finished 5th female. More importantly, I had a blast on the punishing course, and got muddy during the process.

Urd and I enjoying the view from Mellomkollen after the race.

This story has several possible morals, and I’ll leave it up to the reader to pick one:

a) Racing when you are sick is a futile exercise.
b) A positive mental attitude will allow you to overcome anything.
c) Running in the mud is more fun that running on the road.

- The Wild Bazilchuk

Long weekend at Pyttbua hut

The month of May in Norway is full of days off, little gifts to those of us who like to enjoy the last of the winter’s snow during the long days of late spring. Two weeks ago was a four-day weekend because of Ascension Day, so Audun, Dad, Mom and I decided to ski in to Pyttbua hut and tag some peaks to round off the ski season. The ski in to Pyttbua is long and flat, so we opted for our skinny mountain skis rather than our heavy ski mountaineering gear.

Since we had plans earlier in the day, we didn't get to the trailhead until 4pm. We assumed that, this late in the season, the road up to the summer parking area would be open and it would only be 8 kilometers to the hut. But the road was closed far below the summer parking. As we got our gear ready, we still hadn't fully realized how far it was to the hut. Unknowing and blissful, we set off up the dirt road.

I put on my skis when I saw the long first stretch of snow covering the road, hoping this would be the end of the bare ground. It wasn’t, and neither was the next one. Or the next. Or the one after that. There was snow, but only in stretches of a few hundred meters at a time. It continued like that until we finally reached the summer parking area. I looked at my watch. We had already gone 8 kilometers! The ski in was shaping up to be at least twice as far as we thought, but hopefully we would be able to ski more as the trail climbed.

On the (literal) bright side, there was plenty of daylight, sunset being at 11pm these days. It was suppertime thought, and realizing we still had hours to go, I stopped and ate a bunch of snacks. This turned out to be a good call, since the skiing only grew more frustrating. On a trail now rather than the dirt road, we spent the next 4 hours bushwhacking through scrubby trees. We tried to cobble together continuous snow routes on the maze of slushy spring snow that patterned the ground. In some places, the trail was completely exposed and we walked, carrying our skis. I sometimes tried to walk through short stretches of snow. I was rewarded by post-holing up to my thigh, sometimes plunging my foot into an icy bog.

As the day drew on to evening and the ordeal continued, we couldn’t be bother to take off our skis anymore. Sometimes the trail would cross a bog, and if I didn’t see any rocks, I would just march right across, skis and all. We finally reached Pyttbua hut at 10:30pm, exhausted and swearing that we would never do that again. {Strava}

After a leisurely morning, Audun, Dad and I headed out to ski up Høgtunga, a 1900-meter peak behind the hut. It was sunny, but there were low-hanging clouds crowning the mountaintops. The clouds above us evolved in mesmerizing patterns as they rushed passed in a brisk wind.

There was much more snow now that we were a little higher up and out of the trees. It was the thick, slushy variety, saturated with water. Clearly there hadn’t been a frost in the nights proceeding. The visibility shifted constantly: sometimes clouds would encircle us in the thick fog, but only a few minutes later the clouds would clear and we could see the valley below. It was a little nerve-wracking to loose visibility so abruptly, especially when climbing steeper sections.

The top of Høgtunga was almost above the clouds, permitting us little window-like views as we sat in the shelter of summit cairn, snacking.

The descent, which would have been easy on our larger ski mountaineering equipment, proved challenging on our skinny mountain skis. It was back to my roots as a telemark skier. No plastic boots or fancy bindings, you have to drive the ski with muscle power alone. I like to hope I still haven’t forgotten it.

The sun came out as we descended back to the hut, and the temperatures became absolutely summery. I spent the rest of the afternoon sunbathing in front of the hut, reading my book and enjoying having no where to go.{Strava}

The next morning, the cloud cover had retracted to high above the mountain tops and it was time for a bigger adventure. Audun, Dad and I had our sights set on the Horseshoe Traverse, a natural line that passes over three mountaintops: Pyttegga, Høgstolen and Karitind.

The climb up to Pyttegga was straightforward, following a mellow ridge line that afforded views of the rest of the traverse to come. There was a rocky stretch that forced us to take our skis off once, but it was nothing like the ordeal of coming in to the hut.

Audun and I had anticipated navigational difficulties from the top of Pyttegga. We had done this traverse once before, on foot, and there had been fog on top of the mountain which forced us to take a very steep line down from the top. With good visibility and snow, this link up grew more easy. We avoid clambering down the steep, south-facing ridge and instead descended on skis in a south-facing bowl before traversing out to the saddle between Pyttegga and Høgstolen.

The climb to Høgstolen followed a steep ridge that was narrow and rocky on once side and corniced on the other. Having noted the size of the cornice from the previous summit, we opted to strap our skis to our packs and clamber up the rocks. As our poles clacked against the rocks, Audun and I cracked jokes about dry-tooling (ice climbing on rock).

The wind was strong on top of Høgstolen, and we dug a bench on the lee side of the cairn to have lunch. After lunch, we picked our way down the ridge between Høgstolen and Karitind. There were more bands of rocks and cornices to be wary of, but we managed to get away with only taking our skis off once.

The final ascent to Karitind was steep, but we were rewarded with more spectacular views. I love spending days high on mountaintops. The descent to Pyttbua was challenging on skinny skis, but we got the hang of it, and were soon all linking turns down the slushy slops.

At the bottom of the descent, we could look back at the circular ridge above us, knowing we had covered all of that ground in one day. {Strava}

Although I was tired, I felt guilty about sitting inside while the sun still shone. The problem with summer in Norway is that if you want to use all the available light you would never get to sleep!

The next day we steeled ourselves for the ski out. Having thought through our route a little more, we opted for a high route with more continuous skiing and considerably less bushwacking than the ski in. {Strava}

I think this trip marks the end of my ski season this year. Soon the snow will melt and it will be time for adventures on foot in the high country!

- The Wild Bazilchuk