Where Water Buffalo Roam

It’s the rhythm of breathing fresh air deep into my lungs as I work up a hill and the sound of my feet as I float down its back. The open space and restorative solitude, no telephone poles or cement—just two valley walls cradling a river and a trail. It’s getting up before the sun and starting the day with endorphins and inspiration; I run in the mountains because it is free. I’ve never considered myself a runner. I’m not built like runners in the magazines and jogging was always a means of punishment in organized sports growing up. Late to practice? Four laps. Lost the game? Plan on extra running tomorrow. I also went through a long period of adaptation where I had to convince my large frame that it too could learn to be efficient. It all stems from a desire to gain insight from challenge. My career began on a Friday night after my best friend and his dad, both marathoners, invited me out for one of their ‘tempo’ days the next morning. Mid way through the ten miler my

The Joy of Camping It’s 5:30am and I’m working down my third cup of coffee while other campers are milling around the food like chipmunks stowing away for a long winter. The arid climate has my throat feeling like wet sandpaper and each nostril like an air duct at Costco, another sip of coffee. Brendan, a Cycling House staff member, saunters from his room heading straight for the banana and peanut butter. Spread, bite, spread, and then announces the van heading to the pool will leave in fifteen minutes. I glance at the whiteboard with the days eating and training schedule, which is methodically thought out and provides a glimpse of what my week will be like. The Cycling House is a sanctuary for endurance people; a place to escape from soggy weather, train hard and have fun. Living any place with seasons eventually spawns a depressing winter morning, usually a rainy Sunday, when spring never sounded better. I remember flying out of Seattle the same day this feeling hit ris

I was five minutes off the front, sixty miles into a one-hundred mile running race, and breathing thin air at over 12,500ft when the lama took off. In the middle of the Rocky Mountains tree-line fades into a sub-alpine zone. Comprised of sharp rocks, roots, and not nearly enough oxygen for someone from sea level--this section of trail is a dopey stumble through broken glass. Hope Pass is the crux of the run. Racers start 50 miles north in the retired mining town of Leadville, run South down the spine and turn in the ghost town of Winfield. I'd made the turn and had just reached the summit of Hope Pass for the second time when I heard her cry. "Damn you, Ted. Get your ass back here" The woman's face told the story of a good life. Deep wrinkles from the sun, the worried brow of a farmers daughter, and a relaxed smile. Tiny running shorts, shirtless, and dehydrated, I must have looked the least threatening of the bunch, never mind this silly running race

The following is a race report from a run on dirt in the Chelan Sawtooths: We started on single track somewhere outside Carlton, WA in the Chelan Sawtooths. There were about 120 people milling around the crowded parking lot waiting to use the plastic restroom, register, and slam down the last sip of coffee. Because the venue is remote and trail exposed, the gun must go off early; 25k, 50k, 50M all starting on single track at 6:00 AM. With all the emails and updates on the Rainshadow website regarding the challenge of the terrain and distance from the nearest hospital it seemed that James wanted people to have a good race but at the same time acknowledge the location makes it Class IV. If you get hurt out there--human power or helicopter is the only evac. option--and even then it's a long way to urgent care. Hard to tell who was there to race and who was there to finish but I recognized several fast people from the old Seattle Running Company crew. Ultra runners are t

Since the last time we spoke: Fitzroy Ferry ride gone bad (6days instead of 3) Met lots of road warriors. Finished the tour with beach runs and rides through wine country; it's like Solvang with less cars, better food, and cheaper wine.

We are through Fitzroy. Trail runs to basecamp. Biking with the wind. Now in Puerto Natales taking the boat for 3 days through fjords to Puerto Montt. Then logging some miles mid Chile before the money runs out. We will post pictures after the Navimag trip. Your pal, Andrew

Our Bob bag kept our feet warm in the mountains; doubles as a back-pack for treking; keeps all our things dry through the mud and wet of the Carreta Austral. His tight welds and material quality are surpassed by none. But, as it turns out, his China made rear wheel is better designed inbounds touring. --- He pulled and yanked at where the bearing used to be and just shook his head. ´no´. I was then given directions to a place where two streets intersect. His bike shop did not have the part, though it looked like it must have pretty much everthing else remotley close to a bike part. I found a steal bearing after three hours of circling the town of Coyoheque. Comming from the remote 500 person or smaller towns, this place is mad. I found the intersection and the car parts store. Just what I was afraid of. The auto store manager demanded the Buggy stay outside. I grabbed my number and stood with a nervous twich by the door, waiting for someone to run off with my bike.

Pictures: 1. Scene through the Andes. 2. Fish Shape Shack in Manihuels. We were invited to stay at the guy in the middles house. The guy on the right is his fishing partner who also molds fish for wall mounts. 3. Where the fish was caught 4. We brought this thing in as a collective. Storm on the hills. Rain. Wine. Really good din din. Manihuels is on the Carreta Austral in Chile. 500 people or less in the town. Really nice people welcome you in. So pure.

Pictures: 1. They take Mate tea very serious in these parts 2. The Bob trailers are rad but check these guys out! Argentines with no passports touring around thier beautiful county with home welded...things. 3. Dude outsite Hostel/camp in traditional town of Esquel (think Winthrop/Montana) 4. This couple has been touring for 4 years! 5. El Bolson: farmers markets and a lot of relaxed type folk We have gone from the mountain weather of Bariloche, down the tailwinds to El Bolson and into the headwind to Esquel. All these places are in Argentina. In reading Bruce Chatwins, In Patagonia and the Lonely Paranoid (Lonely Planet) about Butch Cassady´s last whereabouts it seems we may have camped, urinated and cooked in or near his front yard. We then rode into the wind to Futalafu. The river is clear and big water. There are several guides here from the river I used to work on. The town in not near anywhere so not much for tourists but the terrain is out of this

We have come from Pucon, subtropic rides and runs through lush understory. Popped out the other side of the Andes to Argentina where everything is a bit more serious. In the morning we will get our first taste of route 40. There are no towns for the next 3 days. Resting today and gunning for Butch Cassidy´s old stomping grounds. The above sequence shows the weather and terrain change in the past week or so.

Took the bus from Bariloche and bopped up to the alpine climbing up, Refugio Frey. The weather was crap. Hissing rain as I arrived, a ways ahead of Becky. A bunch of longed hairs were crowded in the refugio, most spoke english and claimed to be native to Colorado. Typical. We opted to test the tent and awoke to several inches of snow and blue sky. Weather is changing. Trail qaulity was a highway. Not technical. Follows a river until the final hour which is a steep up to attain the saddle. Refugio sits on a lake in the saddle. Surrounded by towers to climb. Total run/approach = 4hrs

A fantastic climb up to lakes backed by granite and jungle. Techy root systems made for a slippery mess of an experience on decents. In about 3 hours we climbed a couple thousand feet to the lakes. Swam. Watched fish jump and ran back to the entrance just in time for the last bus. Arrived back at the tent starving and psyched.

¨Some people just don´t live in the same reality,¨ the labor foreman spiting his ham and swiss in between sentences. ¨I went to the county fair this year, the wife loves it.¨ This leading into the rant against overwieght americans and his hope that this is not a cross-section of the American way of life. The story of obesity as an epidemic has yet to be told but one thing is for sure, riding a bicycle in a foreign place is good for your health. To earn funds for the trip I tore up carpet until my palm blistered, flipped burgers, painted fences and worked as a relocator (mover). All the gigs were an adventure, and definitley a step into a different reality. Working in the grease pit I learned the different regions of Mexico, what a 12 hour shift with no breaks feels like, and struggled to earn the name--´stupid gringo´. Working as a mover with Dan was a hoot, with his help I rented a really big truck, drove half asleep and learned his stories of endureance; how many people have

When a person rolls into town on an iron donkey people ask questions. We must look like a couple of lost gypsies. Buggy (unaffectionate bike name) has a massive yellow bag mounted on a single axle trailer with a broken rear fender that rubs on the wheel. Kitchen equiptment and other essential crap hang off in all directions. We must look lost, but we seem to be making a lot of friends this way. Rodrigo is a guide here in Pucon. He popped out as soon as our wheels stopped rolling and offered a place to pitch the tent. Yesterday he took us up a dirt road towards volcano Villarica. We crossed three ridges and swooped up through several different glacial fed rivers before ditching the bikes and hiking up to a waterfall. Rigo is full of life and knowledge. He´s a guide on the volcano and super fit local adventure buddy. We are tentatively planning to race the Ironman Pucon 70.3 here on the 16th. The town is nestled between a massive lake and subtropic mountains. We´ll be