There ain’t no cure for the summertime blues

Yes, summer people, reverse seasonal affective disorder is a thing

The grass is out of control this year. Fed by near-record rains in May and June, the cheatgrass has grown so tall that it practically slaps me in the face as I run along singletrack trails. Tall stalks spit out clouds of pollen that accumulate in my airways, which build up so much inflammation that I have to slow until I can cough and wheeze to suck oxygen back into my lungs. I don’t remember my allergies being this bad before. And now, after nearly 7 years of allergy shots and asthma treatments, all I have left is acceptance: I am seriously allergic to summer.

It’s a struggle because people love summer, especially Colorado people, and I am prone to FOMO. People are out doing all of the fun things and posting gorgeous photos on social media. Meanwhile, I sit in dark rooms (blinds closed to prevent solar heat from baking our house) and wonder: If I plan a bikepacking overnight and spend the whole day riding and sleeping and inhaling outside, will I still be able to breathe well enough to pedal myself home in the morning? Or, should I hike up this mountain knowing I won’t have the stamina to outrun a lightning storm if one approaches? I have already doubled up on Claritin and use my albuterol inhaler like it’s candy. I can’t fight the grass. And the grass only grows and grows.

This morning, I was running along a dirt road toward Green Mountain. There are two spurs that provide access to the Green-Bear Trail. One is a narrow ribbon of badly overgrown singletrack and the other is a slightly overgrown doubletrack blocked by an old wire fence and a closed gate. I chose the option that did not involve being whipped in the face with pollen straws. The wire gate is not a difficult one to crawl through and I have managed it successfully dozens of times. Today, for unknown reasons, my left leg wedged between two wires and became trapped as I ducked through the opening. Instead of doing the rational human thing — turning my head to look at my leg, assess where it was caught, and remove it gently — I panicked like one of those deer you see in viral videos. But I did not have a benevolent rescuer with a wire cutter to free me from my predicament. I had only the panicked deer side of my brain who thought it prudent to thrash and yowl until I’d yanked the leg free. Luckily I didn’t have any tetanus-inducing cuts, but there was a large bruise that ached and throbbed for the remainder of my 12-mile run — which still included miles of cheatgrass gauntlets.

On the bright side, my hand is improving — somewhat. Back in May I tripped and fell on my hand during a hike. I thought I’d sprained my pinky finger. The pain improved for a while, but a few weeks ago it took a turn for the worse. There’s an odd bump near the knuckle, so I believe something was disrupted in there. Weeks of protecting the finger had led to a considerable loss of grip strength. I had an X-ray and a meeting with a doctor, but won’t have access to more in-depth testing until July 17. The current theory is that it’s that there is an impingement of my ulnar nerve somewhere near where it branches in the palm. This makes sense to me, as I have prior experience with carpal tunnel syndrome, and this issue has similar tingling pain and weakness (sadly, still in my dominant hand.)

As soon as the doctor posited that theory, I just assumed “Oh great, hand surgery for me again.” But apparently, this ulnar nerve issue is trickier because the impingement could be in many places in the hand or arm. It’s difficult to diagnose. So, even though I don’t know for sure that it’s nerve damage, I’m hoping I can fix it on my own. I’ve been working with my physical therapist — the wonderful Sue at Build Sports Performance in Louisville — who has spent years helping me with an adductor injury and Achilles tendonitis and my battered back, and for whom I will cry real tears when she decides to retire. Sue is a magician with dry needling and managed to get a few weakened hand muscles firing again, after which I had temporary but much-improved grip strength — enough to do a few chest presses at the gym. I’m working on my own to strengthen the hand, but that too is not as straightforward as carpal tunnel syndrome.

Still, between my breathing and my hand, I fear that mountain season may largely pass me by. There’s just not a lot I feel comfortable doing on big mountains, which often include at least minor scrambling, and absolutely demand stamina to move well and cover ground. Last weekend, Beat and I got out on the South Arapaho Glacier Trail: 13 miles out and back, mostly above treeline, with frigid winds, fast-moving hail squalls, and large snowfields that are holding on well into July. Beat summited South Arapaho Peak but I opted not to risk it — there is plenty of easy class-three scrambling on the summit ridge that Beat largely forgot but I remembered. (He later acknowledged that I would have had a hard time with some of the moves.) I didn’t want to risk a low-consequence but still likely injuring slip. And I didn’t want to have to frantically pick my way down the mountain if one of the squalls decided to get rowdy.

When I thought about it later — “geez, I can’t even summit South Arapaho” — my sense of self-worth took a hit. And this was before I bruised my leg in a wire fence. The bruise is getting bigger. It hurts to put weight on my left leg. I am a mess.

And yet, while my body has not been the best vehicle for enjoying it, I acknowledge that this summer has been spectacular and gorgeous and so much better than I had anticipated, at least so far. The record rains gave the demon grass a big boost, but they also have kept fires and smoke away. We had a few bad days in May when Canadian smoke drifted down into the Front Range. But beyond that, the air quality has been pristine and if I wasn’t choking on demon dust, I’d definitely be in my best shape right now (dare to dream.)

We’ve had more days with rain than not and a number of intense thunderstorms, which I love as long as I am indoors and not mourning the wildflowers being pummeled by hail. On July 4, Beat and I sat at the window and watched as white bolts lit up the fog-shrouded sky. It was better than any fireworks show I’ve attended.

The local wildflowers have been incredible, and like the grass, they keep on popping.

We have yet to swelter through a 90-degree day, although there are plenty in the forecast. If the thunderstorm spigot turns off and the heat and fires return, I am going soothe myself with beautiful memories of cool rain and electric green hillsides in July.

This is to say — I don’t dislike summer. Really. I just need to resist the urge to sit in a dark room with a HEPA filter blasting (an actual recommendation for people with reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder) and believe the world is passing me by.

Also, it’s already July, which means just 167 days until Winter Solstice. 🌞