Cliches

Date: March 5
Mileage: 27.1
March mileage: 55.8
Temperature upon departure: 29
Listened to: "The Kids Aren't All Right" ~ The Offspring

Well, I finally broke down and bought an iPod. It's actually out of character for me to purchase a shiny, trendy little gadget (I may be the only person who grew up in the 90s and drives a car with a tape deck.) But I think it was the Susitna race that finally convinced me it wouldn't be a bad idea to own a decent MP3 player. Normally, I prefer to ride free, without the noisebox crowding out all the ambient sounds. But with Breakup approaching (that's these Alaska types term for Spring), I realized that I may soon want to start packing on road mileage. And since I live at the very southern end of a peninsula, there's pretty much only one direction I can go for any distance. I realized that the Sterling Highway northbound may start to get very boring if I don't blast a little Yellowcard now and again.

There was nothing really notable about today's ride, except for being outsmarted by a dog. I often ride out to Ohlson Mountain, which is 13.5 miles from my house. There's a mean dog at mile 13 that chases me every time, up a hill, and nips at my ankles as I try to outrun him. I always end up weaving and spinning out on the ice, nearly losing control until I can finally crest the hill and fly the last half mile to the end of the road. Then I have to turn back and face him again. Today, as always, he chased me on the incoming stretch. His teeth got so close to my leg that I was certain I was going to lose a chunk of my calf, so I kicked out and he backed off. As soon as I hit the turnaround, I pulled my waterbottle out of my coat and popped the top off, then began pedaling hard back up the hill. I was filled with road rage and I wanted to face that dog head on. The thought of soaking that snarly little snout with every precious ounce of water I had made me positively gleeful. Within another minute I was back in his territory, viciously clutching my weapon and scanning the road when I locked eyes with the brute. He was just sitting on top of a snow bank, panting, like the harmless mutt he pretends to be. And he just watched me go by - just sat there, having no idea how close he came to a rude awakening. Or ... did he?

Today was also different in that I sat through most of the How-Great-Are-We Awards for the first time in, well, ever. I love movies, but I've never cared enough about the Academy Awards to bother watching them (after all, that's what newspapers are for). Still, there's something about a big windy blizzard outside, homemade pizza, and John Stewart on the only station that comes in semi-clear that can really make sitting though all the self congratulations worth it. Go George Clooney!

Backyard backcountry

Geoff's on a big skiing kick right now. Geoff, new hobby and eBay can be a daunting combination. The last time he did this (with bikes), he ended up with a Trek 5200, a Trek Fuel 100, and a lot of miles I couldn't keep up with - even when we went riding together. But at least cycling was something I could do.

After he spent the morning surfing the Web for info on pricey ski equipment and reading about "Cross-Country Skiing 101" from some library book, we went out for a backyard expedition. He went on his backcountry skis. I snowshoed. I gave myself blisters trying to keep up, but the rest of my bruise-free limbs let out a collective sigh of relief. We went out for a long trek, following Bridge Creek downcanyon over an impressive network of trails broken by other skiers. Everywhere we traveled, all I could think was, "Man, a little colder weather would turn this into some great single track." Or, "I bet with low tire pressure I could ride these snowmobile tracks right now." It was like scouting, not hiking. And I was discovering a whole new backyard playground I never knew about.

Maybe I'll go out tomorrow. But the truth is, trail conditions are still all too perfect for skiing. Which means soft snow, deep drifts and painful glares from the Sunday skiers. I could fight the mid-30s thaw in town. Or ... I could go skiing.

Aftermath

Date: March 3
Mileage: 28.7
March mileage: 28.7
Temperature upon departure: 31

Tough ride today, for a town ride. It included:
1.) three miles of ice bolderfield
2.) puddles
3.) 5.0-magnitude earthquake (OK. That actually happened while I was still at work.)
4.) random, balance-threatening blasts of sidewind off the Bay
5.) more traffic than usual (The Salty Dawg Saloon opened for the season today. I don't understand the big deal, as this is the first time it has actually been open since I moved here, but the number of vehicles parked in the vicinity of that little shack made me wonder if the Academy Awards moved north.)
6.) puddles
7.) slush trail
8.) nearly endo-ing after plowing into a deep snow drift at 15 mph (I just assumed it was fairly solid. But ... it wasn't.)
9.) puddles
10.) arriving home looking like I took a swim in a coal-mining tailings pond.

There were also a large number of state trooper vehicles lurking around. It was a grim reminder of tragedy, which, even without the air of sensationalism, violence and questionable judgment, always hits a small town hard.

And as a resident of a small town, it hits me hard. I know these cops. They stop into my office. They joke with the reporters. The wheel their kids around Safeway. To imagine them locked in the crossfire ... arms outstretched ... guns drawn ... high school choir students gathering at the airport window ... the wide-eyed gaze of the toddler in the passenger's seat ...

It takes observers to a level that's far away from the Channel 5 top story or some overblown episode of CSI. It's not loud or fast or filled with fire. It's quiet - eerily quiet - in the aftermath, and beneath the silence are answers no one will ever find.

This guy wants in

It was snowy today, a little wind, low 20s. I had planned to attempt a trail ride in honor of Peter and Rocky, who won the Iditarod Trail Invitational at 7 this morning. But when I got home from work, a little later in the evening than I had hoped, looked at the newspaper and saw "Sweet Home Alabama" slated to air on one of the channels my TV picks up, well ... I spent the better part of the evening on the trainer. I have been sufficiently lulled by post-training complacency. But, for what it's worth, it was a good trainer ride. A commercial-laden chick flick can really stack on the minutes.

I didn't think the long winter would get to me, but something about the recent explosion of daylight, compounded by the calendar's turnover to March, has got me looking at the cold and snow with a confused melancholy of sorts. Where I come from - the land of salt and sand - early March is the time of year when temperatures start climbing into the 60s. The grass looks green again. Songbirds start tiptoeing their way back. Where I live now - the land of snow and Susitna - near-zero is still a harsh reality. Grass is buried under six feet of white stuff that continues to accumulate. Birds are trying to break into the house. I've lived in Alaska nearly six months now, and I have yet to see a different season.

It's a rough transition. As much effort as I've made to jump full-tilt into southcentral Alaska's winter, it's still tough to acclimate. At least I don't live in Barrow. You know what they say about Barrow -

There are two seasons in Barrow. Winter, and July 14.

Crazy race

Ok. I admit it. I never really "followed" racing. I don't even actually understand what those guys do in the Tour de France. I know I see a lot of cyclists and they're going really fast. But the actual strategy the event escapes me. (Yellow, polka dotted jerseys? Does it ever strike avid pro cycling fans that some of the revered traditions of the TdF may seem a little, well, kooky to the untrained eye?)

Now, having admitted that embarrassing fact for all of the bicycle-blogging world to see, I also have to admit that I have become absolutely captivated by the Iditarod Trail Invitational. With nothing more to watch than spare, often long-delayed reports on racers' current placement on the trail, I have been caught up in a whirlwind of imagination about their trail conditions, method of movement, weather, and just what exactly they might be thinking about as they gaze across endless dunes of windswept snow over the treeless tundra.

The three leaders in the race took nearly 40 hours to pedal/walk/trudge the 90 miles between Rohn and Nikolai. They're pushing five days now to make it the McGrath, a very respectable time in which to finish the race. Five days. 350 miles. Those TdF guys do 350 miles in, what, like three hours?

But I can't help but feel awestruck respect for the racers struggling toward McGrath. Here they are, in their physical prime, clawing through blowing snow and temperatures plummeting to negative-double-digits with 15 mph headwinds. They're living on power bars, jerky, disgusting trail food, the occasional hamburger at a checkpoint. They're relying on human-powered transportation in one of the few places left in this overpopulated world where you can travel 100 miles between a human settlement of any kind. They're doing it all as fast as they can, as hard as they can, and all for this blurry-eyed, sleep-deprived slump over the finish line. Then they can return to their homes in Anchorage, London and South Africa, read their name in the massive scrunch of small gray type in the Anchorage Daily News, and tell their friends that they completed the "world's longest winter ultra race" - which, of course, none of their friends will have ever heard of.

This isn't the Tour de France. It's not even the Iditarod dogsled race. There aren't any television cameras, news reports or big payouts at the end. Whatever these racers do out there, they're doing entirely for themselves. You gotta respect that.

Take a left

Date: Feb. 28
Mileage: 18.4
February mileage: 433.3
Temperature upon departure: 10

A friend of mine is back in town after an extended trip home to Venezuela. She told us that the phrase her family uses to describe Alaska literally translates to "go to the end of the world, then take a left." (of course, it sounds much more alluring in Spanish.)

Today was a ride of subtle annoyances and short attention span. It was frosty out with a sharp, sustained wind (another friend informed me that the wind-chill factor was "minus 17, at least.") Lo these past few months, I've gotten pretty good at looking at the thermometer and knowing exactly what to wear, so I never felt chilled. But today conditions were just perfect for "cold headaches." You know, the kind you get when you suck down a Slurpee too fast? Yeah. You can get those cycling, too - especially if you're heading up a steep hill, right into the wind, and you start breathing too hard.

I rode an all-too-familiar route and completely zoned out. I probably wasn't pushing myself very hard at all, because I started thinking about writing projects from years ago that I'm curious to dredge up, and suddenly I was wheeling into my driveway. Have you ever done that in your car? Arrived at a destination only to realize you have no memory of the journey? Yeah, you can do that cycling, too.

My "camelbak injury" is still really bothering me, and I'm starting to wonder if it's something else (sustained muscle soreness in my lower left shoulder). As it is, I haven't carried a camelbak and therefore haven't had any water to drink on rides since the Susitna. But, what can you do? I've gone to see doctors about these strange injuries before. The best they've ever done is prescribe painkillers, so I guess I'll keep eating Ibuprofens.

I'm still watching the Iditarod Trail Invitational. Based on some of the checkpoint times these bikers are posting, I can see a lot of similarities to the Susitna 100 - conditions started out pretty good, (much colder, but good) so the leaders got through pretty fast. They're pushing on now to the last third of the 350-mile race. The bikers who were left behind, though, seem to be bogged down in conditions that quickly went to hell. One biker took nearly 36 hours just to clear 40 miles between the second and third checkpoints (and at last post was only 130 miles into an 1,100-mile slog.) Ug. It seems like racers are dropping out left and right, and I can only imagine what it must be like out there right now. But that's my problem. I can imagine. So I watch with fascinated empathy - and this dark (masochistic) side of myself even feels envy.

Float on

Well, I'm back to my Monday night routine, running on the hamster wheel at the gym, thereby inadvertently devoting an hour to wandering thoughts about ways to make life more interesting.

Today, for no reason, a mundane conversation I had with a coworker about a year ago suddenly popped into my head. It's been buried in the back of my mind, and I have no idea why it's even stored in my long-term memory - except as a glaring statement on how much I've changed since I moved to Alaska.

My coworker was training for the upcoming cycling season, and was trying to plan a fitness routine he could stick with. He hated the hamster wheel/spinning bike/whole indoor workout setup more than anyone I know. So he asked me what I knew about studs that you could attach to bike tires. He thought they might help him navigate icy Idaho highways during longer rides.

I remember shooting back a reply that was something along the lines of "That's crazy. Why in the world would you want to ride outside in the winter when you have a well-lit, climate-controlled gym at your disposal?" (I was a big hamster wheel advocate at the time.)

He told me he was training for a double century, and needed to keep a pretty strict routine that required him to step up his mileage soon. And he just couldn't put in the time indoors.

"But that's crazy," I replied. "Why would anyone want to ride a double century?"

Not only did I not have any advice to offer, but the whole idea turned my stomach. I promptly forgot the unpleasantness - until today, only one year later. I'm still plugging away on the hamster wheel, but this time with big dreams of double triple-digits running through my head.

There are a lot of things I want to do this summer, but I think the first event I might like to plan for is the Fireweed 200, a 200-mile highway ride from Sheep Mountain to Valdez. The race is slated for July 8. That's a little too close to 24 hours of Kincaid (June 24) to feasibly train for both (there's another similar event I specifically told another coworker she was "crazy" for doing - in her case, the 24 hours of Moab race.) So I do have to make some decisions, and map out a plan. The Fireweed 200 has a nondrafting division that appeals to the rabid soloist in me, so my early pull is for the road race. (However, some have suggested that I consider riding the entire Fireweed 400. While I do have a plug-along attitude that has gotten me through some tough spots, I'm not exactly an ultra athlete - and the Fireweed 400 is not only Four Hundred Nonstop Miles, but also 28,000 feet of climbing! UltraRob has done it. But UltraRob is UltraRob. He's one of those RAAM people that even the current me would call crazy.)

But I am excited about the prospect of training for and riding in these "ultra" races - if nothing else, to spite my 2005 self for being so self-depreciating and cynical. I do not need Cat 5 status or quads of steel to ride 200 miles or spend 24 hours on a mountain bike. I have love! I have Power Bars! I'm good to go.