15 pounds extra

Date: Feb. 2
Mileage: 58.5
February mileage: 70.6
Temperature upon departure: 28

I had stopped yet again to readjust the dry bag that was hanging off my back rack when I spotted another cyclist riding toward me on the icy bike path. This is the second cyclist I've seen on the road in at least eight weeks - the first was a bike commuter who nodded at me as we met blinky light to blinky light in the hazy evening. But this one looked like he might actually stop to talk to me. I was very excited for our prospective conversation. Since I was readjusting my bag, I was sure he'd ask me about it.

"So what are you carrying in there?"

"15 pounds of dumbbell weights."

"Um ... what?"

"Four weights, three pounds each, and a two-pound bar, and I wrapped them in a towel, and stuffed them in this bag with a bunch of clothes."

I had our entire exchange scripted by the time he rode up next to me, nodded with a hint of a smile, and pedaled away. No "You need any help?" No "Nice day, isn't it?" Maybe he was just in a hurry. Maybe I exude competence. Or maybe I just exude crazy.

I did, after all, spend the afternoon pedaling north with a bunch of iron weights in a dry bag. It was a great idea I had to practice riding with the minimum weight requirement of the Susitna 100 without actually packing all of my stuff - and getting it dirty, and wet, and possibly ripped. Plus, by loading up 15 pounds all on the back rack, I could test how strong it really was.

The largest difference I noticed riding with extra weight was how much more difficult it was to hoist my bike over snow berms or push it through extra icy stretches. I also seemed to go noticeably faster when the conditions were favorable - tailwinds and downhills. Uphills and headwinds, however, felt like more of a grind. I don't know if it was psychological or if the weight really made that much of a difference. My overall average speed was a few notches faster than it was during my 100-mile ride last week. Since I tend to ride fairly consistently regardless of how long I'm out, I take this as an encouraging sign.

Beyond the weight, today's ride was smooth and comfortable. These longer rides make me feel strong. To go out and ride 60 miles, then feel no different afterward than I would on a typical weekday ... it's definitely a positive feeling. Competency and control. I know the state's not permanent, but it's satisfying while it lasts.

Now all I can do is watch the weather report and wait patiently. If trail conditions are magically similar to today's ... glare ice coated in frost ... I figure it would take me about 11-12 hours to finish the race. And if they're like they were yesterday, it will take me closer to 40. I'm gunning for something in between.

Serenity now

Date: Feb. 1
Mileage: 12.1
February mileage: 12.1
Temperature upon departure: 30

There's something fundamentally wrong about walking with a bike. I mean, sure, it's a machine created for the sole purpose of propelling a rider. And sure, it's pretty pointless otherwise. But still ... what is it about the simple motion of pushing a bicycle that can reduce an otherwise rational cyclist to a sputtering, jello-legged heap on the verge of going Frank Costanza on that useless piece of ...

I don't know. I do know that it's something I need to steel myself against, so today I deliberately headed to a seldom-used backcountry ski trail, which, on a warm day like today, I expected to only be marginally rideable - if at all. It was an intentional hike-a-bike, and all started according to plan. The first mile and a half of narrow singletrack was great fun as long as I kept the intense focus required to stay on the trail. Then it became softer and punchier, until only a single divided ski track separated the "trail" from an endless pile of soft, halfway rotten snow.

So I walked. And walked. And rode a couple yards. And walked some more. And walked. And hit my calves with my pedals. And walked. And dragged my bike on its side when the snow became to deep to roll it through. And walked. And hoisted the bike on my shoulders for a while. And trudged.

And I remembered why I don't like riding with an odometer. I always feel like it's judging me. At one point I post-holed up to my thigh and had to leverage the bike to dig myself out. As I took a few quick leaps out of the hole and hoisted the bike over the drift, all the while gasping for breath while sweat poured down my forehead, I watched the odometer register 1.2 mph. Why must you mock me? You have no idea what this is really like!

You laugh ... but pushing's a vital skill to any well-rounded snow biker. I neglect it for the same reason I neglect lifting weights. The very act makes me question everything from my sanity to my existence. After about two hours I had covered five miles. I crawled over to the river bank and sat defeated in the snow. Sunlight poured through the still-frosted trees and shimmered in the mist over the river. My all-encompassing thoughts about five miles being a dismal distance and I need to get up right now ... those thoughts dissolved almost instantly. I pushed in deeper to make a comfortable seat in the snow and pulled a peanut butter sandwich out of my pack. And suddenly, I wasn't out on a torturous hike-a-bike. I was having a nice, sunny-day picnic. I decided to stay for a while.

I think Brij Potnis, the cyclist who came in first during the unending horror-ride that was the 2005 Susitna 100, put it best when he said, "Why suffer now when you can suffer later?"

Thanks, Brij

Sunburned and loving it

Date: Jan. 31
Mileage: 37.3
January mileage: 893.4 (Oh, so close)
Temperature upon departure: 30

Climbing up from Sheep Creek today, I was trying to determine the strange sensation boiling up from my core. I held my hand over my eyebrows as I squinted into the blaze of sun. The gesture made me think of sunglasses. Sunglasses? I remember sunglasses. People wear sunglasses in the summer. Summer? I remember summer. It's hot in the summer. Hot? I remember hot. Could I possibly be hot?

Shortly thereafter, I started peeling layers off. I have a great clothing system in place that compensates for the nuances of even a couple of degrees. But it doesn't take into account dry weather and direct sunlight. First went the PVC layer. Then the gloves. Then the balaclava.

Suddenly, I was having all sorts of strange sensations. The wind flowing gently through my hair. A pleasant chill on my ungloved fingers as they clutched the cold handlebars. The warmth of sunlight on my bare skin. That sunlight, seeping into surfaces on me that are never exposed, ignited a rush of melanin that made me feel like I was out in the heat of July.

After my ride was over, I set to scrubbing the thick mask of slush grime from my face, just like I do every day. As the gray grit sloughed off, a tell-tale pink hue began to emerge.

I'm normally one of those people who becomes horrified at the prospect of even a minor skin burn. But, now ... well ... I don't even think the stores here stock sunscreen.

Even my coworkers noticed my new, healthy glow. "You look like you got some sun!" they exclaimed. To us pasty-faced Alaskans, it's the ultimate badge of honor.

Waiting for the fog to lift

Date: Jan. 30

Mileage: 27.4

January mileage: 856.1

Temperature upon departure: 35

Rough day at work. I fried my brain, so today is a picture post. I thought about gunning for 900 miles this month, but I probably won't have the time. Either way, it's been a good run and I wouldn't give it up even if fitness came free.

Liquid gray infinity

Date: Jan. 29
Mileage: 19.2
January mileage: 828.7
Temperature upon departure: 33

When the subject of how much cycling I do comes up in conversations with acquaintances, I usually try to downplay it as much as possible. Part of it has to do with my delusion of normalcy and my fear of being judged. “You do what? Every day? Out in the weather? Here?” After all, they know where I live.

But the main reason I don’t talk about cycling obsession with anyone but the best of friends is my fear of the best question of all, the question I don’t know how to answer — “Why?”

“You spend all of your free time biking?” For the most part. “As a hobby?” Yes. “Do you get paid at all to ride your bike?” Of course not. “Do you ever plan to make any money riding a bike?” Well, no. “Are you trying to lose weight?” Not really.

“Then ... Why?”

Sometimes I feel like rebutting by asking them why they spend their free time playing World of Warcraft or TiVo-ing whatever reality train wrecks they’re showing on TV these days, but I know it’s not really a fair comparison. Their hobbies don’t send them out into the slush and biting cold, splattered in grit and varying shades of bruises. Their hobbies don’t require wearing soggy clothing made of unnatural fabrics and coping with equipment that seems to be in a constant state of disrepair. My hobby defines me as quirky and a little bit crazy, and I find it impossible to explain my way out of that.

There are times, though, that I ask myself the same question. It usually crosses my mind in the midst of a rough ride or the conditions I dislike the most - the watered-down slush, the wind. The rain.

Today I stopped at the North Douglas boat launch to pour the water out of my shoes and wipe my Camelbak nozzle free of a solid layer of grit. Nobody was out in the monotone drizzle of a Monday afternoon, and the calm water reflected the silence. Luxurious, billowing clouds draped over tree tops and tumbled down the mountainside like stain fabric.

I sat down for a moment on the beach, littered with broken mussel shells that sparkled in the dull light. I thought about my routine and its strange motions, and I thought a little about “Why.”

I live in a liquid world where everything is fleeting and nothing stays the same. The only thing I’m really certain of is the passing of time, the waves of good and bad that carry me forward. And the details - the possessions I acquire, the way that I look, the places I go, the people I meet, the people I love - are too often little more than glimmers of the present in a sea of memories. It's all too easy for me to drift away with the tide, become lost in that ocean, and forget that life is something that happens, not something I have.

What I really want is to live at the crest of every moment - every frightening, joyful, exhausting, brilliant, mundane moment - as they pass me by. And bicycling, in a way, is my means of staying afloat.

Back in the Saddle

Date: Jan. 28
Mileage: 25.1
January mileage: 809.5
Temperature upon departure: 30

Tough ride today. I blame the ill-fated bald eagle who found a decapitated deer head in the local landfill. Probably thinking it would be the envy of all eagles, it wrapped its talons around the trophy and took off. What it didn't put much thought into is how much more difficult flying can be when you're hoisting a head that weighs roughly what you do. The eagle banked right into the path of a live power line and bzzzzt ... 10,000 customers in Juneau lost power. (This is a true story. I work for the local newspaper.) And the end result ... I wasn't able to check the weather radar before I went outside.

I've been riding my regular mountain bike with studded tires since Thursday because I'm terrified about taking another dive. It does fine on ice, but is spectacularly inefficient in any sort of loose snow (I can't believe I spent an entire winter riding this thing last year. Swapping out Sugar for Snaux Bike has been like upgrading a low-geared beach cruiser to a road bike and discovering that it is in fact possible to go faster than 9 mph on a bicycle.) But that was fine because there wasn't any new snow this morning ... when I left.

I did a real quick jaunt out to the end of North Douglas Highway (50 minutes! Them's summer times!) Light flurries began falling at about mile 4 and had grown steadily heavier. But it was just after I turned around that I hit the full scope of the storm. I didn't even know snow downpours were possible. The white fury rained down like static on a TV screen. There was no visibility and no distinction between road and shoulder and ocean and sky. Snow like that piles up fast - nearly three inches in the space of an hour. I had to stay as far off the road as possible to avoid the ski-resort traffic. My mountain bike was swerving and banking and bouncing off chunks of ice left and right. I slowed to a crawl, locked in concentration mode and a kind of lightheaded calm that comes of unperceived effort. I didn't understand why I was working harder, but I was. Sweat condensation was building up on the inside of my transparent PVC jacket. Total ride time - 2 hours, 20 minutes. I only had enough time left over to take a shower and slap together a tuna sandwich, but at least I wasn't late for work.

Recovery bliss

I was standing in the Costco parking lot in my T-shirt and jeans, absent-mindedly sipping on a generously iced Diet Coke, when my type-A alter-ego - that little voice that is always trying to nudge me into action - came waddling up beside me.

"What a waste," it said to me. "Look at the bright sun! The clear sky! The windsock hanging limp and motionless! Why aren't you out there taking advantage of that?"

"I promised my health-nut alter-ego that I wouldn't ride my bike today," I said. "My neck's still sore. I think I got whiplash when I crashed Thursday. See, I can't turn it to the left very far."

"Like taking a neck recovery day is a good excuse," it hissed. "You're only going to get a day like this once in an entire training cycle! You have to seize the day when it comes! It doesn't matter what you did yesterday or the day before for that matter!"

"You know, you're the reason my co-workers used to call me Gimpy McStiff," I said.

"But you'll finally be able to soak up some sun," it coaxed. "You're skin's looking pretty pasty these days. Although you should probably do something about those wind burnt cheeks. Haven't you ever heard of moisturizer?"

"If I actually take rest days," I said, "maybe someday I will look like a normal person again."

"I'm telling you, you're making a huge mistake," it said.

I took another sip of my Diet Coke. The cool liquid trickled beneath my strained neck muscles, releasing sweet shots of caffeine into my bloodstream, where it carried into the knots in my shoulders, the static numbness in the tips of my fingers, the fatigue in my quads, my calves, my toes. And we settled, relaxed, melted in the rare January sun.

"I could get used to this," I said.

...

So now I'm officially tapering. What will I do with my extra time?

I received this e-mail from my grandma today. She always has good ideas.

"I would make you eat whipped potatoes and plenty of gravy. Then an hour later I would make you eat chicken noodle soup with homemade noodles, topped off with I believe you like tin-roof sundae ice cream. Then an hour later, I would get you some pizza and milk. Not pepsi, MILK!"

I love my grandma.

...

So the ever-popular Fat Cyclist and I are both up for Bloggies. Good thing were are not up against each other. Still, it does seem like several bloggers in the cycling community are rallying for us, and that's nice to see. I have to admit, I would be fairly exuberant (like Fatty) if I won, but it's not very likely. I'm up against Sports blogs, some of which receive more hits per week than my blog has in its entire existence. But I figure it doesn't hurt to do an extra plug, because, unlike Fatty, I don't know how to put a big flashing banner ad in my sidebar. But just think, wouldn't it be cool if a wannabe-endurance-cycle-racing blog run by a woman whose only high school team was the debate team, and who - despite several attempts to educate herself - doesn't understand how the game of football is really played ... wouldn't it be cool if that blog was named "Best Sports Weblog 2007"? Just a thought. Vote early and vote often. Thank you.

...

Oh yeah ... Go Colts!