Problems from the feet up

Date: Feb. 4
Mileage: 25.8
February mileage: 96.4
Temperature upon departure: 36

This entire time I have been training for the Susitna 100, my boyfriend, Geoff, has been working toward the same race. We haven't seen each other much in the process because while my training involves a couple of hours of cycling every morning, Geoff has been in high-intensity training to run the race. With no mechanical help. For 100 snowbound miles.

Even though neither of us really committed to the race until mid-December, training was going well. He ran 50 miles last week in less than 10 hours and felt great about it. So great, in fact, that he did a couple of 20-mile runs in a row just a few days later. The first day, he came home looking strong and refreshed. The second day, he came home hobbling on a foot that had swollen considerably. He could barely walk.

The next day, it wasn't any better.

He’s fairly certain it’s a stress fracture.

And today, I watched as grim possibilities started to settle in. He doesn't have health insurance, which means a 'real' diagnosis could set him back several hundred dollars, and probably wouldn't achieve much. What he does know is he's in pain, all of the dozens of Web sites he’s surfed tell him he probably has a broken bone, and he has a 100-mile race to run. In two weeks.

Or not. That, to him, is the grimmest possibility of all. He's poured his heart into this race - arguably more than I have, even with my narcissistic blog and scores of saddle hours. He put a lot more money that he doesn't have into this race. He's stayed up late at night hand-sewing a harness for his sled. He's purchased giant jars of Perpetuem and Hammer Gel and actually made himself choke them down. He goes out running in the dark. He even inspired me to buy a pair of Montrail Susitnas (yes, I did recently purchase a pair of winter running shoes. I’m still trying to figure out why.)

Realizing that he might not be out there pounding that dark trail with me is more heartbreaking than I would have imagined. It makes me want to quit, too. Or lace up my Montrails and run it myself.

In just a few hours, that "other" two-day winter ultramarathon will begin - the Arrowhead 135. I’m rooting for a couple of bicycle bloggers I know, Doug from Minnesota and Dave from North Dakota. The weather report is still predicting lows around 25 below zero. Maybe as you’re going about your daily Monday routine, as I will be, you could send a few good foot vibes their way ... for Doug’s and Dave’s toes to stay warm and intact, and for Geoff’s injury to magically be not that bad.

Self portrait

Since the Bloggies linked to my site last week, I've received a couple of e-mails from people who wouldn't have normally stumbled across a bike blog like mine. A few commented that it's weird that I post pictures of myself wrapped in winter clothing until most of my identifying characteristics are masked. "Either go for anonymity, or don't" one (ironically, unsigned) e-mail said.

One thing I have never been is anonymous. And lately I've been admiring the work of Dirt Diva, the ultrarunning goddess also known as Catra, who almost daily posts interesting self portraits on her blog inbetween the 100-mile runs she regularly completes. Since I had plans to go to the gym, and there's nothing remotely scenic there (trust me), today I took a picture of myself ... getting ready to do a hamster wheel workout at the gym. I gotta say, it's really weird to post an unmasked picture of myself on the Web. It makes me feel so ... exposed.

Anyway, it's been about three or four weeks since I last visited the gym. It's the only place I ever weigh myself, and the number is hardly ever interesting. The last time I went, the scale registered 133. Today, the little needle climbed to 125, and just stayed there. I waited for a while. Nothing. I was feeling a little dehydrated, but not eight pounds dehydrated. Which means ... I've probably lost some weight.

But what really struck me is my initial reaction. I wasn't worried about muscle mass loss or water needs or nullifying all of my hard training through some kind of nutrient deficiency. No ... I was excited. Giddy. And then I was disappointed in myself for feeling that way. Disappointed that I was ego-tripping about a meaningless number when what I really want is strength and endurance, and disappointed that I'm letting society tell me what I need to do to feel good about myself. And as far as I can tell, society is still telling me to go visit a tanning salon already and try to stay away from the Fruit Loops.

Not that I'm going to try to gain it all back before my race. After all, that could very well be eight pounds less I'll have to haul across the frozen trails of the Susitna Valley. But it was a little dose of self-revelation, because I have worked hard to put all of those insecurities behind me. But really, I haven't.

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.