So long to the holidays

Date: Feb. 11
Mileage: 14.3
February mileage: 238.2
Temperature upon departure: 23

Geoff and I skim across the surface of Mendenhall Lake, he on skate skis, me on “studs” and a mountain bike. Side by side, we glide steady at 10 mph. He slashes up the groomed track; I draw a straight line through several inches of dry powder. The flat surface radiates a blaze of unfiltered sunlight, blinding to the point of hypnotizing. Through a heavy squint, all I can make out is a white slate stretching uninterrupted for more than a mile in all directions. The tracks of others veer off in shadowed tangents that remind me of curves on a line graph; their creators stand at variable points in the distance. Geoff and I move parallel along the axis, where I can’t help but weave through a barrage of vague images from 11th-grade calculus.

After standing in the shadow of the glacier terminus, much too close for comfort, we veer off the lake and hit the moraine trails. Inches of new snow slow us both down, but we push on through the the crackle and click of powder-dusted singletrack. Rides like this, when surging up even small hills is a losing battle against sand-like resistance, can at times be sweaty, heart-pounding work. But on days like today, when the forest is full of sweaty people smiling in the sunlight, they can hardly be counted as workouts.

I think about where 2007 has taken me so far ... simple moments of awe and joy cut like razors through my daily routine. I think back to the holiday season, spent thousands of miles away from my family, and how it was in turn overwhelmingly hectic and largely meaningless. The first six weeks of the new year, on the other hand, have been full of selfish gifts and selflessly quiet reflections. When I began training for the Susitna 100, I embarked on a journey so daunting and encompassing that I could be forgiven for letting social, financial and domestic obligations fall by the wayside. It was a holiday from myself, from the day-to-day hassle and general realities of life.

And now that it’s nearly over, I’m like a kid counting down the days until Christmas - almost blind with anticipation but, at the same time, already feeling a sense of loss for the inevitable day after.

Bicycle obesity

Date: Feb. 10
Mileage: 24.9
February mileage: 223.9
Temperature upon departure: 22

By the time I reached the top of the second flight of stairs, my heart was racing. I hoisted my bike over the final step and dropped it with a thud on the ice, then leaned against the house until my head stopped spinning. Usually, my pre-ride weight training doesn’t leave me more exhausted than the ride itself. But, then again, I’m not used to packing a bike weighted down with most of the gear you’d need to survive a winter night in Denali.

After I caught my breath, I purposely went out and rode the hilliest route I could find. Motoring up hills seemed vaguely harder, but downhills are what really brought weight gain into the forefront of my thoughts. At one point, I hit 32 mph while coasting down a snow-covered slope (the kind of surface in which brakes are generally a bad idea.) Scary.

After I came to the end of the road and turned away from the sun, I caught my first glimpse of my shadow pedaling that bicycle behemoth down the street. It looked so funny, lumbering ahead of be, that I couldn’t help but surge toward it. The return ride was noticeably faster.

After I returned home, I pulled out my bathroom scale to weigh it for curiosity’s sake.

The verdict: Bicycle and stuff = 47 pounds. Once I throw in water, a few articles of extra clothing and food, I could be pushing 60. So I have a little weight problem. Oh well. Things could definitely be worse.

Much worse. On a more somber note, I have been reading all of the race reports from this year’s Arrowhead 135. Harrowing, harrowing stuff - hypothermic cyclists who had to be dragged off the trail in their sleeping bags; people who froze their hands changing tires; severely frostbitten toes. They were people who didn’t seem to fully grasp the realities of -30 ... people no different than me. I read these stories with the morbid fascination of someone who could experience the same thing in a week’s time. I read them while chanting to myself that the chance of -30 is very, very slim. Then I nestled further into my warm computer chair and struggled with those sweeping thoughts about the grand insanity of it all.

A copy of Wend Magazine came my way earlier this week. Inside is a great article by Mike Curiak, the endurance cyclist who has singlehandedly conquered many of the most difficult mountain biking challenges in the United States. But in this article, he doesn’t talk about his triumphs and trophies. He talks about a single incident along the lonely Iditarod trail, where, buffeted by 80 mph wind and subzero cold, he contracted hypothermia and nearly died. Despite all of his experience and preparedness, he found himself buried in the depths of a storm in one of the most remote regions of the world. He knew in his heart that no one was coming. And as he lay wrapped in his sleeping bag, slipping further and further toward unconsciousness, he realized that no one could save him but himself.

The next thing he realized, or at least the next thing he wrote about, was the crackle of a fire in a village cabin some five miles down the trail. An Alaska Native man on a snowmobile found him cocooned in his bag and carried him to safety. I found it to be an inspiring story ... that even at his most alone, he wasn't alone.

Gear check

Date: Feb. 9
Mileage: 26.4
February mileage: 199.0
Temperature upon departure: 24

I did a fairly short ride today, and then spent the better part of the afternoon putting together most of my gear for the Susitna 100. The above picture is what I'm going to wear ... or carry with me, in case I need to wear it. I'll probably adjust it quite a bit based on the weather forecast, but you never know when you're going to get wet, so I'm going the carry the extra gloves, socks and a base layer no matter what. Everything else is clockwise, from the upper left: water resistant shell pants, Northface winter hiking boots, N.E.O.S. overboots, neoprene gloves (my spares), middle fleece layer, base layer (a basic cycling jersey. I can use the little back pocket to hold chemical warmers if I want to), top fleece layer, bike pogies, fleece balaclava (spare, and it probably won't go unless it supposed to be below 0), lightweight neoprene socks (spare), heavyweight neoprene socks, polypro tights, fleece long johns, and my winter shell. In the middle are the helmet, goggles, liner socks, liner gloves, mittens and wool socks. Again, I might not need all of this. But unless the weather forecast calls for nothing below 10 and nothing above 33 (the kind of temps in which you're likely to get wet from rain or melting snow), I'll likely wear or carry all of it. Phew! I can be really high maintenance.

I also gathered most of the required gear. With any luck, I'll never have to use it. I know that sleeping bag looks like it weighs a ton. It does. I believe its just over six pounds, and it doesn't stuff very small either. But it's really toasty, and I didn't have to give up food for a week to pay for it. So I'll schlep it over the tundra. Next to it is your basic thermarest sleeping pad (I traded my pad with Geoff, Dave, because I have space issues and he has weight issues. So he gets the super light nice one that you sent me.) The rest is headlight, bike tool, fuel (I'm going to buy new fuel in Anchorage), lighter, pot, bike pump, stove (that's its box. It's currently en route to Palmer via USPS. I didn't trust that the airport baggage security people weren't going to take it away from me), chemical handwarmer packs, Camelbak (I'm sticking with the big one because it has great insulation, but I'm not carrying much more than water inside of it), and a bivy sack, generously on loan from Eero, an artist in Fairbanks.

That's my stuff. Good grief, it does take a lot to do a bike ride in the winter.

I don't know how much it all weighs. Comfortably over 15 pounds, I'm sure. I've never put much effort into lightening the load because I'm not really a front-of-the-pack person. I'm in this thing to feel confident and have fun, and best of all, survive. Last year I carried about the same amount of gear. I struggled to stay afloat on my bike much of the time and never even cracked into my bags, despite getting caught in heavy rain and getting soaked through and through (I kept all of my dry gear in reserve in case my core temperature dropped, and that never happened.) But would I carry it again, even if it wasn't a race requirement? In a heartbeat. If there's one thing the Alaska wilderness is, it's unpredictable. Self-sufficiency is worth 10 times its weight in comfort and confidence.

And the best part is ... I have it all ready, a week early! Tomorrow I'm going to load it all up on Snaux bike to test how it handles. Sorry for the boring, long list post today. But typing out all of this is actually helpful to me. You know what's another completely self-absorbed thing I can do, because this is my blog? Post silly pictures of my pets. This is Geoff's cat, Midnight, eating thread. She was doing this when I arrived home from biking today, so I have no idea how much she actually injested before I literally cut her off with a pair of scissors.

Wow. One more week. I'm terrified.

Crazy fun singletrack

Date: Feb.8

Mileage: 30.4

February mileage: 172.6

Temperature upon departure: 25

I rode out to Dredge Lake today for some great trail riding. Everything was dialed in to the ideal setting. The trail was hard-packed and fast. Off-trail riding was crunchy and strenuous ... but rideable. The was a small section of snowmobile-groomed path, but most of the trail system was packed down in a single, narrow ski track that darted up steep hills and plummeted down winding slaloms through the rain forest. And for some strange reason, I was at the top of my game - hitting those hairpin turns with uncharacteristic precision, flying across the flat stretches and not bothering to gear down as I motored up another short hill. Big-ring snowbiking. Oh, if only winter could always be this friendly.

I actually ended up riding about 15 miles today entirely on snow. I think my average on the trails was about 9 or 10 mph. For me, on snow, that's like ... ai-yeeee fast. It never even felt like work. Geoff was at a nearby campground pounding out a short run to test his foot injury, which has given him less trouble in the past couple of days. I wanted to go find him and show him all the fun he was missing, and probably would have if the Mendenhall Lake was just a little more frozen. I rode a short distance on top of the shore ice ... about three inches of water below ... and heard quite a bit of cracking. So that was not to be.

I also learned the real stress of a rigid bike. For spending less than two hours riding on trails, my forearms are killing me. It didn't help that hundreds of dogs pounded endless pockmarks into the snow before it cemented over. I would spend 100 miles riding on snow like that, happily, but I'd probably jolt my fingertips into semi-permanent numbness.

I do my fair share of summer cycling ... both dirt and road. I've ridden my road bike to the corner store and I've ridden 109 miles of wilderness singletrack in one epic day. I was indoctrinated into mountain biking on the legendary trails of southern Utah. But, for me, there's just nothing quite as joyful as a rare, perfectly-dialed-in snow ride. Does this make me a bad person?

Juneau's pet wolf

"The adventures of Romeo the wolf and one lucky pug"

I wish I could have been there, but these photos aren't mine. They were sent to the Juneau Empire today by a local photographer who wishes to remain anonymous because of the sensitive nature of the photos, and because (I've heard) that dog belongs to a family member who would be fairly distraught if she found out what happened. But I'm guessing she's going to find out. These photos are gold, and I'm sure they'll be distributed far and wide over the Internet soon enough.

I've seen this wolf before - a couple of times, actually - running across the frozen Mendenhall Lake. The locals call him "Romeo." He's a fairly habituated "city" wolf, and has been known to approach groups of dogs and even play with them. I've never heard of him carrying off a dog before, but a co-worker speculates that he mistook that squatty little white dog for a rabbit. Once he got his mouth around it and tasted ... ewww, dog ... he spit the pug back out on the snow. Word is the pug got right back up and was apparently fine, if not a little shaken.

Juneau is probably one of the few cities in the country where wolves live in such close proximity to a (semi) urban area. It creates a whole new dynamic of human habituation because wolves are such social animals. You can't really blame them if they want to play with your dogs. But it's good to see they're still respectful enough of their little cousins to not make them dinner.

10-day forecast

Date: Feb. 6
Mileage: 20.6
February mileage: 142.2
Temperature upon departure: 30

The Susitna 100 draws near. I think the single moment that really pulls this sinking reality to the forefront of my every waking thought is the moment I discover the race date on the 10-day weather forecast. The 10-day countdown begins tomorrow.

Am I ready? I don’t know ... I don’t know ... where did I stash those heat packs ... face mask ... where’s my face mask? I haven’t seen it since March ... neoprene socks ... tights ... fleece layers ... check ... check ... how much will it cost to put my bike on the plane ... 50 bucks? ... crap, I still need to buy that ticket I have on hold ... what do you mean you can’t take a camp stove on a plane? ... sleeping bag ... bike rack ... check ... check.

The truth is, I will never be truly ready. Might as well huck whatever gear I can find on my overpriced Alaska Airlines flight and pray for grace. I know now that out on the lonely wilderness trail, grace ... and maybe that extra pound of butter ... are sometimes the only things we have to get by.

The Arrowhead 135 is wrapping up. Both Dave and Doug pedaled into the depths of their abilities and in the end had to scratch. Most of the field scratched. The temperatures dipped beneath 30 below, temperatures in which comfort and strength never fully reach the surface. It’s a humbling thought that really cuts the Susitna 100 reality even deeper. But don’t worry, Mom, I don’t think it gets that cold in Big Lake, Alaska :-).

Geoff went to see a foot doctor today, and is now more confused and probably worse off than he was before. Instead of even offering a vague answer, the podiatrist gave him no answers. Nothing. The experience rings similar to a medical ordeal I went through two years ago. I injured some muscles in my lower left leg during a mountain bike fall, and became convinced I had blood clotting. The doctor never really found anything but humored me through three visits and an ultrasound. I could barely walk for a month, and just when I had decided I was a certifiable hypochondriac, something broke loose and my entire lower leg turned black and blue. After that cleared up, I was fine. Fine, and out a $500 deductible.

That’s when pretty much lost my faith in doctors.

Now I always second guess sports injuries. Unless you can afford to seek out the personal scrutiny of the best specialists in the country, is it really worth going to see a local physician for some $300 version of “take two aspirins and call me when you feel like spending more?”

But, who knows? I’ll probably change my tune if (when?) the frostbite sets in.

Freezing fog

Date: Feb. 5
Mileage: 25.2
February mileage: 121.6
Temperature upon departure: 34

When I left my office tonight, the landscape was enveloped in vision-obscuring fog. Halfway-frozen droplets drifted sluggishly through the thick air. Where they collided with solid objects, shields of white frost were beginning to form. Fatally silent as fog tends to be, the scrape of my footsteps on the gravel was by contrast deafening. So I stopped to listen, for a moment, to nothing at all. The churn of a newspaper press echoed somewhere distant - by the sound of it, distance measured in miles, at least. The drifting droplets began to collide with my body. Their icy grip tightened around my skin, and I could feel frost shields forming around me.

I thought of Dave and Doug, of several dozen other cyclists out on the Arrowhead 135 trail, noses wrapped in a shield of neoprene and dangling closer, closer to the handlebars. The headlines today screamed "ARCTIC BLAST." Not in the Arctic, just beyond my home, but somewhere distant - somewhere in northern Minnesota. Where schools and highways shut down and the feds closed up shop. Everything moves real slow when it's 40 below. It would be 2 a.m. there. Were the cyclists, too, stopped in the midst of endless ice fog, struggling with the disconnect of intense physical effort and minds they had to shut down a long time ago. Were they, too, listening, for a moment, to nothing at all? Waiting, for a moment, for nothing at all? Wondering where the wilderness trail ends, or if it even began?

I thought of Geoff, still gripped by injury and the crushing disappointment of two months of effort for naught. We set these goals in our search for purpose until they become our purpose; we embark on these journeys in our search for identity until they become our identity. To take away my bike would be the first step on a slippery slope that in the end could strip me of who I am. I would be unmolded, undefined, drifting. If Geoff is stripped of his ability to run, who is he? Even in temporary setbacks, life has a way of moving on.

I could almost feel the ice crystals shattering as I began to walk again, with an unfocused gaze drifting toward a faint stream of orange light. I imagined it was just a street light or possibly a house. But as the light crept through the opaque night, it cast a blurry path of impossible warmth and comfortable direction. I felt like I could follow and it would take me where I wanted to go, if only I could remember where I wanted to go.

I drift, for a moment, but eventually the fog has to lift.