Cold ride

Date: Feb. 17
Mileage: 102.9
February mileage: 361.1
Temperature upon departure: 11

I have some more cognizant thoughts about the Susitna 100 that I'd like to write about when I'm a little less sleep-deprived. But today, between my Sunday duties of eating food that all tastes overwhelmingly like salt (why does dehydration do that?) and physically hauling a crippled Geoff from the car to the couch to bath to bed, I wanted to post a quick race report.

First of all, Geoff not only persevered through his injury, but he came back full force to shatter the old Susinta 100 foot course record (according to some people we talked to this morning. I'm not sure yet if it's official.) He finished in about 21 hours 40 minutes. Just behind me :-). In fact, we hopscotched during a fair portion of the race. It was a little demoralizing at first, but the fact is ... Geoff's a strong runner, and I'm not all that fast on a bike. For me, snowbiking - even in good conditions - is like constantly riding uphill or into a strong wind. The resistance is fierce, and I'm fairly happy to maintain 6-7 mph over a fairly hilly course. And obviously, Geoff can run that speed no problem. But who knew he could do it for 100 miles?

I'm actually pretty happy with my time. It was about three hours slower than I was shooting for, but 4.5 hours faster than last year. We had great trail riding conditions. Most of the trail was hard-packed powder, but there were about two new inches of snow that made things slower going. And, of course, I never take into account that the trail use out there is so varied. At least 10 percent of trail will always be soft or postholed, and I'll have at least 10 miles of walking at 2.5 mph (This year, including long uphills, I think I walked a total of 14 miles.) I think the secret to increasing my time is the practice faster pushing ... buy lighter gear ... and the fattest snowbike I can find.

I felt like I rode close to my aerobic capability most of time, but I didn't struggle with either that or the trail conditions this year. No, this year, my nemesis was the cold. My training in moderately temperate Juneau didn't quite prepare for for the subzero conditions I met out on the trail (some reports I got put checkpoint lows at -4 before windchill. Based on past experiences, I wouldn't be surprised if it was colder than that in pockets.) I thought I prepared well for the cold, but it hit me hard. At my lowest point, I was riding through a wooded stretch at about 2 a.m. Even though I had changed into all of the layers I was carrying, I could feel my core temperature dropping. (I had even changed my base layer just a couple of hours before, so I was not drenched in sweat.) Light shivering started even as I was riding. Since I figured at that point I was about 20 minutes away from pulling off the trail, starting a fire and bivying, I turned to my last resort before desperation ... chemical heat warming packs. Those things are little miracles. Inside my boots and mittens, my hands and feet warmed up pretty quickly ... and I think my digits may have been the original source of my cooling spell. I had one chemical warmer in my bike jersey back pocket, and one in my pack with the hope that it would thaw my frozen water bottle a little. That miraculously staved off the worst of the chill, but there were always little things to deal with ... eyelashes that kept freezing shut, not being about to pull my hands out of my pogies to feed myself, an insulated camelbak nozzle that kept freezing solid (yes, I always put it inside my coat and blew all the water out of the hose). It would only unfreeze after an extensive period under my arms.

Geoff did contract a little bit of "frost nip" on the tip of one of his toes, though you can hardly tell with all of the blisters he has anyway. I suffered no ill after-effects from the cold.

It's funny, because there were racers from Fairbanks who thought -4 was downright balmy. I really think it's a matter of acclimatization, and also having confidence in what systems work best under what I consider extreme conditions. If it's 35 and raining, I know exactly what to do. But spending 20 hours in subzero to scarcely-double-digit cold, and I definitely have a lot to learn. Last night, I was never in any real danger. I was chilled, but not hypothermic. I definitely know that value of stopping and trying to remedy a situation before hypothermia even begins to set in. I was just concerned that I was closing in on that point.

Anyway, it was an amazing experience. I can't wait to write about the things I saw and felt, which for me, is really the most valuable part of the race.

Let's get it started

If you're checking in after 9 a.m. AST Saturday morning, check on my progress here.

About 12 more hours to wait. I feel a little nauseated with anxiety. I wouldn't want it any other way.

However, I can't really pinpoint why I feel this way. It's not that I have performance anxiety because I'm trying to win this thing. This is a popular race, packed with some extremely skilled and strong winter endurance cyclists, and I'm one of those weekend warriors who will be thrilled to simply finish ... even if it takes me 48 hours because I spent the last 25 miles trudging through eight inches of snow with my bike on my back (actually, it would be really cool if I still finished after all that.) And it's not that I'm convinced that I'm riding into my death ... I did believe that last year, and this feeling is different. It doesn't have the same immediacy. It doesn't have the same bite. It's a dull kind of stress, worn smooth by time and contemplation. It's the kind of stress I imagine a person would feel if they had spent hours frantically fighting off some kind of danger, like a pursuing black bear, only to end up at the top of a tree with the bear closing in. They know at that point that they've done all they can do. What's going to happen is going to happen. It's acceptance. The calm before the storm.

It's been a gloomy sort of day. Overcast and foggy in these wide open spaces that I'm not used to. I spent the day in Palmer putting my bike together, packing my stuff, drinking water, trying to eat. It's hard to eat. I have to pop Tums after every little snack ... and little snacks are all I've been able to get down in one sitting. Now I have to take a shower and get some sleep, and that's going to be difficult, too. But I know this waiting is physically challenging because this event is important to me. I like to have goals in my life that I care deeply about. I do feel sick now, but, like I said ... I wouldn't have it any other way.

The race starts at 9 a.m. The weather forecast looks good. Trail reports are promising. What's going to happen is going to happen. I'm already past acceptance. Bring on the attack.

It's my bike in a box

These are the last-minute details.

Since I may not get another chance to post before Saturday (but probably will), I wanted to post a link to the Susitna 100 Web site. Last year, they posted checkpoint check-in times during the race. It was surprisingly up-to-date all the way until I wandered across the finish line at 10 a.m., about five hours after I left the last checkpoint with only 13 miles to go. If that wasn't enough of a delayed finish, they didn't actually post that I had finished until after 1 p.m. The time delay caused my parents, friends and even a few people out in bloggerland some understandable anxiety. So I post this link with the disclaimer that I may be where they say I am ... hoofing deliriously down the trail at a rate of about 1 mph. Or, I may not. But please check it out. When it gets really lonely out there, it's a comforting thought to believe that some people are - in a distant way - watching you.

Actually packing all of my gear into two bags was an interesting experience. Geoff and I are going to be gone for five days, and we actually have an airport baggage weight problem.

Geoff: "Did you know they have a 50-pound limit on your luggage?"

Me: "All of your luggage?"

Geoff: "No, each bag. But that bike box is over 40 pounds. How much do you think all of that other stuff weighs?"

Me, looking at a bed stacked a foot-high with random gear: "It may be less than 50 pounds."

Geoff: "It doesn't look it. Can't you leave some stuff home?"

Me, feeling deflated: "I haven't even packed anything for the four other days yet. That's just stuff I need in the race."

Geoff: "Hmmm. Better wear something the the airport you can wash a few times."

And in a few hours, I'm going to have to hoist it all into a car and somehow carry it into the airport. What's even stranger to me is that, eventually, I'm going to have to carry all that stuff 100 miles.

I'll probably post a pre-race report tomorrow. But in case I don't get a chance, thank you to everyone who has been watching and who has wished me well.

Fun at its peak

A few people have asked me how Geoff is dealing with his foot injury. Today, he had a really good day. Not only did he get a job offer to be a cook at a natural food grocery store and deli, but he also ran four miles without any pain in his feet. A pain-free four-mile run does not a successful 100-mile race make, but he's feeling less certain that he has a stress fracture, and more certain that he his going to run the race. Certain enough that he's at least going to stand at the starting line Saturday morning.

I spent the morning fixing up my bike so I can take it apart tomorrow. I've spent a better part of the evening creating an iPod playlist for the race. Intertwined with my old staples like Modest Mouse and Built to Spill are a few random selections that carry vivid memories of last year's Susitna 100: "D.A.R.E." by the Gorillaz and "Scrub" by TLC. It's always interesting to me when certain songs tie themselves irrevocably to particular moments in the past. So it's unfortunate that the one song that sweeps me instantly back to the dripping darkness of that soggy night in February 2006 isn't actually a song at all - it's a jingle.

Before Susitna 2006, I never listened to music while riding - at all. But people mentioned that if I found myself alone and struggling in the middle of the night, a little FM/AM radio would help me stay sane. So I took their advice, and when the night became really dark and lonely, I turned it on for the first time. I had to flip through every single notch on the dial before I came to the one station the radio could pick up. It was some top-40 station out of Anchorage, playing the most random mix of pre-selected music that any midnight radio show could hope to find. And between broadcasts of choice selections like "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt and "Unforgiven" by Metallica - literally after every other song - the station played its one and only commercial: a promo for the Mat-Su Valley tourism board. So every ten minutes, a giddy group of singing banshees would wail in my ear ... "Yahoo, Mat-Su! Fun is at its peak in the Valley!" That night, as fatigued and desperate for companionship as I was, every single advertising spot made me cringe.

But now, every time that hideous jingle enters my head, I think of the way the distant city lights of Anchorage burned orange over the wilderness. I think of the way those Valium-laced voices sang, "Don't miss the sights ... Nature puts on a show with the northern lights." And it makes me smile.

And if I could find an mP3 of that commercial, I'd definitely add it to my Susitna 2007 playlist.

Hold the butter

Date: Feb. 12
Mileage: 20.1
February mileage: 258.3
Temperature upon departure: 28

I set out today for one last ride on my fully loaded bike. For some reason, it was really tough. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve reduced my mileage, or because I haven’t reduced it enough, but I just couldn’t get warmed up. My legs were pumping lactic acid, and I could feel the metallic pangs of an old repetitive motion injury in my knees. Probably just a bad day. But I’ve decided to settle into some real rest. Tomorrow, I’m planning a short session at the gym, but I'll probably cut back on all other physical activity for the rest of the week.

I have just about all of my gear gathered for the race, with the exception of one thing - food. Since I’m one of those people that hates eating on the trail (I consider it a necessary chore akin to changing a flat tire), I’ve predictably put off deciding what I’m going to bring. The race rules require carrying 3,000 calories for the duration of the race. Lots of people just carry a pound of butter because it’s one of the lightest ways to pack 3,000 calories, but I think that’s a bad idea. I’ve tried to envision possible scenarios on the dark wilderness trail, and I can’t, for the life of me, come up with any situation that would compel me to bite into a frozen stick of butter. If I need food to save my life, it should probably be something I can actually eat. So I’m going to carry 20 ounces of chocolate, knowing those four extra ounces could make all the difference. And they're pretty negligible in the grand (60-pound) scheme of things.

As for food I actually plan to eat, I’m probably going to pack between 3,500 and 4,500 calories, knowing that this race could take me 16 hours to finish, or it could take me 40. There is food at three of the checkpoints along the way, but I’m not planning to rely on it. Most likely, I’ll bring: peanut butter and jam sandwiches; a homemade trail mix with raw walnuts, Craisens and dried cherries; turkey jerky; fruit leathers; fruit snacks (Shrek brand, my favorite); fig bars and Power Bars (I realize Power Bars freeze. But since they’re one of my best sources of complex carbohydrates, I’ll probably just carry them next to my torso to keep them warm.) The reason for all of this random, sugar-laden stuff is that it’s all been trail tested and approved for stomachache-free consumption.

I also will probably carry some Cytomax powder and maybe a few Clif Shot Bloks for good measure. Geoff is trying to convince me to take a bottle of Hammer Perpetuem. But the last time I tried to take a swig of that stuff, I was stopped cold by the smell of what is, to me, the most disgusting food ever to be manufactured and sold in a standard grocery store: Vanilla Soy Milk. Honestly, I think I’d have more luck getting the butter down.

If anyone has any last-minute suggestions, I’ll hear them out. I just discovered that also entered in the Susitna 100 this year is John “The Guy Who Drinks Vegetable Oil” Stamstad. So I guess there’s no end to the possibilities.

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.