Finally going to the desert

I'm just killing some time while Geoff takes a shower after his latest double-digit-mile run and protein shake breakfast. I just rolled out of bed about an hour ago. Yeah, I'm becoming a blob.

My knee feels pretty good after three days of absolute inactivity. Probably a good thing, because I'm going to absolutely thrash it in the next five days. Carrying my 35-pound pack down the stairs yesterday reminded me just how grinding it's going to be hoisting that thing down to the bottom of Natural Bridges National Monument. At least I have until Monday to worry about that.

In the meantime, I am mentally preparing for mounting a mountain bike for the first time since February. I am borrowing a friend's bike for Sunday's ride. She is 4 inches shorter than I am. I don't remember what kind of bike it is. Something in the $400 range. I fixed the tires for her when I was out here last November, and she told me yesterday that she hasn't ridden it since. Whatever happens, it's going to be an adventure.

So it seems every time I come to Utah, I bring Alaska weather with me. Last week, it climbed above 80 degrees in Salt Lake. Yesterday, it rained all day and here on the benches of the Wasatch Mountains, dropped pretty close to freezing last night. Brrr. We were going to hike a slot canyon in the San Rafael Swell called Black Box. But because we'd rather not die of hypothermia in the desert (Black Box involves a stretch of over-your-head swimming) or drown in a flash flood, we're probably going to nix that. Just as well, too, I guess. I hate prolonging the inactivity, but I think it's doing me some good.

I realized this morning that because I lost my good camera with the real memory card, I only have the ability to take 20 pictures this week. I guess I'll have to make them good ones. Secretly, I'm hoping it falls into a slot canyon so I'll have no choice but to buy myself a new one. But the most likely scenario is that I'm going to hobble back to the airport next week with a throbbing knee, second-rate pictures, and the same war-torn digital camera that I've had since 2002.

Have a good weekend, all. I'll post the blurry-photo, over-dramatized flash-flood report when I return.

P.S. Nykole, I can't get my e-mail to work. But if you see this, I'd love to meet up Friday. I'll get in touch with you next week.

Travel day

So 20,000 Alaska Airlines miles will get you a free 8-hour flight from Juneau to Salt Lake with only three stops. That's a bargain at twice the price.

I am mainly posting today because I can't get over that landing strip in Sitka (top photo.) It's just a narrow spit of sand with some rough pavement on top. Starts in the sea. Ends in the sea. Sea to every side. No room for a pilot to yawn or a plane to slightly stall. I know landing strips can be so much worse, but you don't usually see someone trying to land a 737 on them. I am terrified of flying anyway, and when I say I am terrified of flying, I mean I am terrified of the taking off and landing part ... at normal airports, airports built on actual land. Let me just say that after a long, bike-less hiatus, it was kinda nice to be back on endorphins today. Oi.

It was another beautiful day for flying, though. I didn't get good pictures because the window was dirty. The plane looked and sounded like something purchased at a discount airline repo auction; I swear I saw bolts peeling off the wing. Again, Oi.

Now I am in Salt Lake City. As much as I come back, it is always strange to be back. I am a different person here. I feel like an observer who has just stumbled back after an extended bathroom break, waving a broken remote control at a life I left behind. But it is easy to get sucked into the swirl of images. The plot is easy to pick up, the characters all too familiar. And it's amazing how quickly Alaska becomes the broken storyline. It's been 12 hours, maybe 13. The time change always throws me off. Not that it matters, though. I will move through here as if I never left, and return as though it were all a dream.

This is where I work

And I don't have to come back for nine days. Ode to joy.

Here are my goals for my vacation to Utah:

1. Ride the White Rim, but not all of the White Rim. Maybe what Geoff says is right. Maybe the first 10 miles are the most boring 10 miles of mountain biking in the West. And maybe he will take my Advil and force me to turn around at Mile 10. And maybe, as he disappears into the Canyonlands chasm, he won't even notice if I drop off the back side of Schaefer. After all, I have all day to hoof it back up. Hooray!

2. Eat Mexican food like people in Mexico intended it to be eaten, with actual peppers and everything.

3. Go swimming in the Colorado River.

4. Somehow not fry (I haven't experienced an outdoor temperature above 59 degrees since July.)

5. Remember Mother's Day and buy my mom something nice.

6. Find out Dave's endless endurance fixie secrets.

7. Find out Pete's nutrition secrets (and end my inner debate about what's the better subzero fuel, licorice or Oreos.)

8. Remember that Geoff is the one who planned to bring nearly a dozen people from all over North America together for a disjointed week in the middle of the desert, and so it's his job to work out the logistics, and it's my freedom to eat licorice and hobble around on my trekking poles without a care in the world.

9. Be good to my knee but not too good.

10. Come home in nine days only feeling only marginally worse than I do now.

Yeah! Vacation!

Looking back

(Nebraska/Wyoming border, September 2003)

I've been put on alert that my blog has been a bit of a downer. So I'm taking a different direction today. Sometimes when I'm in a rut, I like to dig through pieces of the past as a road map to where I've been and where I'm headed. This is an excerpt from my old blog, dated Sept. 26, 2002. The context is my first bicycle tour, when I took to the lonely desert roads of Southeastern Utah and Southwestern Colorado for a 600-mile trip before I knew how to change a tire or even shift the gears on my $300 touring bike. I still see it as an ongoing journey.
.....

Lucky day thirteen. We leave the jagged sandstone peaks of the San Rafael Swell and merge onto I-70, joining the swift flow of trucks and RVs in the emergency lane, concrete “wake up” grates and all.

Most bicycle tourists dread the stretches where the freeway is unavoidable, but I actually enjoy the large shoulders and gentle slopes of U.S. Interstates. The traffic is heavy but friendly. In fact, we got more honks and waves today that the rest of the trip combined, and, unlike two-lane state highways, didn't have a single “rude driver” incident (as we all know, those drivers who swerve toward you on purpose are merely jealous.)

As we pass through a gray alkaline hill and began to drop into the Green River Valley, the end of our trip becomes real. Tonight we will dine at our favorite veggie burger stop, Ray’s Tavern, and by tomorrow evening we’ll be back in Moab, back to our car and the now inconceivably quick drive to Salt Lake.

How did we get here? The town of Green River draws nearer and I begin to realize how far we’ve come. Less than two weeks ago we passed through here, stopped our car in Moab, mounted loaded-up bikes for the first time in our lives, and now, over 500 miles later, here I am. I’ve seen the thick pines and glacial lakes of the San Juans, the destitute reservation, the rolling redrock of Escalante and the San Rafael Swell, and I did it all with my own body, with my own two legs. Really, how did I get here?

I think back to the way I felt when the trip started - tired and pessimistic. It’s that feeling of physical defeat- when just mounting the cold saddle sends sharp streaks of pain through your pelvis. Knees crack and throb as you rotate the crank. Eyes dry out in the heat and wind. Palms are red and raw. Even feet protest the pressure of pedals, and legs feel weary at the first sight of a steep hill.

As the third or fourth day winds down, all feels lost. You’ll never make it. Your body is shutting down, and you drift to sleep feeling a vague sense of disinterest. Then, the next morning, you wake up. Suddenly, inexplicably, everything becomes easy. Your pelvis is numb. Your hands are calloused. The wind prompts you to action. You mount your bike with the cold morning wind tearing at your nostrils, squint toward the mountains in front of you, and just laugh, because you realize you could go forever. Then, you just go.

This is a phenomenon I couldn’t begin to explain, but I can’t deny it either. Runners would call it “hitting your wall,” to burn until your fuel is nearly exhausted, until you can see your physical threshold blocking the finish line, and through pure mental will, you tear through it. Once you reach that wall, you’re either going to collapse, or you’re going to go forever.

And this is how I’ve felt since I woke up in the San Miguel basin on Day Four and realized that not only would I finish the climb that day, but I’d finish the trip. At that point, I had no more doubts in my mind. This is why I no longer fear the great distance of a cross-country trip. The question I'm asked the most when I tell people about my plans to cross the country on a bicycle is, “How will you ever make it?” I don’t know. I’m relatively inexperienced. I’m out of shape. I’m slow. But my will is strong, and I’ll make it. I just will.

My grandma's prayers have been answered

I think someone stole my wetsuit.

It was in an ugly backpack in my car. Now there is no ugly backpack in my car. I'm still clinging to the fading hope that I misplaced it, but it's likely gone.

Also in that backpack was Essential Juneau Cycling Gear®, my neoprene gloves and socks. I would feel sad about this loss, too, if I was still clinging to the fading hope that I will be able to ride my bike before neoprene is rendered obsolete by 110-Percent Waterproof Spaceage Body Armor®.

My grandma didn't want me to go swimming in the ocean. Now it looks like I won't be able to anytime soon. Not only do I not have a wetsuit now, I also have a wetsuit deficit, because that one belonged to Geoff. So now I have to buy him a new wetsuit before I can buy one for myself.

The thief neglected to steal the big box of recyclables I still have to haul to the dump.

Also, I really did lose my camera last week. I think my doctor stole it. Either way, it's gone. No more camera.

I'm beginning to think 2007 is not my year. Now would probably be a good time to consider hibernation.

Harder than it looks

I went to False Outer Point beach yesterday to look for a good swimming spot. I told myself I was just going to "recon" the area, but I did have a backpack with the pink wetsuit, my neoprene socks and gloves, and, just for good measure, a nylon balaclava that probably wouldn't do a thing to keep my head warm, but seemed worth a try. Air temperature was 40 degrees with light drizzle. I baby-stepped over slime-coated boulders, across a swath of crackling clam shells and past salmon fishermen hunched in a rain-drenched row.

I found a large rock outcropping to hide behind. Seabirds swirled around in a diverse congregation I never saw during the winter - two large herons, ducks, seagulls, ravens and one bald eagle in the midst. Even though I dressed for winter, I was already starting to shiver just standing there, and decided it was going to have to be now or never. But before I pulled the wetsuit out, I walked to the edge of the shore, lined in jagged, barnacle-covered rocks, and dipped my hands in the water. Even on that small surface of skin, the cold hit with sharp intensity. I lingered near the water as the chill trickled into my nervous system. How in the world was I willfully going to put my whole body in there? I looked over at the fishermen, a ways down the shore but sure to regard me as a nuisance. Across the channel were several drift boats that would probably feel obliged to "rescue" me. It was good to have people around but there were too many this time. It was a protected spot ... scenic ... a good place to swim ... another day.

Today, I have to work a longer shift so I am going to the little pool and hope to put in 100 laps ... no time to procrastinate near the ocean today, although I'd like to try again on Monday or Tuesday. All I am doing for the rest of the week is swimming and upper-body weight lifting. I am avoiding any impact workouts on my legs because I am headed to Utah for a week of backpacking and hiking, and I want to be as "healthy" as possible. As much as I hate to admit it, my legs do seem to feel stronger the longer I stay off of them. Next Saturday, one week from today, Geoff is doing a White Rim ride with our good friend Bryan and one to possibly several other talented endurance cyclists. I would do anything to be able to ride this trail. Utah in May, the rolling redrock in the company of old friends and new faces - I mean it. I would do anything. I'd give up all hope of 24 Hours of Kincaid, or the Fireweed road ride, or maybe even my UltraSport dreams. I want to live here, now. Unfortunately, where I am now would make this ride impossible, no matter how much I wanted it. Even if I was willing to accept the unknown consequences of what the future might hold were I to attempt it, there's no way I could even physically do it. As silly as this is going to sound, that reality just hit me the other day, and I've been feeling depressed. Even the hiking and backpacking is going to be a struggle. Part of me doesn't even want to make this trip to Utah because when I began to plan it three months ago, it was supposed to be a laid-back, chill trip - not a struggle. That's probably the hardest thing about injury, and the reason why I've spent two months ranting nonstop about it on my blog - and then turning around and doing the very things that will only prolong the pain. I want to live here, now. And I can't.

Worth an experiment, anyway

While I was in Anchorage over the weekend, Geoff cleaned out the storage closet and threw a bulky "Back to Utah" pile in the hall. On top of this pile was Geoff's old river rafting wetsuit - a full body neoprene neon thing that's pink and blue and, as I remember, makes him look like an ambiguously gay surfer hippy from the 80s. I swam for an hour at the local pool yesterday and thought about this wetsuit. Then I thought about it some more in the evening. Then, this morning, I tried it on. Geoff is taller and leaner than I am, and I've admittedly put on a little extra chunk since winter, but I was able to squeeze into the thing. I stood in front of the mirror for a while, wondering about possibilities.

To be honest, I have been thinking a lot about open water swimming recently. I live along a long stretch of protected Pacific water known as the Gastineau Channel. The tides are large but the waves are not. So the surf is often glass-calm, especially along the shoreline, but there are some realities that definitely make swimming daunting. There are sea lions, salmon sharks, the occasional humpback or killer whale, and, scariest of all ... the average water temperature is 42 degrees.

I can't find much information about swimming in the Gastineau. But it has been done. It would probably take a better wetsuit than Geoff's pink nightmare to last longer than a few minutes, but I don't know. When I lived in Homer, guys used to go surfing in January in the frigid water of Kachemak Bay, and they had some pretty rangy wetsuits.

Plus, I have mentioned before that I have a natural ability for swimming (survival long-term swimming, not fast swimming.) I also have a higher-than-average tolerance for cold water. I first realized it when I traveled through the Yukon and Alaska on a three-month car camping trip. My friends and I would bathe in glacial lakes. They would rush in and out of the water in spurts as they lathered up. I would crawl out a hundred yards or so and float on my back as cold sunlight sparkled off the glass-clear water. I loved those swims. And I would love to swim the Gastineau. Even if it was just for a few seconds off the shoreline of a picnic area as Geoff stood watch with 911 set on speed-dial.

It's not that I need craziness in my life (but who knows ... maybe I do.) And it's not that I can't bear lapping an 80-degree chlorine cesspool ad nauseum or lifting weights at a gym. I just need to get out there again. Hiking is so steep around here that it can be more stressful than pedaling, especially on the downhills, but swimming doesn't cause any pain at all. If it really fits my abilities like I think it could, I may find whole new places to explore, whole new ways to love life. (And, if it doesn't work out, I'm still in the market for a discount sea kayak.)