Severe Sun Advisory

Date: Aug. 11
Mileage: 25.1
August mileage: 294.0
Temperature upon departure: 71
Inches of rain: 0"

The National Weather Service issued an unofficial "Severe Sun Advisory" for Juneau this weekend. I guess the NWS feels it's necessary to warn Juneau residents that when that big yellow orb is burning in the sky and outside temperatures are approaching 80 (80!), they can't go outside without sunscreen and leave their dogs in cars and other things that they are able to do 95 percent of the year. Yes, Juneau-ites, the sun is in the sky. Head for the hills.

Today I hiked with Geoff to the top of Mount Jumbo, the highest point on Douglas Island. I think it may just turn out to be our only hike together this summer; now that he has seen how slow I am on the downhills, he will not take me hiking again. I don't know exactly what is wrong with me right now - whether I am out of practice, out of shape, or just a little too self-aware of my tender knee. Either way, it took us a comfortable 90 minutes to climb to the top, and a lumbering, leg-pounding two hours to get down with me in the lead. I felt like a wooden marionette flailing down the mountain, grasping and clawing at roots as gravity sucked me into an abyss. And it just kept going down, and down and down and down.

But it's worth it, because you can't beat the views at 3,500 feet. It really gives me perspective on where I live. It's so easy to get lost in the day-to-day out-and-back that defines my routine. The reality of Juneau is that it is a small speck on a very large, very craggy topo map. Whenever I feel stifled in my small town, I like to think of all those ridgelines stretching into the great beyond, and how I could wander for the rest of my life and never see them all.

The sun, however, actually has me a little worried. The weather forecast extends this high-pressure system late into the week, which means my ride Wednesday-Friday could be accompanied by something unexpected entirely: hot weather. With forecasted temps in the mid-70s in Juneau, it could reach the 90s in interior Yukon. Before you smirk at the irony of my concerns, picture this: I'm one of those light-skinned, light-eyed types who is naturally sensitive to sunlight anyway. Throw in the fact that I am in no way acclimatized to sun, and have no recent experience with hydration, eating or perceived effort in warm temperatures ... I may just wither out there. Or I may still freeze. But now I have no idea what to expect. I liked it better when freezing was a given.

Look at me. I'm complaining about a "Severe Sun Advisory." I really am from Juneau now.

One good push

Date: Aug. 10
Mileage: 85.5
August mileage: 272.9
Temperature upon departure: 67
Inches of rain today: 0"

Holy cow. It seems like I may actually attempt this 360-mile ride next weekend. I had come so close to talking myself out of it, too. But the bad knee started cooperating just long enough to respark those temptations. And once that fire starts building, it's only a matter of time before it consumes everything, even common sense. I have to put it out, somehow. Might as well do the ride.

This weekend was my final test to see how my body might cope in the long slow burn. My repetitive motion pangs seem to come on as a result of long periods of buildup rather than just one big ride, so to be able to move pain-free through a 50-mile ride, a six-hour hike, and an 85-mile ride in a three-day period bodes well. I felt great today. It seems like I'm probably as ready for a ride like this as I was ever going to get. Time to cool it off a little, stock up on Power Bars, and spend some time rebuilding Roadie into the lean, mean touring machine he was meant to be (well ... maybe not the lean and mean part.)

The clouds cleared out while I was riding this morning, opening up the sky to what may turn out to be the warmest, sunniest weekend of the summer. Everyone has huge plans and I actually feel a little bit lucky to have my upcoming workweek there to hold me back - otherwise, I'd probably be out scaling entire ridgelines or mountain biking all the trails out the road or otherwise completely burning myself out before Wednesday.

We opened up the official weekend with a big bonfire on the beach. We roasted rubbery "Tofu Pups" over the flames and intentionally dropped a lot of them in the coals. Then we wolfed down our day's allotment of calories and then some in the form of freshly made rhubarb pie. About two dozen people rolled in for this particular beach barbecue, officially making it the largest of the summer. The food was terrible but I think everyone suspected there would be a great sunset tonight. So far, the Friday night horizon has not disappointed us.

A walk in the clouds

Date: Aug. 9
Mileage: 7.8
August mileage: 187.4
Temperature upon departure: 61
Inches of rain today: 0.02"

The weather forecast called for clear(er) weather, so I went to bed last night believing that today was going to be the day, the day I hiked the Juneau Ridge. So of course I woke up to settled fog and a steady drizzle. I knew that my chances of finding the route up there weren't great, but that didn't change the fact that I was raring to go. I gave it a shot.

I started backwards from Granite Creek Basin because I have been up the Mount Juneau trail before, and it seemed better to make my destination some place I might actually recognize. As I was locking my bike at the Mount Juneau spur, a man passed me and chuckled quietly. When I caught back up with him up the trail, he asked, "Why did you leave your bike back there?" When I explained the loop I hoped to complete - up Granite Creek, across the ridge, down Mount Juneau, bike home. He just laughed again and said, "Well, good luck with all that."

Luckily, Granite Creek Basin alone was worth the effort. Patches of brilliant green lit up the graveled surface of what counts as high country in Alaska - 3,000 feet. But as I followed the snow-choked drainages further into the fog, visibility dropped to three feet ... sometimes less. I spent the next couple of hours picking my way along the ridge. Having no trail to follow, no ridgeline in my sight, and no intuition for direction were three solid strikes against me. My inclination led me to drop off the ridge many times, eventually finding myself rimmed on a cliff or trapped by an impossibly steep field of snow. I was backtracking more than I was moving forward. Soon it became apparent that I would spend all day and all night and then some on that ridge if my progress continued at that rate. And since I had no idea how far I really had to go, I turned around.

Of course, about a half hour after I decided to make my hike and out-and-back, the clouds began to clear. Oh well. At least I could finally see more substantial pieces of the big picture. I don't feel too disappointed about not making it to Mount Juneau today. Now I've checked out both the approach and the descent, I feel like all I have left to discover is the highline ... and I can't wait to go back.

A lake still frozen in August ...


with edges of water so blue it was like an open window into infinity.

50 miles before work

Date: Aug. 8
Mileage: 51.2
July mileage: 179.6
Temperature upon departure: 55
Inches of rain today: 0"

I used to be a 9-to-5'er, a standard-issue worker, staring bleary-eyed into my morning bowl of Wheaties and scraping ice off windshields in the predawn darkness. When I fell into the copy-editing side of newspapering, those shifts got thrown out the window - along with my prime-time TV habit, my alarm clock, and any chance of a functional social life with the other standard-issue workers. So what did I gain in return? Sometimes I wonder.

I rolled out of bed today at 8:21 to a face full of daylight that had been up for three and a half hours. In the height of summer, more than five passed by the time I woke up. But I'll never miss any of it. In fact, with as well as I've been sleeping lately, I bid the long daylight good riddance.

I lingered over breakfast for a while - who knows how long, really, as time creeps slowly in the a.m. hours. I sipped the elixir of life that some call coffee and watched thick tufts of fog crawl up the mainland mountains. The sun may come out today yet.

I debated the appeal of hiking or biking. As fog clung to view-blocking elevations, I decided I deserved at least one dry day on the bike.

Roadie is extra rickety in dry weather. A steady diet of rainwater has found its way into his headset, his bracket shell, his hubs. Rainwater now serves as his lube and without it, he creeks and groans like an 80-year-old man being dragged along on a reluctant outing. I felt bad about his life of neglect, but I also know that geography combined with my lifestyle means any bike of mine is going to be higher maintenance than a pop princess at a cocaine party. I have convinced myself that life rolls along smoother after you learn to accept the rust and the grit.

Sunlight crept through the fog in sharp beams - fingers of God light that always inject the landscape with quiet reflection. When I lose myself in those moments, I never remember, later, what kind of things I thought about or what inspiration I found. I do remember smiling and waving at a shoulder-grazing tour bus as children pressed their faces against the rear windows. In commute-mode, I let near-misses like that make me angry. But this morning, seeing those comically contorted faces reminded me that we all had the same destination ... the pursuit of wonder.

I turned around at mile 26 and meandered back to a beachside picnic area, where I set my rickety old man of a bike on the ground and shuffled in my bike shoes along the gravel shoreline. Several steps later, I discovered a blueberry patch glistening with dew and not-quite-ripe berries. I rustled through the leaves like a greedy grizzly and began popping the purple orbs in my mouth. A few were so sour they made me wince; regardless, there's something intensely sweet about devouring berries in the wild. Maybe it's the serendipity of finding them, the satisfaction of earning them; maybe there's a hunger that fruit snacks and Power Bars can't fill.

Somewhere, many miles away from that beach, my real life waited. The one with flickering screens, the meetings, the deadlines, the bad news that hasn't even happened yet. And there I was, all those miles away, mildly hypnotized by the calm rhythm of waves as I walked along with blueberry juice oozing between my fingers. It's a place I can escape to every day. It isn't even hard.

My friends always groan when I tell them my schedule. "You work from 2 to 11? That must be awful."

And all I can do is smile.

This actually is post 500

It's a bit of a scary number when I think about it ... think about all of the productive things I could have been doing in all of the time I've spent typing on my blog.

Unfortunately, I don't really have anything interesting to write for post No. 500. After more than a week of pain-free riding, I have the Yukon loop on my mind again. I am still trying to work out my days out of the office to determine whether I can leave Aug. 15 or Aug. 22, but either way, it is coming up a lot closer than I am probably ready for.

One thing a blog is really good for is organizing thoughts. I have been putting together a gear list for the bike tour, and am trying to go as light as possible with the gear I have available. I am planning for temperatures ranging from 40-70 degrees, at least one rainstorm long enough to soak me to the bone, possible snow at the passes, and only two legitimate food stops in 360 miles. I am not planning to put anything on my back - at all - but rather stuff everything into a trunk bag, a frame bag, and a handlebar bag. Here's what I have in mind. I'd love to hear some input: Things I've forgotten ... things I should leave behind.

Black Diamond winter bivy sack
Synthetic 30-degree sleeping bag
Thermarest 3/4 sleeping pad
One headlight
One helmet light
Extra batteries
Red blinky
Multitool
Patch kit, tube, tire levers, lube
Small first aid kit
Pump
Lightweight socks
Bike gloves
Neoprene socks
Neoprene gloves
Lycra tights
Long-sleeve shirt
Extra shirt
Water-resistant pants
PVC jacket
Sunglasses
Aleve, Claritin and Alka Selzer
Iodine tablets
1 day of food
24-ounce water bottle equipped with water filter
Two regular 24-ounce water bottles

... Suggestions?

Travelogged

A picture of the Brakeless Wonder at Lower Russian Lake, taken Friday night.

Date: Aug. 6
Mileage: 25.1
July mileage: 128.4
Temperature upon departure: 56
Inches of rain today: 0.24"

Until yesterday, I was almost definite in my decision to fly out to Anchorage during the first weekend of September to ride the Soggy Bottom 100. My only hesitation had been the expense, which I could minimize pretty easily thanks to airline miles and my willingness to work extra hours. But now, I am almost definitely thinking I will not do it. Because, really, why should I pay so much and work so hard just for another opportunity to suffer?

And I am not talking about the cycling. The cycling is the easy part. I am talking about the flying, and the taxis, and the renting and/or borrowing of a bike, and all of the other headaches that go along with transporting myself anywhere that isn't Juneau. It just isn't worth it. Sunday morning reminded me of that.

Geoff and I made the mistake of letting a friend who is not known for his mastery of details make a taxi reservation for us. We had to leave at 6:15 a.m. to catch a 7:50 a.m. flight out of Anchorage, from a cabin that did not have its own address, an Internet connection or a phone. In any given year, there are 364 incidents that make me happy I don't own a cell phone, but there is always one that convinces me it's time to break down and sign up for a plan. Sunday morning was that day.

So the cab didn't show up at 6:15. By 6:25, Geoff had begun to use his power of deduction to figure out that our friend had probably given the company the address number of the house were waiting in front of, but the name of an intersecting street - which meant that the driver was probably more than three miles away. We had to get to a pay phone fast, so I suggested using our friend's car (she was out of town.) Geoff urged me to make the trip, because he was still in pain from his race. I got in, drove a half mile down the road, realized I had forgotten to look at the right street name, and put the car in reverse. It stalled and wouldn't start again.

When it comes to stress, I usually cope great with large blows. It's always the compounding layers of little disasters that cripple my ability to rationalize. I went into full-on panic mode, leaving the car in the middle of the street while I sprinted back toward the cabin. I had completely snapped - hyperventilation, sobbing, the whole package. Geoff to his credit made a solid effort to hobble quickly to the car, managed to get it started, and took off to look for a phone. I sat down on our bags and came to terms with the fact that we were going to miss our flight, the next one was at least eight hours away, and I was going to be late or miss the shift at work that I promised to return for under penalty of beheading.

After that, a lot of little things went wrong - and enough little things went right - to really bring the cycle of torture full circle. The car stalled a half dozen times. The closest phone was two miles away. The new cab driver dispatched to us came fast, despite the fact we were in a middle-of-nowhere part of town. There was a huge backup at the baggage check-in. I found a newly opened line. The security line snaked out the door. An earlier baggage mishap had made about a dozen other people really late, so the security people created a fast-track line that we were able to sneak into. We made it through security two minutes before our scheduled flight departure, convinced the doors had been closed. We sprinted and sprinted and I was amazed how quickly Geoff found his legs. Luckily, that earlier baggage mishap also delayed the flight, and the gate employees ushered us inside. I sat in that cramped seat with my heart racing at maximum capacity, sucking recycled air and vowing never to leave Juneau again.

Then today, I bought another plane ticket - a two-stop flight to Utah in late September - because that was always part of the plan. However, it did made me feel a little sick. I like the idea of riding the Resurrection Pass gauntlet in a month, but I don't think I can handle two more airport trips. I don't have to stomach for it.

Slow lane

Date: Aug. 2, 3 and 4
Mileage: 21.1, 16, 43
August mileage: 103.3

Every time I take a trip away from my walled-in little seaside town, I leave thinking my weekend is going to be relaxing and centering and return with new understanding of the stressful, sprawling nature of the outside world.

At the same time, "out there" is where the adventure and exhilaration is. Exactly a year has passed since I packed up my Prism and drove away from the Kenai Peninsula. Even though I didn't even stay a full year on the Kenai, and I haven't been back in a full year, there is something about meandering along the narrow corridor of the Turnagain Arm that feels like coming home.

I was able to spend a lot of time, relatively, riding during the 16-hour period I had between arrival and the end of Geoff's race. I borrowed a bike from Pete B., a Raleigh hardtail that has the same frame as my former Snaux Bike and actually belongs to Pete's little sister - who had no idea her bike was being lent away (let alone the abuse it was about to endure.) Geoff and I set up camp at 8 p.m. Friday and I went to explore the Russian River area. The upper trail was so overgrown that I couldn't even see it beneath a sea of grass and fireweed. Most of the ride consisted of bouncing over boulders with my eyes clamped shut as blistering stalks of cow parsnip whipped my face. I rode until nearly 11 p.m. - a luxury of late daylight that is long gone in Juneau.

Geoff and I were up at the crack of 5 a.m. to gear up for his 50-mile assault of Resurrection Pass. As he tied his running shoes, he said something about lacing them so tight that he wouldn't be able to take off his shoes at the end of the race. "Oh, don't worry, I'll be able to untie them for you," I said. "I'll meet you there. " After all, I had a bike, and he was on foot. The advantage was clearly mine.

About 20 runners took off at the 6 a.m. starting line. I took down camp and ate a leisurely breakfast, then hit the trail at 7 a.m. I thought that even with a fairly meandering but determined pace, the 44-mile ride would take me five hours, tops, and no way - no way - could Geoff run that trail plus a 6-mile spur in just six hours. Predictable last words.

The morning was very Juneau-esque, with mountain-smothering clouds allowing little doubt about the wetness they were about to unleash. But the trail was as amazing as I remembered it, with rocky singletrack hugging the shorelines of lakes and working its way slowly above treeline. I began to catch up to runners about 10 miles in, always remembering to yell "You don't need to stop for me! Don't stop for me!" After all, I knew (but could scarcely comprehend) what they were trying to do. They were racing and I was a tourist. I could wait until there was space to ride around.

The rain hit hard and fast at the pass, but a tailwind propelled me along and I could not have been happier. The climb was effortless in 2.5 hours; I was feeling great and had 25 miles of downhill to look forward to. I was singing old-school Offspring lyrics at the top of my lungs for all the bears to hear, and set into the descent feeling that I could do no wrong. What could go wrong? Predictable last words.

It must have happened slowly, with little flecks of rubber flaking away as I rode along. I didn't even notice the slow breakdown in stopping power as the muddy trail ate up all of my concentration. I didn't even realize anything was wrong until I approached a tight corner of a particularly steep descent, pressed down on the brakes, and nothing happened. Nothing at all. I throttled them for all my life was worth and the wheels only continued to accelerate toward what I was certain was death by head-on collision with a tree. I shut my eyes, clenched my teeth, and pitched my body sideways.

The first thing I landed on was my camera, which was floating in the standing water inside my coat pocket (by the way, it still works. Olympus=amazing.) Raleigh and I skidded to a fairly smooth stop along in a spiny patch of raspberry bushes. After I stopped writhing from the shock of impact, I marvelled - as I usually do - about coming out of a crash relatively unscathed. I tightened the brake cables as far as they'd go, but the damage had been done. I began the ride (unknowingly) with misaligned brake pads and the muddy trail had worn them clean off - I was basically pressing metal onto slimy, wet metal.

After that, my ride was essentially a lot of downhill hike-a-bikes with occasional slow-coasting riding, using my right foot - and sometimes both feet - as a brake. About three miles from the end, the trail became more crowded with day hikers. I gave up riding completely, lest I risk killing someone besides myself. By then, the brake levers did absolutely nothing to slow the bike. It was the same as riding with both calipers undone. I spent much of those three miles walking with a woman who had already decided to drop out of the 100-mile race. She had already pounded out 88 miles and looked amazingly cool and composed. "It's only 12 more," I urged, but I had no understanding. "I'm not taking another step I don't have to," she said.

I arrived at the 38-mile checkpoint at 12:30 p.m., dripping rainwater from every pore and sporting a solid head-to-toe coat of dark mud. "What time did Geoff Roes come through here?" I asked. A man checked his board and said, "10:30." I just gaped at him as another woman, having looked me up and and down and probably remembering me from the starting line said, "Why? Did you think you were going to catch him?"

The last six miles of the ride were completely miserable - all on a gravel road that was just downhill-sloped enough to make my 7 mph scootering of the bike stressful; my shoes were being torn to shreds and my body temperature plummeted from a combination of complete saturation and a solid lack of movement. I had no choice but to get off the bike and jog, every minute knowing that not only was I not going to watch Geoff finish his race, but that he was probably already eating hot soup and enjoying dry clothing and shelter at that exact moment.

Luckily, seeing Geoff at the finish line ended my sorry excuses for self pity. He was eating hot soup, and looking really perky, and walking almost normally for someone who just shattered yet another course record, running 50 miles in about 6 hours, 10 minutes. Fifty miles. Six hours. With no bike. Just him. It made me feel like I should turn straight around and pilot that broken bike back up and over the pass, if for no other reason than to feel just a little bit of that glow, the glow that surrounds the satisfaction of having done something really hard - even if not well.

It continues to amaze me how quickly Geoff has taken charge of all of this endurance madness. I think this Resurrection Pass 50 race is the first time I've realized that he may have a shot, a real shot, at competing among the top echelon of ultra-endurance runners (even if he does do something silly like devote a lot of time to biking next year.) It's exciting to me. And scary, too.

Geoff wrote his race report here.