Lucky day

Date: Aug. 30
Mileage: 83.4
August mileage: 987.9
Temperature upon departure: 58
Rainfall: .05"

A couple of nights ago, there was an eclipse of the full moon. Then there was a meteor shower. A couple of planets probably aligned in strange ways, too, because somehow, against the odds, I talked Geoff into going for a bike ride on the road today. And not just any ride on the road - an 80-mile ride on the road, complete with a forecast calling for a 90 percent chance of showers and a south wind that could knock a person off their bike - which at some point was going to have to be fought head on.

"It will be so fun to ride to Echo Cove," I said. And, of course, he didn't believe me for a second. Geoff would ride a mountain bike to the ends of the earth, but put him on skinny tires without any camping gear attached, and he becomes bored within fractions of a mile. As we left town with the south wind pushing us along at 20 mph, no pedaling required, he said "maybe we shouldn't ride all the way to the end of the road."

But the miles rolled along as miles often do. We talked about everything out there ... 24-hour Worlds, the atrocious eating habits of people who aren't us, movies that Geoff likes and I hate, and vice versa (which pretty much covers all movies.) It was great to have someone to talk to out there. I do so much cycling by myself. Ok, every time I go out on a bike, I'm by myself. I consider it my own sanctuary of solitude. But every once in a while, it's nice to have someone to share in a laugh about the strange foods that pass as "vegetables" in America, and geek out on far-away endurance races until, suddenly, you've pedaled 42 miles with no idea how you got there.

I tried two new foods today that I decided were more disgusting than their hype merited ... Clif Shot Bloks (Margarita variety ... They taste like citrus-flavored stale vegetable oil, and that is just wrong); and Gatorade flavored Jelly Bellys (Fruit punch Sport Beans. Ew.) I maintain my very subjective belief that electrolytes should not be mixed with any kind of sugar, which is why I was so excited to discover Nuun on this ride. Nuun is just an electrolyte tablet that you throw in your water, and it dissolves like Alka Seltzer. It's sweet, but just barely (like 3 calories), so it takes the edge off all that salt without turning it into a sickly sweet, inedible energy food. Now I can continue to eat food I actually like (fruit leather) and still get that replenishing shot of electrolytes. Score another one for lucky day Aug. 30.

Even the weather forecast - which, most amazingly, was for the most part accurate - worked out in our favor. That 90 percent chance of showers was actually something that is a very rare phenomenon for Southeast Alaska ... thunderstorms. All around us, dark clouds would gather and churn. We'd cross over pavement that was drenched in deep puddles from a passing downpour, but, somehow we spent the afternoon riding in sunlight. How every single one of those scattered downpours missed us is beyond me, but they did. And somehow, we came home warm, dry, and bathed in rainbows.

The headwind did become harsh, but Geoff and I had each other to help share the full brunt of it. Geoff cooked himself a little toward the end and had to unipedal the last three miles after his IT band seized up. But I think I may have finally solved my heel problems. I guess that part's just lucky for me.

Only 12.1 more miles to go.

Running the gauntlet

Date: Aug. 29
Mileage: 51.1
August mileage: 904.5
Temperature upon departure: 57
Rainfall: .04"

It's exciting, setting out to ride a bunch of 50-mile days in a row. But I am becoming a bit tired of the ride out the road, so today I put together a tripod route to mix it up a bit - North Douglas and back, Thane and back, Lemon Creek and back.

The Thane spur is my favorite road route in Juneau. However, I'm pretty sure I can count the number of times I have ridden it this summer on one hand. There's only one reason for this: The Gauntlet. Now, I have ridden Moab's Slickrock Trail. I have descended a muddy Resurrection Pass with no brakes. And I can say that no ride I've tried is as scary - or dangerous - as downtown Juneau on a five-cruise-ship summer day.

It's downright exhilarating in a what-just-happened-back-there kind of way. Hundreds of starry-eyed pedestrians who have spent days being herded around a boat and stuffed with food spill out onto the sidewalks. Most of them think they have landed in Downtown Disney, a magical place where there are no cars, no traffic laws, and everybody understands their right-of-way is absolute as they weave from jewelry store to jewelry store. The problem is, Juneau is not Downtown Disney. There are actually quite a few cars, cars that eventually get tired of slamming on the brakes for clueless walkers and idling in the street as crossing guards let herds of responsible tourists stream past. The drivers eventually decide they're going to do whatever it takes to get through.

As a cyclist, I'm in the middle of it all, dodging tourists even as I'm being dodged by fed-up drivers. If I keep my speed above 20 mph, the cars will stick behind me, but no one can know what is going to spill out from the walls of people surrounding us. It's like the Red Sea has parted and any second it's going to close in on us. Not knowing where or when this may happen only makes us move faster, which in turn increases the likelihood of certain death should the tourist sea topple into the street at the wrong time. I'm especially lucky to be on a little bike; no one sees me.

But it's such a thrill, when I finally break free of a long line of cars and sprint into the narrow corridor between tourists and road, fingers hovering above the brake levers, palms pressed lightly on the handlebars, ready to swerve sharply at a millisecond's notice as I pedal against the ebb and flow of erratic traffic. At the end of The Gauntlet, my reward is five miles of badly cracked, rolling pavement that practically dangles over the narrow precipice between the steep mountainside and the shore. I love it.

As I pedalled back toward my second run through The Gauntlet today, I stopped for a short break on the Sheep Creek bridge. Below me, a gathering crowd of salmon splashed and struggled against the current, bodies flailing and colliding as they fought to gain a few inches upstream. The effort seemed so futile, and yet so intriguing. It made perfect sense to me.

Gunning for 1,000

Date: Aug. 28
Mileage: 41.8
August mileage: 853.4
Temperature upon departure: 57
Rainfall: 0"

August has been full of beautiful days that make me wonder ... is this the last day of summer? The last day of sun before the rainy season really sets in? Last year, August and September brought blocks of wet weather that had to be measured in weeks. Those long stretches of gray brought a sameness to the days ... as though not even time could pass through the thick fog. Then one day I woke up to the sun blazing high in a blue expanse I couldn't even recognize, and there was snow on the ground. Winter came, and no one even warned me.

But today, today was the last day of summer. Unobstructed sunlight failed to even warm the temperature above 60, giving the air a crisp, autumn-like taste. I spun through the school zone clocking at least 5 over the speed limit, nodding at sullen-faced teenagers as they shuffled past with their eyes locked on text messages and lips wrapped around energy drinks. It's the first week of school, and already we can't remember what we did with our summer vacation. All around us, the groundcover was beginning to die ... yellow edges curled the end of giant Devil's Club leaves, blueberries shriveled and fireweed clamped shut.

Today's ride was flawless, and for that I was silently grateful. I was so blissed out that I nearly forgot my place in time and space ... rushing to make it to work in time, knowing I could rush some more, then surprising myself with a lot of time to spare. It made me wonder if I have one more summer goal in me yet. Maybe I could ride my first 1,000-mile month. I have 150 miles to go and three days to do it. It's easy to visualize on the last day of summer, with its warm moments surrendering to nearly effortless miles. Harder to do when looking at the three-day forecast, with its 90 percent chance of rain and 15 mph east winds. But it would be fun to try; and what a way to ring in the rainy season fall.

I miss that soggy feeling

This coming Saturday is the date for the 2007 Soggy Bottom 100. I spent most of the summer swinging wildly between definitely entering this race and definitely not entering this race. Somehow, I ended up at the latter extreme. It is probably a good thing. It's still travel money I don't need to spend; vacation time that could probably be better used elsewhere. That doesn't change the fact that I'm feeling remorse right now about blowing it off ... that last big gasp for my 2007 season, now nothing more than a whimper.

From an athletic perspective, it's hard for me to think of 2007 as anything more than a small disaster: a disappointing showing at my "A" race in mid-February, followed by months and months of chronic injury and immobility that dogged me throughout my mellow, competition-free summer. It's disappointing because I felt like I had a good thing going after 2006. I even entered a 24-hour solo race before I realized they were supposed to be one of the most difficult events out there, then came within just a few minutes of making it to the overall podium (I know what you're thinking. "Really? Her?" It's true, but Anchorage never gets a huge showing for these races.) Still, for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a shot at being competitive at an athletic pursuit. It was a great feeling after years of feigning illness during the presidential fitness tests and hiding my shame as I waited to be picked last for the softball team.

Then the 2007 season came and went, and suddenly I feel like I have not much to show for it. This remorse has stoked my competitive fire for 2008 even more ... to devote my free time from mid-October on to training and studying (yes, studying) for the Iditarod Invitational 350. I want to put in the smartest, strongest effort I have to give. Then, if I survive that, I'd like coordinate my summer vacation with a good endurance race - maybe the Kokopelli Trail Time Trial if such a thing is organized this year, or Trans Iowa V.4 (I do love the Midwest). Maybe I'll even find a 24-hour solo race where I can actually compete with other women (I'm trying to think beyond hamster races, but I really do like 24s. It seems everything about them plays to my strengths, and the sheer repetition snuffs out a lot of my weaknesses.)

What to do next year? Where to go? It's exciting to formulate plans. However, if I am to survive the ride to McGrath, I'm going to have to treat this February race like it's my one and only. If it ends up like the 2007 Susitna 100 did, it will be.

Signs of fall

Date: Aug. 26
Mileage: 34.5
August mileage: 811.6
Temperature upon departure: 52
Rainfall: .03"

The first sign of fall has settled on Juneau. I remember living in places where the first evidence of fall was a cloud of visible breath in the chilled morning air, a dusting of white powder on the mountain ridges or a single yellow aspen leaf in a sea of green. But in Juneau, I think the most prevalent sign of early fall is widespread salmon stink. Having reproduced and then died en masse, their rotting carcasses choke the rivers and line the shores, where they're haphazardly dragged over trails by bears and tossed into the road by seagulls. When I hear the crunch of brittle bones beneath my wheels and breathe in the suddenly omnipresent aroma of city dump, I know the first snow flurries are not far away.

I am now approaching day 10 since I returned from my bike trip, and I have yet to gain back the feeling in the tip of my left pinkie finger. I'm beginning to become a little worried. I've heard it takes a while for some people's digits to "wake up" after spending a long time propped on a bicycle, but this has never happened to me before ... even after a 24-hour race. It may be a result of the Ergon Grips, which may just not be suitable for my hand placement on long rides. It is hard to quantify the effect of equipment when riding 33-36 hours in a 48-hour period. Maybe losing one's sense of touch is inevitable in extreme conditions. Still, if it doesn't come back soon, I'm going to have to relearn how to type.

I am still feeling the effects of the ride, namely in my pinkie, and also in my right heel, which went into full-blown rebellion and locked up on day 2. I can't help but be concerned about even the most minor, nagging pains in my heel because I have no idea if it's one of those things that might become chronic. I went out hard today and felt great, until the heel pain hit, and then I overcompensated and soft-pedalled home. I miss the days when I could trust my body, but it does seem I have nothing to gain right now by pushing through even small amounts of pain.

The misadventures continue. At least I don't have to worry about getting lost in the woods. All those sun-dried salmon snacks could sustain me for days.

Cold, but it's my fault

I've wrapped myself in every spare layer I could find at the office ... the spare socks in my desk drawer, the neglected-but-dry dress shoes, the mildew-scented cotton hoodie that was stuffed in my trunk. Seems nothing can cut the edge off this blue-lipped chill. It's the kind of cold that doesn't come off ... August cold.

It's always difficult to figure out how to dress for hours of activity in the rain. Do I go for minimum layers soaking wet, or multiple layers soaked in sweat? I've become pretty good at estimating the insulation I'll need for my exertion level in biking. Guessing how much of my own heat I'll generate is much harder to do when I'm hiking.

Today I dressed minimally for the West Glacier Trail because I decided my knee is strong enough now for uphill/level-ground jogging when the trail isn't too technical. And since my whole aim is to go as hard as I can, I figured I wouldn't need all those layers weighing me down.

All went well until the trail veered away from the glacier and began to climb the face of Mount McGinnis. Where the West Glacier Trail becomes the Mount McGinnis trail was a little unclear to me, so I continued along, hoping to find a better overlook. The marginally walkable surface gave way to nearly-vertical granite outcroppings, slickrock smooth and weeping with rain runoff. There were enough good handholds to make the climbing fairly fast. But after several occurrences of nearly losing my footing on the slippery surface, I began to realize that downclimbing wasn't going to be such a breeze.

One wrong step away from a raging waterslide ride into an icy abyss is probably a better description for the downclimb. I had to take it painfully slow, making sure every carefully placed step was secure before moving another limb, all the while lamenting as my fingers and toes slowly went numb and the wet chill worked its way toward my core. By the time I made it back to the main trail, I was shivering, no longer able to calm my chattering teeth, and more than a mile away from the joggable part of the trail. A long hike indeed.
I'm familiar enough with this wet chill to know that it never becomes truly dangerous unless I stop moving. Still, it's uncomfortable enough to impair balance and motor skills, and make any activity I'm not quite accustomed to - say, jogging - even more difficult. I actually fell flat on my face once after slipping in a mud puddle and failing to even put my arms out to break the fall. I finished out the trail speed walking, wary of every rock, and covered in mud. The rain washed me clean before I returned to thetrailhead, which was a good thing since I had taken so long at that point I had to drive straight to work ... if only I could coax my numb fingers to turn the key in the ignition.

Ah, a wet-weather onset of mild hypothermia. Late summer just wouldn't be the same without it.

Another perspective

Date: Aug. 23-24
Mileage: 47.6
August mileage: 777.1
Temperature upon departure: 57
Rainfall: .55"

Our friend Amity from Palmer, Alaska, is visiting us right now. She is the first friend from Outside (Juneau) that we actually talked into coming to visit. She had never been to Southeast Alaska before.

Yesterday we backpacked to the Windfall Lakes public use cabin, a backcountry luxury spot complete with a canoe and a propane heater. We made pasta with pesto sauce for dinner and it was about the worst thing I have ever ingested (a combination of salt overload, MSG, starch water and more than a hint of melted plastic from the cheap bowl I was eating it out of.) I opted to eat it rather than pack it out, even though I had already packed in two magazines, a huge edition of the Seattle newspaper and two cans of Diet Pepsi (hey, you have to have priorities.) We floated on the lake for a while while Amity "fished" and Geoff and I were rained on. It continued to rain the entire night. We played Texas hold'em, betting mini chocolate bars just like children do. Amity cleaned both Geoff and I out in about a dozen hands. I read the most recent edition of "Backpacking" - the "Global Warming Issue" - from cover to cover after Geoff and Amity went to sleep at 10 p.m. I don't recommend reading it unless you want to feel really depressed about the state of things you can not control. Especially if you are trying to sleep on a hard bench in a public use cabin, and every uncomfortable minute of alertness means you are either thinking about your sore back, or you are imagining the beautiful sea of grass that is the sandhills of western Nebraska turning into a Sarhara Desert in less than 20 years.

All in all, though, a fun trip. It's always interesting to see your hometown and your habits through another person's eyes:

On tidepooling: "There's nothing tasty in this one."

On fishing from a canoe: "I'll cast it out front so I don't hook you in the eye."

On the spawned-out salmon that were laboring along the shoreline: "They're really not so bad. They taste a little bit like whitefish."

On Juneau in general: "I just didn't realize it would be so wet here."