Toward the light

Well, the winter solstice has come and gone. The days are growing longer now. For the first time in months, we have physical evidence that summer will in fact return again, someday. Alaskans always seem a bit more reflective this time of year. It may have to do with the calendar turning over yet another notch, or the stress-fueled holiday season nearing its climax, but I think a lot of this reflection has to do with the irresistible pull of darkness that draws us inward. I even uploaded the music mix I made specifically for the 2007 Susitna 100 to my iPod, filled with several songs I haven't listened to since. Music never fails to evoke vivid images, and today I found myself so swept up in a mindscape of spindly spruce and snowy expanses that I actually startled myself when I snapped back to the image of my reflection clutching a 15-pound barbell in the gym's mirror. These "race" memories are so valuable to me. I feel like no matter how I perceive my accomplishments of the past, or what I hope to achieve in the future, nothing can rob me of the beauty I've seen. And in my own contrived sense of cause and effect, the promise of beauty is the reason I spend time counting biceps curls in a stuffy gym.

I spent the past two days off the bike. On Friday, I took the day completely off, and today I put in two hours at the gym. I hadn't planned on a full rest day Friday, but I managed to jackhammer myself into a porous mush during my ride on Thursday. I woke up the next morning zapped of energy, sore in all sorts of new places, with a throbbing left knee. The pain in my "good" knee was the major reason for taking the day off, but I can't deny that I felt almost entirely spent. The jump from single-day to multiday endurance events is a big one, and I haven't completely spanned it even now, two months before the Ultrasport. But I feel confident that my slow build will pay off, hopefully just in time to burn the dim lamp for as many days as it takes. The rest day paid off, too, with a full recovery that had me feeling great today, almost excited to slog off to the gym to read decade-old magazines and pump some iron.

I thought I'd show my parents what they gave me for Christmas: An pair of "All Degree" Raichle mountaineering boots. I excavated these from the bargain basement of Sierra Trading Post and levied a coupon I had in my inbox to snag them for dimes on the dollar. I realize they may be overkill, but it was hard to let them float by when I was in the market for a new pair of boots anyway, and these happened to be the perfect size I was looking for (about two sizes too large). Now not only do I have a new pair of winter boots for not a whole lot more money than I had budgeted, but I won't have to buy a new pair of overboots, because I think my old, noninsulated ones will hold up fine with these monsters beneath them. All Degree! Thanks Mom and Dad!

I think after I finish riding the Iditarod I should learn how to climb big mountains. I nearly have the right gear to try mountaineering. All I'd need are crampons, and an ice ax, and a four-season tent, and rope, and beeners, and a harness, and a helmet, and one of those lightning rods that keep a person from falling in crevasses and ... hmm ... come to think of it, maybe I'll just stick with cycling.

Nine hours in photos

Date: Dec. 20
Mileage: 68.4
Hours: 9:00
December mileage: 507.7
Temperature upon departure: 19
Snowfall: 2"

So I hijacked the one-hour-one-photo idea again, because it can be difficult to come out of a nine-hour ride and write anything intelligent about it. Especially a ride like today's. It was relentless. Lots of trail riding on foot-packed (or unpacked) singletrack, lots of climbing and technical descents, lots of fighting loose powder and tweaking all the muscles I've failed to build. The kind of ride that makes you earn every single inch. Snow fell for most of the day. They recorded two inches near my house, but six or more fell out in the Valley, where I spent most of the day. This was probably the toughest single "non-race" ride I've done this year, and I include in that assessment any segment of my 48-hour, 370-mile trek around the Golden Circle. 68 miles in nine hours. This is my reality.

8 a.m., West Juneau. Hitting the road before dawn. Today was the day before the shortest day of the year.

9 a.m., Sandy Beach. I did a few laps around the trails to warm up for all the snow I hoped to plow over today. Sunrise's failure to make an appearance was a disappointment. I realized the day would end up toward the stormy side of the forecast.

10 a.m., Perseverance Trail. Climbing 20-degree pitches over peoples' footprints really helped this trail live up to its name. I hoped to go all the way to the end, but about halfway up I hit this massive landslide that completely blocks the trail. I scouted for a bit out of curiosity and could find no way around it, and it doesn't look like anyone has tried. Seems like a small disaster for the most popular trail in town.

11 a.m., Salmon Creek. Another tough climb. I'm already beginning to feel it, and the day isn't even half over.

Noon, Mendenhall Lake. I sought refuge beneath an iceberg to eat my lunch. Snow was coming down hard. The lake was a fun place to ride ... about eight inches of unpacked powder over a smooth-as-glass surface. It put up a lot of resistance without being too technical. I did a few laps but didn't make any tight turns. No studs. Oh yeah.

1 p.m., West Glacier Trail. I only saw a single set of footprints in the snow that weren't mine. There were a lot of low-lying branches that kept whipping the top of my helmet, and one actually pulled me off my bike. It was crash one of three today.

2 p.m., Dredge Lake. Lots of fun riding through here. It looks like a different place beneath snow ... more closed in and tighter, like an ice maze. I began to feel like the clueless mouse trying to escape. Crash two of three came when I failed to properly negotiate a minefield of clumpy ice hidden beneath the snow.

3 p.m., Montana Creek. My fatigue really started to set in and I was maneuvering terribly at this point. The trail is as wide as a road - in fact, it is a road that's closed to full-sized vehicles. And I was all over it, fishtailing and swerving and jumping the faint canyons created by snowmobile skis. It was a mess. After crash number three, washing out my rear tire, I decided I should probably spend the rest of the ride on roads and bike paths. As it was, with six inches of new snow and a bit of sand in the shoulders, even the pavement riding was strenuous and slippery.

4 p.m., somewhere in the Mendenhall Valley with my genius water system. So I mentioned yesterday that I wasn't going to carry a Camelbak. I got a new nozzle to replace the one I lost. Unlike the old one, this nozzle doesn't freeze too quickly ... but only because it leaks so much water, which then freezes like armor across any clothing it soaks. So today I filled up three water bottles and stuck one inside my coat and two in my handlebar poggies (the warmest places I could think of), figuring that if my water froze, I'd never be that far from a source (given that I was spending the whole day covering the meager winter trail system of Juneau proper.) The handlebar water stayed as toasty as my fingers ... I swear it was almost warm when I went to drink it after eight hours. The water inside my coat froze to slurpee-like consistency and the nozzle froze shut. I realize that while poggie water works wonderfully at 20 degrees, it's probably less wonderful at minus 20. I do still plan to get this Camelbak thing figured out.

6 p.m., El Sombraro. I forgot to take a 5 p.m. picture, so instead I'm ending with my friend Brian's 47th birthday bash at a Mexican restaurant. I gorged on beans, rice and a huge burrito and as well as most of Brian's birthday dessert. It pays to sit next to the birthday boy. Happy Birthday, Brian!

Another great day for a ride

Date: Dec. 19
Mileage: 10.3
Hours: 2:00
December mileage: 439.3
Temperature upon departure: 16
Snowfall: 0"

I was supposed to go to the gym this morning. I've had a hard time getting in my twice-weekly weight lifting as it is, and I told myself I wasn't going to neglect it any longer. But when I woke up this morning to the blaze of blue sky and hints of sun on the horizon for the first time in, well, it seems like weeks - I had to get out. I decided I would go for a hike. And as long as I'm hiking, I might as well take my bike for a walk.

So it was another day of walk-up, ride-down, just like the handful of skiers I passed. Several inches of new snow and powder-stirring snowmobile use put the trail in considerably worse condition than yesterday. It was hard to gain any traction, uphill or down, and there was lots of fishtailing and lots of meetings with snowmobiles. Everyone was out enjoying the sun. Still, it was worth it just for the views. And it was worth it the hints of sun. Although the canyon spent the duration of my ride in shadow, I could at least vicariously enjoy the orange light streaked across the mountain ridges.

I am preparing right now for my weekly long ride tomorrow. I am going to shoot for nine hours, spending a lot of time on trails. It will give me more opportunity to play with my tire pressure in the cold, which I remembered today is not exactly easy. The uneven nature of trail riding also mimics Iditarod conditions much better than an intense road ride can ... but don't expect big mileage tomorrow. Temperatures should be in the teens to low-20s, and if I'm lucky, at least partly sunny with scattered snow showers. I am going to try to do it sans-Camelbak because I am still having big issues with leaking, even after I replaced the nozzle. Wish me luck!

Downhill freestylin

Date: Dec. 18
Mileage: 15.1
Hours: 2:30
December mileage: 429.0
Temperature upon departure: 25
Snowfall: 1"

I had four miles to lose nearly 2,000 feet of elevation. I was standing thigh-deep in a posthole I accidentally punched through a thick bank of powder. Ahead of me, a faint snowmobile trail rolled across the otherwise pristine snow of a mountain meadow before plummeting over a horizon line into certain oblivion.

If somebody had informed me right then that within 20 minutes I would be back at sea level, spitting gravel off my back wheel and making a turn toward Sandy Beach, I would have never believed them. It had taken me well over an hour just to push to that point, mostly on foot. Despite the hike, I was amazed how much terrain I was able to ride. It was the first time I had taken Pugsley on a real snow ride - not just a ride on a trail covered in snow, but a ride on a trail made of snow. At the trailhead, I deflated the tires to 10 psi and was soon floating over packed powder at a breathless clip (6 mph!). I even caught up to Geoff on his backcountry skis while he was applying his skins to better fight the trail's relentless moguls and icy overflow holes. This was about the spot where the trail took a sharp line upward. The wimpy tread of Pugsley's tires could not find traction on the steep slope, and most of the "riding" I did from that point consisted of spinning and spinning the back wheel over a single, unmoving space until I lost my balance.

I walked nearly two miles before I decided to call it good and return to a place where I could actually ride my bike. As I turned to face the disappearing downhill line, I could feel a warm lump of dread gurgling up from my gut. When did this trail become so steep? I leaned over the handlebars for a better view of what lay beyond the slope's horizon, but I could see only sky. So I took a deep breath, put my boot on one pedal, and kicked off.

Pugsley launched into a gravity-fueled explosion of snow with all the enthusiasm of a puppy that just broke its leash. The rear wheel fishtailed wildly until it found traction in the deep track down the middle of the trail, and together we plummeted. Waves of moguls lifted and dropped us with increasing violence, and I applied the brakes ever-so-gently against a jackhammer of momentum. My butt hung inches above the rear rack. As I shimmied the handlebars I felt like a real DH freerider, half-crashing my rigid bicycle down a mountain without fear - if only because snow forgives so much.

Snow forgives much, but not all. Against the flat light of the darkening sky, I failed to notice the mother of all moguls near an opening in the trees that led to a small meadow. I was braced for a tight turn several yards ahead when the back wheel suddenly dropped into a deep hole with a loud clunk, and then the front wheel shot off the small mountain of snow in front of it. The immediate sensation was a feeling that I was coasting over the softest powder imaginable. In fact, I was flying through the air.

In my initial failure to realize this, I actually stuck the landing ... for a fraction of a second. But the sudden shock of what had just happened led me to inexplicably wrench the handlebars to the left, leading Pugsley into the soft, deep powder of the meadow. Our momentum kept us afloat for another fraction of a second, long enough to begin fishtailing wildly, before the front wheel finally planted itself and threw me into the snow, face first, like an Arctic ostrich.

After I fought my way upright, I turned to see Pugsley completely flipped over. Melting snow dripped off my chin, and I could taste a small amount of blood in my mouth. Pugsley's rear wheel was still spinning, like a wagging tail. I had to laugh, too.

It should be against the law to have this much fun on a Tuesday morning.

On commuting

Date: Dec. 17
Mileage: 7
Hours: 35 min. (plus two hours gym)
December mileage: 413.9
Temperature upon departure: 30
Snowfall: 2"

I rode my bike to work today.

Contrary to my aspirations, I rarely bike commute to work. I use my bike for nearly everything else. If fact, going to work is one of the few situations in which I use my car these days. There are a few reasons for this. One, it makes it much easier to show up at the office looking “presentable.” Two, driving allows me to go home during my dinner break, which is about the only time I see Geoff during the workweek. Three, my commute is short - 7 miles round trip - which makes it more difficult for me to get motivated about suiting up after I’ve already taken a shower following my regular training ride, packing something clean to wear, packing myself something to eat for dinner and riding to work, just to save two gallons of gas per week (which is how much gas I use if I drive back and forth to my office twice each day.) Four, all of these excuses prove that, at heart, I'm a lazy person.

But I do have aspirations to become a regular commuter, especially during the winter, when my bikes become the better-suited vehicles for most road conditions (I drive a 12-year-old, front-wheel-drive Geo Prism.) So every so often, I give it a go. Today I packed for my dinner a banana, an orange and an apple sliced up into a fruit salad, as well as Wheat Thins, a can of V8 and a roll of Sweet Tarts. After packing a pair of dress shoes (I don’t currently have a pair stored at the office), I didn’t have enough room in my Camelbak for clothing, so I just dressed in a button-down shirt and pair of slacks - all cotton - and threw my rain gear over the top.

All of the preparation had me running later than I intended. Luckily, the road conditions were nearly perfect for commuting - about an inch of new snow, all nicely packed by passing traffic. The bike path was a mess - here in Juneau, bike paths don’t get plowed - but my route on the bike path is mercifully short. If it had been warmer out, I would have been subject to the standard slush shower that coats everything I’m wearing in gray goo (and yes, I do have fenders on my mountain bike.) But today I arrived at work fairly clean.

A few observations about commuting:

• The commute itself only takes about eight more minutes than the drive, but the preparations and cleaning up at the office seem to take about 20 minutes to a half hour extra.
• Is it possible for bus drivers to be more oblivious to me when I’m commuting? How do they know?
• Wearing my waterproof PVC rain gear, I sweat a fair amount even on a short 3.5-mile ride, and I probably should make more of an effort to carry my work clothing separately.
• As much as I abuse my bikes when I’m using them, I don’t like having to store them outside for any length of time.
• My bike lock had rusted shut when I went to use it today. I’m a little worried about wrenching it back open before I head home tonight.
• I’m not thrilled about the food I quickly packed for dinner, but I don’t have a choice in the matter because I work out in an industrial wasteland devoid of restaurants.
• Gas is getting expensive, but last I checked (and I don’t check often, because I only buy gas about once every six weeks), two gallons of gas still cost less than $7. Saving $7 a week is more a matter of principle than a matter of economy. So I need to work on bulking up my principles until they trump the little inconveniences.

People who bicycle commute to work every day of the year have my highest respect. They belong on the upper tier of cyclist groups; they belong at the top ... just above, of course, winter endurance cyclists.

Trapped

Date: Dec. 16
Mileage: 31.1
Hours: 2:45
December mileage: 406.9
Temperature upon departure: 35
Precipitation: .03"

I did quite a bit of Internet research tonight regarding my travel/training options for this winter, and I've drawn the conclusion that I am officially trapped in Juneau until Feb. 21, 2008. People who advocate building a road that connects Juneau with the real world said the state ferry system was useless, but I didn't know they meant it. I even agreed to work Christmas and New Years just to cash in on a four-day weekend in early January, only to discover I might find one boat to Skagway during that period, but I wouldn't be able to return until sometime in 2010.

I briefly considered a flight to Fairbanks, but for what it would cost, I'd probably be better off buying some wool base layers and a pair of waterproof pants that don't have duct-tape patches across the backside. It's a bit frustrating because I had this whole "cold-weather" cycling trip planned since I started training in October, and now I know it's not going to happen. I probably should have researched it earlier, but I just assumed there would be a boat for me when I needed one. (It appears the Marine Highway all but shuts down during the winter.)

Geoff has insinuated before that he can feel Juneau's isolation closing in on him like a cold fist. Sometimes I feel it, too.

But I had a good ride today. Conditions were really icy, but I rode as hard as I felt my lungs could manage in the cold wind. I was able to keep my speed mostly above 15 mph, except on short stretches of bike paths that were covered in several inches of clumpy debris from plowed roads; I also brought my average speed down quite a bit once I attempted trail riding at the glacier, where I did a lot of 2.5 mph walking. It felt good to put in a sustained hard effort. I died a little toward the end, after not drinking enough because my water bottle had become completely coated in disgusting gray goo, and not eating enough because I hadn't brought anything with me to eat. But when I pulled up to the house with my lungs still searing and my legs pumping hot lead, I could almost taste the success of a hard ride well executed, and I knew it was going to be a good day.

A little bit SAD

Date: Dec. 14 and 15
Mileage: 33.4 and 31
Hours: 3:00 and 3:00
December mileage: 375.8
Temperature upon departure: 36 and 35
Precipitation: .54"

I think just about every Alaskan - at least once during the winter - experiences a mild case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. SAD is a depressive condition cause not by cold, but by lack of sunlight. Here in Juneau, we have a more daylight than points north of here, but it is arguable we see even less sunlight. As solstice nears, with the low sun barely scraping above the peaks of Admiralty Island and a thick, thick cloud cover refusing to budge, Juneau appears to be locked in perpetual twilight - like the Arctic Circle, but without the long sunsets.

Darkness takes its toll. I love winter and spend a fair amount of time outside, so SAD has never hit me that hard. But when it does, I know exactly what's happening. I sense it in the morning, when I wake up with an enduring junk fatigue - not the satisfying fatigue that one feels when returning from a long ride, but the empty fatigue one feels after sleeping too long and spending the whole day on the couch. This kind of fatigue is self-perpetuating, I and know this, so I try to force myself to shimmy into all of my bike gear and head out on the long ride I have planned. I hoped for five hours on Friday. I made it nearly three, slogging the entire time, before I had one of those "%$&! this" moments and turned promptly for home, where I proceeded to consume every carbohydrate-laden snack in the house (even chips. I never eat chips.) The evening was filled with false starts and at night my cat decided to start screaming like a murderous banshee (cat screams are very humanlike ... terrifying.) I jolted out of a deep sleep and spent the next several hours in bleary-eyed weariness, staring out the window, waiting for some semblance of light, any light, to appear in the sky.

I had been simmering in moodiness for two hours when Geoff woke up. He blamed my bad mood on training and told me I should take a day off. But I knew sitting around the house watching snow fall and stuffing my face with chips and spoonfuls of jam would only stoke the grump, so I grudgingly suited up and headed out into the ice storm.

The road was covered in new, heavy snow, which made the pedaling slow-going and strenuous. It helped take my mind off carbohydrates and screaming cats, and focus more on my breathing, and the sharp way my quads burned, and the soft drumming of low-volume music on my headphones. I didn't even think that much time had passed when I approached Geoff, who was 10 miles into his weekly long run, looking sopping wet and completely ragged. "That's how I must look, too," I thought.

Later, I veered off the road to the Mendenhall Wetlands, a long mudflat at low tide, thinly blanketed in snow. This kind of terrain is difficult at best, impossible at worst, and I locked into the single-minded pursuit of staying upright amid shallow channels of water, snow-covered clumps of grass, sudden steep banks and pockets of sand so deep it felt as though someone had lassoed my back wheel and was trying to pull me backwards. The landscape was so barren and yet so intricately detailed. My goggles had long since become uselessly wet, and I squinted against the sharp snowflakes, focusing on abstract shapes through my blinking tunnel vision until I lost all concept of where the ground ended and my bike began. Then, suddenly, like a white explosion, a flock of seagulls erupted from the snow right in front of me. I jumped off my bike, completely startled, and paused a moment to let my heart rate slow as the birds swirled and tumbled and settled again on the snow.

And I realized that I felt better.