Haines

Date: July 9-12
Mileage: 20.2, 18.0, 80.7 and 6.1
July mileage: 241.4

Well, I'm back from another 36-hour trip to Haines. In hindsight, this one wasn't a wonderful idea, given the expense, Geoff's crushing fatigue, and a less-than-stellar weather forecast. It's the kind of thing that happens on a Thursday morning when two people are lazing around a messy house with diminishing motivation and a "what should we do today?" conversation that lingers over hours. When it's decided that any daylong outdoor activity would be less than fun in the cold rain, it's only a matter of time before you start scrolling the Alaska Marine Highway site and grabbing up a couple of tickets for a ferry that leaves in three hours. Then, once you board the boat, you're kinda stuck with your spur-of-the-moment decision. As the ferry inched northward, Geoff and I set up plastic chairs on the solarium and gazed out at the gray-washed seascape. "It's too bad we can't just bike there," I said. "It would be faster than this." "We could swim there faster than this," Geoff replied.

But the fact was, Geoff wasn't about to swim or bike anywhere. He still feels tired most of the time, sleeps whenever he can and is becoming increasingly frustrated by his physical fatigue. He says the feeling is similar to having huge masses of dead muscle in his legs - an excess of tissue with no power. He did not want to go biking with me. Anywhere. And although I was itching to head up to the pass, I didn't want to be gone all day on a bike ride if he was just going to nap around camp. So I motored out to the border instead, trying to hurry but not pushing too hard against my own vicarious tiredness.

I was still surprised how fast the ride went, even with me failing to take full hammering advantage of the tailwind that became a monstrous headwind on the way back. I was able to knock off the 80 miles in 4:45, including snack and photo breaks, and beat my deadline back to camp even though I rode nearly twice as far as I said I was going to. I know that's not fast by roadie standards, but even the minimal speed advantage of my own rickety, flat-bar road bike surprised me after a couple of months almost exclusively riding 29-inch knobbies. I almost feel like getting a real road bike would make cycling too easy. Where would the fun be? Certainly not in taking the edge off 40 miles of harsh headwind (oh, wait...)

But it was nice for the cycling to only take a five-hour chunk out of the weekend, and sleep and food to consume the other 31. Geoff and I toured the town and found a lot of interesting hidden nooks. We ate at a few typically overpriced, underwhelming Alaska restaurants, including a little Mexican place that seduced us with unique atmosphere but proved to be unspectacular after all. All in all, kind of a lazy, lolling weekend - which I guess is what summer is all about.

I knew it wouldn't take long ...

For Geoff to want to get out of town.

But we're going to Haines this weekend, where I will try to convince Geoff to ride a bike and he will try to convince me to take naps.

At least I finally got my road bike in semi-working condition. It feels like a rocket ship compared to my Karate Monkey, although it's really as rickety as ever.

For those who have been watching the Great Divide Race updates, I will try to keep on top of those, but unless I can get ahold of Pete, they may be a bit sporadic in the next 48 hours.

But before I go, I just wanted to leave my fan-girl homage to one burly mountain biker from the UK, from one rickety road biker in the AK:

Go Jenn, go!

Rain's back

Date: July 8
Mileage: 37.1
July mileage: 116.4

When I told Geoff it didn't rain in June, he didn't believe me. So we looked it up: A mere 2.07 inches spread across 30 days. In Juneau, that's the same as not raining. "It would be just like Juneau to start up again the moment you came back to town," I said after waking up to another thick layer of liquid sunshine over the Channel. And it would be just like Geoff to miss the best part of summer and return to the waning daylight and strengthening precipitation ... prime conditions to temper new desires to get out of town.

I have been trying to drop hints that I want him to go hiking with me, but he is still in deep recovery from the Great Divide Race, eating multiple breakfasts and taking naps inbetween. Through it all, he's trying to train for the Crow Pass race. But I think he's just now beginning to realize what's left inside the shell of himself - amazing what eight days can destroy - but I know that any couch time this week can only do him good. So I set out on my own in the pouring rain, sticking to the bike because the mountains were socked in. It took me a while to work through the old gearing-up process. My PVC jacket was nowhere to be found. Same with my neoprene gloves - remnants of reality buried in the gear pile, somewhere, beneath my oh-so-rarely-usable short-sleeve jerseys. I pulled on my tattered rain pants and grabbed an extra pair of wool socks stuffed in a zippy. I felt no anticipation or dread about the conditions. Rain's just a given in Juneau, even when it's been gone for a month. It's like riding a bike. You don't forget.

The stream of water pouring off my front wheel had me squinting immediately. A friend in Whitehorse removed my front fender himself after mercilessly teasing me about it. "But I'm from Juneau," I protested. "We all have fenders and it's not even considered dorky." Then I neglected to put it back on when I came back to town. I regretted that move today, but not really. Plenty of water dumps from the sky; who cares what comes from the ground?

With eyes half open and mouth clamped shut, I began to hit my stride. Sharp raindrops rode the gusting east wind and I could smell the tidewater, rich with salt and sweet with rotting seaweed. Those are the kind of smells that dissapate with dryness until you almost forget they're there - like the earthy mulch, the bark and lupine, bursting out of the ground in a swirl of fragrance. Rain seeped through my helmet and dripped down my face. It tasted sweet and earthy, too. Tufts of fog rose from the treetops like steam as darker clouds crept down the mountains. There was something about the weather that was not just tolerable, but maybe even ... enjoyable? And I kind of missed the way rain felt, cold and refreshing against sweat and skin.

You know you've become a true Juneauite when you begin to miss the rain.

Remind me of that when September sinks in.

Possibilities

Date: July 6 and 7
Mileage: 22.0 and 8.7
July mileage: 79.3

I had nearly reached Gold Ridge when my watch hit 60:00:00, about three miles and 2,700 feet elevation since 0:00:00. Not bad for a walk. Could I take it to a run? I've never really been interested in running anywhere before, but for some reason I'm interested in running this Mount Roberts trail. I'm interested in running these mountains in general - to take it faster and farther than I've ever been able to before.

Faster and farther. With Geoff back in town and a few long-suffering racers still on the route, the Great Divide Race has been a heavy topic of discussion in recent days. When I am alone on my bike - and more often than that this month, on my feet - my thoughts often return to the question of whether or not I could ride the GDR. I feel motivated by the glimmer of excitement sparked by distant dreaming. But I end up kicking the scree or mashing my pedals when I arrive at the sheer absurdity of it all. All my past experience tells me I could not finish the GDR. All my past experience tells me it's impossible.

I was somewhere in the hills of Southern Ohio in fall 2003 when I just couldn't make the pedals turn anymore. My mind said go but my knees said no, and without another protest we were off the bike and walking, up the road, the finish line in upstate New York still unthinkably far away. Rather than becoming stronger every day, I was slowly breaking down, and I crossed those last three states on increasingly larger doses of pure willpower. And those weren't big miles back then. We were touring ... averaging 50 miles a day ... on pavement. The miles I've ridden since 2003 are exponential compared to the miles I put in before my cross-country tour. But still, the difficulties of that experience linger. They remind me that I am, at my core, just an ordinary person with ordinary abilities.

"It was really easy, until it wasn't," Geoff told me. "It was beautiful and enjoyable riding and great people, until my body gave up. And when my body gave up, my mind quickly followed."

I remember those hills in Ohio. More than all the mountains in the Rockies, they shattered me. Of all the things I learned from bicycle touring, I know emotionally there are wildly fluctuating days of good and bad. Mentally, the hardships get easier. But physically, the line seems to only trend downward.

And then there's faster and farther. I've watched Geoff scamper up Mount Roberts like a care-free mountain goat, fading into the clouds as I gasped and clawed my way up points far behind. He can coast up these trails effortlessly at a near-sprint; I get winded on a walk; and the GDR broke him. Where would that leave me? The ordinary person?

Faster and farther. If someone had pulled me aside on that road in Ohio in October 2003 and showed me a map of Alaska and the trails I would travel in the next five years, the rides I would not only attempt but finish, I would have never believed them. I was already on the bicycle ride of a lifetime, a lifetime, and it was harder than I ever imagined, and was more rewarding than I even anticipated, but Alaska would be another league entirely. Alaska would be impossible.

Still, it's fun to dream, even about things that may never, and maybe could never, happen. Because if there's anything I've learned from Alaska, I know where I take my ordinary abilities is entirely up to me. I get to set the limits. Faster and farther.

Geoff's back

Date: July 4 and 5
Mileage: 18.1 and 30.5
July mileage: 48.6

More than two months and a lifetime worth of mountain biking later, Geoff's in Juneau, and just like that, the routine has returned.

Geoff: "Did you eat any real food while I was gone?"
Jill: "I already told you, there are Pop Tarts on top of the fridge."

Geoff: "When did we get so many cats?"
Jill: "Those are the same cats."
Geoff: "Are you sure? I don't recognize that one."

Geoff: "Why is your Pugsley in the bedroom?"
Jill: "I was lonely."
Geoff: "That makes sense."

Geoff did return with a serious drill Sergeant hair cut and quads the size of small cars. He used to have more of a streamlined runner's body, but now he's put on some upper body weight, his upper legs are almost grotesquely overbuilt and his calves are much smaller than I remember. A visual reminder that mountain biking is in fact not a natural thing for a human to do. Still wish I could put on that kind of muscle. Maybe if I laid off the Pop Tarts.

Geoff also wrote up a good "race report" of photos and observations on his blog. Straight and to the point. He didn't blather on about it for seven days like I did after the Ultrasport.

I'm still trying to get my groove back with the cycling. My passion has dulled a little this week, kind of like the pain in my right heel - which, since it came on during my measly 24-hour race, I certainly can't complain to Geoff about. I'm still watching the weather and the snowline, dreaming of jagged ridges and alpine tundra, thinking I may still make good on my vow to try trail-running this summer. Mount Roberts Tram Run is in three weeks. Think I can race it? Well, if Geoff thinks he can defend his title in the dirt marathon that is the Crow Pass Crossing in two weeks, I can certainly give it a shot.

Jill + Juneau Ridge + July 3 = Tired

I am one of those people who always believes I've fully recovered from a hard effort long before I actually have. I don't know why. I guess slumming just doesn't suit me. I take my fatigue and perceive it as laziness. Then I rally until something simple takes me down hard, and the process begins again to a lesser degree until I finally am fully recovered. I know the 24 Hours of Light was no Iditarod, but it wasn't a Sunday stroll either. I wish I thought about that before I set out today on a 12-mile hike with lots (LOTS) of steep elevation gain.

(Yes, I totally took a self portrait at the peak with the giant cup of Diet Pepsi I had been suckling all the way up. I do loves me a tub o' caffeinated beverage.)

Hoofing up Mount Juneau felt pretty good. I wasn't moving very fast, but then again, I haven't done all that much hiking this season to be in great shape for it. And anyway, Mount Juneau is a mean one - gains about 3,000 feet in two miles. Half the time your nose is nearly touching the trail, your palms are embedded with sharp rocks and you forget what it's like to walk bipedal. So of course I was going to be tired at the top. That's no reason not to keep walking along the ridge.

A cold, hard crosswind needled through my meager layers as I made my way down the peak and across the first of many snowfields. After crossing the second knoll, I looked back and realized that the terrain I had tread just minutes before was nothing more than a snow bridge - a steeply overhanging one at that - along a cliff that plummeted hundreds of feet down. That discovery made me feel a little sick to my stomach, and I started making more effort to go around the snow on mud and rock. But often that was as good as Class 3-plus scrambling, and I started to feel the effort of the afternoon.

As I picked my way along the rock outcroppings, I hoisted myself onto a boulder just as a loud, piercing screech erupted right in front of me. I looked up as the bald eagle I had nearly stepped on spread its giant wings - a span as long as I am tall - and lifted into the breeze. Without even flapping its wings it swooped over my head and rode the wind's current on a graceful arc into the distance. One more screech cut short by the blasting wind, and it was gone.

Over the next knoll the rain started to come down, suddenly, with driving force. That and the howling wind left me feeling spooked out. I don't think thunderstorms even happen in Southeast Alaska, but I have spent enough time above treeline in Utah to be sufficiently scared of them. The ridge started to narrow, and I could see a point where I would have no choice but to cross a steeply slanted snowfield. I had hiked far enough that going forward on the ridge was shorter than turning around, but as I looked down into Granite Creek Basin, all I could see was snow, snow and more snow. It seemed I was facing a precarious crossing on a knife ridge followed by miles of trudging through slush. So I turned around.

Feeling my way back was when I really started to crash. I ate the Pop Tart I had carried with me, but it didn't help at all. What I really wanted to do was lie down and take a nap, but I was already partially soaked and stopping in the wind wasn't an option. My caffeinated beverage was long gone. I heard another screech and looked up to see my bald eagle circling the perch I kept so rudely interrupting. Watching it soar effortlessly over my snow-choked obstacle course filled me with a sense of peace, and even as I was wet and exhausted, I was happy to be there.

But the hike down was brutal, and by the time I made it back to the Perseverance Trail, I was weaving all over the wide, smooth path like a drunken bar hag. I couple of times I leaned against the side of the cliff just to "rest my eyes" for a bit. I really did feel like I was falling asleep, even as I plodded down the trail. I had to laugh at myself, how wasted I felt, because Juneau Ridge is really not that hard or epic of a hike. It's pretty mellow, actually. But I was completely cooked. I came home and had a good dinner and now I'm back on the caffeine, trying to rally to go catch the midnight fireworks, but I have to say, my bed is right over there, and it is (nearly) July 4, the biggest celebration in Juneau all year, but I'm just ... so ... tired.

Thoughts on Geoff's GDR

A picture of the Canadian crew in Carcross, Yukon. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone for showing Alex and me such a great time this past weekend. We rode and raced with mountain bikers from Whitehorse, Victoria, Vancouver and Edmonton, and I've never before felt so comfortable so quickly with a group of people. Thanks especially to Anthony and Sierra for putting me up, yet again, and feeding me home-grown vegetables, yet again. I so owe you guys big time.

I haven't had too many chances to talk to Geoff since he left the Great Divide route. The first time I heard from him was in Kremmling, Colo., after he cut off on the highway to save some time. I thought there might still be a chance to talk him into pedaling back to where he left the route so he could stay in the race. Selfishly, I wanted him to continue. I just couldn't fathom that he was as broken down as he said he was - if only because he had sounded so strong so recently. But after hearing his voice, I knew it was really, truly over. Not because he sounded weak, but because he sounded strong. I knew he had made the choice to stop with a clear head and conscience.

But it was inevitable that he'd begin to second guess himself the very next moment. I can totally relate. I've never finished a race and actually been completely happy with my performance. I instantly recognize my mistakes, my missteps, my moments of weakness. So today Geoff is back in Salt Lake and wishing he was still riding the Divide. "Basically, I quit because I was tired," he told me. A deep and prevailing tired, but only tired just the same. It began from the early days of the race when he couldn't sleep while he was stopped. Then he had a hard time finding good food, or sometimes even food he was even willing to eat. The climbing was everything he'd expected and more. Then he pushed himself until he could barely make the pedals turn. He gave himself a day to rest, but one day wasn't enough. When I pointed out he probably could have afforded several days of rest, he said, "Yeah. But then where would I be?" Not at the front of the race. And, really, that's where Geoff likes to be.

I'm not saying Geoff quit because he wasn't going to win. Actually, quitting a race for that reason is not like him at all. What is like Geoff is to quit a race because it stopped being fun. While he was crossing Montana and Wyoming, he was having a great time - riding his bike all day, eating big meals, chatting up the locals. When he rode, he rode hard, but he took plenty of time out to absorb the experience. In fact, most of the people he talked to who knew about the GDR didn't even believe Geoff when he said he was the second-place racer. They had just watched John Nobile go through - the image of efficiency, John usually rushed in an out of every stop, grabbing a sandwich to go, sleeping for only a few hours, hurrying out the door without saying a word. Geoff, they told him, looked too relaxed.

"I'm convinced that's what you need to do to break the record," Geoff said of John's approach. "You have to focus and be on task all day, every day. But I was never going to do it that way. It wouldn't even be fun."

So when Geoff hit his big wall, I imagine all he could see was an endless number of days without fun. Geoff is not the type of person to race for glory, and even if he was, there is so little glory in being a finisher of the Great Divide Race that if you're not doing it for yourself, I can't fathom how it would even be possible to finish. It's too hard. It's so hard, I think, that even if the Great Divide Race did offer fame and a sizable prize, the only difference you'd see is a much larger DNF list. There are few who want to do a race like this. Fewer still who can.

I believe Geoff can. "The evil curse of these stupid races is that he'll be thinking about coming back within a few days," Pete told me. This may be true. Geoff's preparations before the GDR were almost laughably minimal. Now he's armed with more knowledge and experience than most rookies could ever dream of. Eventually he'll tell the story of his race, and I can't wait to hear it. Because I know it's going to contain plenty of "next time"s.

As for me, I was pleased to discover that I don't require any more recovery time after the 24 Hours of Light. I still feel some aversion to the idea of riding my bike, probably brought on by my first saddle sores in two years, but I set out today for a hike up Mount Jumbo. I was pleasantly surprised when my leg muscles fired up to full strength without hesitation, and up we marched. Annoyingly, the snow line was only a few hundred feet higher than it was three weeks ago. And it was 75 degrees today! Melt already!

I don't have any concrete plans for the rest of the summer. I'd like to ride the Golden Circle again, either as a slower tour than last year, or else essentially "racing" it as a fast-touring time trial. I haven't decided. I'd also like to enter this year's Soggy Bottom 100, which I believe is in early September. Since I finished this race in 2006, just surviving it would not be enough. I would want to really improve on my time. But I'm not sure I have the mental stamina or desire to train for a fast singletrack hundie right now. Especially with next year's Ultrasport already floating through my dreams. A good 2009 race would require I take it really casual for the next few months, hike a lot, and amp the biking back up in the fall. Time will tell. I plan to enjoy the decision-making process.