Great Divide dreams

Date: July 13
Mileage: 45.8
July mileage: 287.2

Well, Jenn Hopkins hit the Mexican border early this morning, making her the seventh and last finisher of this year's Great Divide Race. Given that this English singlespeeder who I had never heard of before last month is my new hero, I was really happy to hear she finished. But, like all endings, the news was bittersweet. This means no more call-ins, no more blog to update, no more racers to worry about and times to track. The Great Divide Race has been a huge part of my life this summer. Even beyond Geoff preparing for and competing in this year's race, which would have kept me glued to the updates in and of itself, I became intimately involved through the blog. Listening to the daily messages and attempting to transcribe them made me feel like I was right there on the sidelines, watching the racers struggle and succeed even as I went about my normal life thousands of miles away. It was great, really great, and I wanted to say thanks to Pete for letting me be involved, and also thanks to the racers for participating in the grand drama. There is a reason I no longer watch TV. Reality has forever ruined it for me.

It was hard when Geoff dropped out of the race. But the effort put in by the remaining racers, the heart and the grit, actually did help temper the disappointment - for Geoff as well as myself. I have to admit that when Pete first sent me the list of starters for the 2008 race - Geoff, Carl, Fred, a couple of previously unsuccessful GDR veterans and a bunch of people I had never heard of - I didn't expect much from this year's race. So it was even more exciting to watch John Nobile break the course record; for Carl, Rainer and Simon to pull in under 20 days; for Fred to tackle the granddaddy of the Mountain West's ultraendurance races, pretty much all of which he's finished; for Noah to finish on his second attempt and for Jenn to finish at all, given all the hardships she pushed through. A good year for sure.

And a good field - despite the recent division of Great Divide racing. Like many, I too was originally disappointed when I first learned about the creation of the Tour Divide. I feared a squabbling end to the Great Divide Race and bitter feelings remaining for most involved. But, as it turned out, both races worked out beautifully. Both attracted strong fields and both developed their own voices, their own compelling stories and inspiring efforts as the races progressed. One one hand, it's strange to divide what is really a small, small community. On the other hand, this year proved that there's not only room for two events in Great Divide racing, there may even be a need. Tour Divide has its passion and sense of community. Great Divide Race has its history and competitive spirit. Together, they coaxed more people to race this crazy route than ever before. I like to think of it as similar to the American League and the National League in baseball - separate but equal.

That said, my heart is with the Great Divide Race, and I really hope to see it survive. I noticed on the Web site there is already a "2009" stamped on the start date, so it looks like someone is thinking of giving it a go next year. This is great news for me, because it helps set some framework around my most audacious dreams, which simmer well on the backburner but tend to not stop once they start boiling over. Would I ever toe the line? Hard to say. I didn't think Geoff would actually do it when he announced his plans in June 2007, and look where we are today. I'm still not sure I'd even want to toe the line, though. Dave Harris put my conflicting feelings about the race well: "Every year I get excited for the first week of it, and then I see how much nearly everyone breaks down and it doesn’t look so attractive." The Great Divide Race does seem an impossible thing to do without digging a deep physical and financial deficit. That said, the best life experiences demand enormous debts - look at college.

Would I even stand a chance of finishing the Great Divide Race? Hard to say. Twenty-four days is a more-than-reasonable cutoff, accessible to most who are reasonably prepared, mentally determined and don't hit too many strokes of bad luck. I love the idea of riding fast as I can, pushing as hard as I can, out there alone - because no matter how many people show up at the starting line, you are in this race alone. But I also like the idea of touring with friends, soaking up companionship and scenery as the days loll by. Two very different approaches - both rewarding in their own ways. I'm still not sure which is right for me.

What I do know is this route has rendered its way into my dreams, stretching over my day-to-day thoughts like the distant horizon of the Great Divide Basin. I should see it because it's my country. I should see it because it's beautiful. I should see it because it's frightening. I should see it because it's humbling. I should see it because it's already a part of me. I should see it because otherwise it will haunt me. I should see it. Someday.

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.