More early morning fun

Date: April 1 and 2
Mileage: 27.1 and 30.3
April mileage: 57.4
Temperature upon departure: 31 and 29

Power day at Eaglecrest! I didn't climb up there with the intention of riding the mountain, nor did I really have the time, but I did have the Pugsley, and a clear view of four inches of fresh snow swept over a firm base. Some conditions are just too perfect to resist.

Amazing how five minutes of a swooping, weightless, white-silent powder blast can absorb all the malaise of a 12-hour work day. I'm going to try to get up at 6:30 tomorrow.

Escaped for a couple hours

I oozed out of bed at 7:35 a.m. Cough, cough, coffee, coffee. I know it’s not early to some. It’s early to me.

Cranked up the hill at 8somethingish. Still early. Got a little overeager with the shifting. Snapped my chain clean off. Hopped off the bike, turned around. Power walked, jogged, ran toward the house. It was the first time I'd run at all in more than a month. The cold wind tasted like maple syrup. Toes ached a little. Time ticked onward.

Fixing a chain takes too long so I swapped out my bikes. Pugsley doesn't have a front fender because the front rack gets in the way. I changed into my plastic jacket i.e. "wearable tarp" and braced for the slush fest.

But new snow and sunlight ... nowhere in the warm spring world does a better combination exist.

On days like this, it's easy to become lost in the shadows and light. Sometimes I feel like I'm dissolving into a painting, where each movement becomes a brush stroke, dramatic and smooth, a rolling creation of flawless art. Creative cycling. That is what I do. And when time squeezes in, stretches back out, moves farther away from winter, it's what I'm left with. It's what I remember.

Ahhhhh ...

Spring face.

Hell week

Date: March 28 and 29
Mileage: 31.1 and 20
March mileage: 312
Temperature upon departure: 35 and 33

I'm in the midst of a crazy busy seven-day span at work. 12-hour days and everything (and I figured out, factoring in recent company-wide pay cuts and an otherwise static weekly salary, that my big promotion is currently netting me something in the range of $2.46 an hour.) Since I pretty much only do three things with the majority of my awake time - bike, work and blog - it's been hard to make cuts. Daily blogging, as you can see, was the first to go. Biking I can do still do with the sacrifice of some of my non-awake time. If I ooze out of bed at 7 a.m., even though I don't roll home from the office until after 11 p.m., I can still ride my bike and/or go to the gym in the morning. This is the part where I can't help but laugh at the humor in a situation that has me - me of all people - sampling the life of a stressed-out workaholic. It's enlightening, really ... in a "It's A Wonderful Life" sort of way ... without the big jar of money at the end ...

Since the blogging has to suffer, I thought I'd just throw in a few quick updates.

1. My book is now available electronically on Amazon Kindle for the low low price of $5.59.

2. By popular demand, mostly from real-life friends, I recently created a four-week frostbite recovery update with pictures. I buried it in the archives to protect the squeamish, so DO NOT CLICK HERE if you do not want to see photographs of dead-looking toes.

3. I have a very exciting announcement to make: Up in Alaska is holding its first-ever product giveaway! Up for grabs is a brand new Olympus Stylus Tough-8000 camera: 12 megapixels, shockproof, waterproof, and lots of new fun. It even has a "beauty" feature that is basically an in-camera Photoshop function that has been programmed to erase ugly boils and blemishes from skin. Sadly, this feature does not work on dead-looking toes. But stay tuned for the camera giveaway contest, which I hope to post within the next week.

4. Since this upcoming summer is to be my "Summer of Bikepacking," expect cool new gear posts in the coming weeks as well.

5. Being under so much job pressure has created a rapid day-to-day swing in my moods and ambitions, until I'm not sure what I want to do. But I refuse to collapse under the weight of "economy guilt." There's just too much joy in simplicity, and the greater the amount of external pressure, the easier it is to forget that I already live an untethered life.

Embracing the snain

Date: March 26 and 27
Mileage: 21.3 and 55.4
March mileage: 255.9
Temperature upon departure: 34

I went to the doctor again Thursday, and am now feeling confident enough in the durability of my toes to start venturing out for some longer days of exercise. The weather, however, didn't have the same ambitions. 34 degrees with intermittent snow and rain ... actually snowing one minute, raining the next, repeat. In Juneau, we call it snain. It's even uglier than its name, and uglier still to try to ride a bike in. Gooey slush erupts from the road in a geyser of moisture that even the best mountain bike fenders can't contain (and I have to use a mountain bike just to plow through the thick slop) Meanwhile, moisture falls in cold streams from the sky. Imagine straddling a cold-water geyser in a downpour. That's what biking in snain feels like. It's impossible to stay dry.

But I've actually figured out a great system for my feet. It only took seven layers (nine including the bandages), but I think I've actually found a way to keep my toes relatively dry (with the exception of trapped sweat, which is closer to damp than the swimming-in-a-slush-pond soaked that my feet usually are after a snain ride): Loose nylon sock to hold sweat somewhat away from the toes, loose vapor barrier sock, huge calf-high wool sock, tights stretched over that, sandle, waterproof overboot, and double-layer rain pants pulled over the top to keep water from seeping in. Dare I say such a setup can keep my feet dry indefinitely? It certainly seems that way after five hours in the slush geyser. Can't say that at all about the rest of my body.

Mostly based on the weather, I had decided to spend the weekend venturing forward in moderation. Riding in snain for anything longer than two hours is miserable, and working out at the gym for anything longer than two hours is miserable. But do both in the same day, and you have a four-hour day that is definitely tolerable. That was my plan. It went well yesterday. I kept my feet dry and I started reading a bad book (why is it that so many bike touring books are nearly unreadable? As in, "I ate this pie, and it was good, and then I rode up this hill, and it was hard." How are all these books getting published? ... said the self-publisher.)

Anyway ... two hours of riding followed by two hours at the gym was the plan today as well. I rode out toward North Douglas but quickly found myself in two to four-inch deep glop. Cars were swerving all over the road and I was having a tough time riding a straight line myself. I turned around to seek out something with a semblance of pavement, and started north toward the Valley. I was riding strong with a tailwind, walking all of the snow-covered bike paths, and actually feeling pretty good. I decided to push on a little longer than two hours, took the long way around Mendenhall Loop, hammered against the pounding headwind, jogged the unrideable bike paths, and had to stop at the Breeze Inn for a Snicker Bar and Gatorade because I was pretty severely bonked and wasn't carrying any food. Then, with sugar coursing through my blood, I decided to tack on another extra 10 miles of slow slush riding out to Thane before finally heading home. And just like that, a planned 20-mile ride became 55. I arrived home at 4 p.m., having left a little after 11 a.m. and telling Geoff I would be back at "1 at the latest."

"I was starting to get worried about you," he said. "I thought you had to be hurt or broken down or something, because there's no way you stayed out that long because you were actually enjoying yourself."

I looked at him, with my polar fleece jacket and rain pants dripping brown water onto the linoleum, waterlogged mittens wadded up in my hands, wet hair clinging to the clammy skin on my neck, socks pretty much comprising the only dry piece of clothing on my body, and I just smiled ... because I had been enjoying myself.

Getting back in shape is hard

Date: March 25
Mileage: 35.2
March mileage: 179.2
Temperature upon departure: 33

Yeah, I'm ultra-busy at work right now and, OK, I still have frostbite on my toes, but I really have to get this bike thing going again. No more sitting at my computer with my foot up. No more sleeping until 9 a.m. If I am going to work myself up to the best biking shape of my life, I am going to have to trim the fat ... in more ways than one.

I was in pretty good bike shape a month ago. OK, I let it slide a little after that January trip to Hawaii, and in February I did a lot more hiking and swimming through waist-deep snow to prepare for the pushathon I was expecting the Iditarod Trail Invitational to be (I was right about the pushathon; I just happened to miss the bulk of the race.) But then came the frostbite, the downtime that followed, the somewhat conservative venture back to activity, and finally, less than a week ago, getting back on the bike.

I've been doing lots of interval sessions on the elliptical trainer at the gym ... good, high-heart-rate stuff. I thought my fitness was at least late-November level. Maybe even December. I actually had an entire morning available to ride before I had to be at work today, so I planned my most ambitious ride since the pseudo-comback ... 25 miles of tempo riding with a five mile, 1,200-foot climb thrown in.

I wrapped up my bad foot in its requisite 16 layers and put the legs into high gear, rolling north. I knew I was in trouble when four miles in, with a strong wind at my back, I already felt like vomiting. I took it down a notch, but still, the pedaling felt hard. Much harder than this same stretch of road felt the 100 or so times I rode it last season. "I'm really not in very good shape," I thought as I sucked down gulps of cold air. And why would I be? It's been four weeks of crutching and limping and 90-minute elliptical spins in a 70-degree gym and chocolate chip cookies (mental health first, I always say.)

It didn't bode well for the rest of my ride, but I made it to North Douglas and turned into the wind. It really was blowing hard. Bummer. Head down, churning, feet toasty warm but hands half-frozen and locked in place (the coming of spring always makes me stop thinking about mittens until it matters), it was time to fix my blank stare on the glowing circle at the end of cave and suffer.

But I had time. I still had time. I can't afford to waste the time I have, so I turned right at Fish Creek Road, and commenced the climb. I was really hoping I was at least still a good climber. I was a good climber in Hawaii. I am not a good climber right now. At least, I wasn't today. Halfway up I had to stop for water. The effort called for something more, something energizing yet mindless, like 90s pop punk. I pulled out my iPod, flipped through the artist list until I found the Suicide Machines. When I was in 12th grade, I would listen to the Suicide Machines while I stayed up all night churning out uninspired drawings so I could fill up my portfolio with the minimum required to earn my AP Art credit. Come to think of it, my life is not so different now.

I mounted my bike again and smiled at the rush of purple noise.

"I tell you that the world's a scary place
And you tell me we're caught up in the same race
Everybody's worried that they'll never get their share
I got left behind cause I wasn't even there."

Thirty seconds later, I was well out of the pain cave, gazing at a sunlit strip of fog stretched over the mountains and singing out loud, "All my dreams were just islands in the sky! All my dreams were just islands in the sky ..."

It was a strange boost out of nowhere. My hands warmed back up. I climbed hard and shot down the hill, spraying snow and slush at 40 mph. I felt much stronger and even rode a bit faster fighting the headwind home than I had felt coasting with it on the way out. I had spent most of the morning believing I was doomed for this coming summer, but the climb reminded me that success in cycling is still, for me at least, mostly a mental battle.

But I still have a lot of work to do.

Pictures from the drive home

No time to bike or blog these past couple of days. It's not even Hell week at work yet. That's next week. Some day I hope to look back on this span of months as "perspective." Right now I'm just hoping that three years of endurance training gets me through.

At least I had a good dinner break ...

Snow line

Egan Drive

Sandy Beach

There's always tomorrow.

Feels good to come back

Date: March 22
Mileage: 38.2
March mileage: 144
Temperature upon departure: 38

I intended to stick to roads for a while, but the trail looked irresistible where it branched away from the highway. Packed by a steady flow of feet and still firm in the late morning, it cut a six-inch deep line through the snow-crusted woods. It was so narrow that both pedals scrapped against the sides - true winter singletrack - but so smooth and flowing that I could navigate my rigid-fork mountain bike with ease. I breathed in large gulps of air, tasting warmth and fresh moisture. Light from the noon sun streamed through clouds directly overhead. Spring thaw has begun.

I wove through the woods, lost in thoughts about mountain biking and summer. I dropped down the moraine and rolled onto the lake. The narrow trail became bumpier - less traveled - and the walkers had inexplicably tracked a series of tight, hairpin turns across the wide-open lake ice. In the midst of a hard maneuver, I rolled right over a minefield of deep footprints in refrozen slush. I slammed on the breaks and put my good foot down as blood rushed to my head. I felt light-headed, weak and a little bit nauseous, staring right into obvious but also obviously harmless overflow. "Great," I thought, "now I'm going to have to add overflow to my list of fears I overreact to." Also on this list are the open ocean, breaking waves, whitewater and fast-flowing currents. Come to think of it, all of my irrational fears have to do with water.

But I swallowed my overflow phobia and crossed the lake to the face of Mendenhall Glacier.

It seems inevitable that every time someone catches you taking photos of scenic spots, they are going to ask if you want a photo of yourself in front of said spot. It's a nice gesture, but I have mixed feelings about posting a photo of myself modeling the floppy bulk of footgear I need to wear these days to protect my feet from the 40-degree air.

Overflow! Spooky!

The intense blue hue of glacial ice is intriguing, but I find the texture of newly exposed layers truly fascinating. To the touch it feels rough and gritty, like cold sandstone. I like to look for fine particles of crushed sediment encased in the age-old ice, geological layers uncovered by gravity and relentless melt. The face of a glacier is almost uncanny in the way it resembles the wind-eroded rock formations of the Colorado Plateau. Ice and fire.

Can you tell I'm really excited about my monthlong sojourn to the Utah desert? Come mid-May, my blog will probably feature pictures much like the ones above, in shades of red.