Nearing an

Date: April 17 and 18
Mileage: 37.4 and 32.2
April mileage: 656.6
Temperature: 46 and 40

I was still stoked from all of my Tuesday snow biking when I pounded out 60 miles in less than three and a half hours Wednesday, and since then, I just haven't been able to get my legs back. I've gone out looking for them, but mostly coming up with nothing. Lack of enthusiasm; dull ache in my quads; urge to lie down and take a nap in the boggy, ice-crusted grass.

"Maybe you're coming down with something," Geoff said.

"I'm not sick," I said. "Just tired."

Sometimes life catches up with me. And sometimes it just rushes by.

I struggled under a crush of boxes and bins as I hauled another carload of crap to the storage unit. One of the benefits of moving often is that it allows you to regularly assess your worldly possessions and realize just how little they mean to you. I can't manage to completely part with this stuff, but yet I can leave it all behind. I lifted the only light bin in the mix and peeked inside. My winter sleeping bag fluffed up and tried to escape the rigid confines of hard plastic. I slammed the lid back down and smiled. That sleeping bag has been my lifeline in hard times, and yet its only real worth is in the places I carry it. I stacked the bin at the top of a small pile in a plywood-lined closet, turned off the light, and left.

As I dug through my car, I found an old piece of paper stuffed in the door. A long list of numbers filled the faded sheet, front and back - a score card from a series of Gin Rummy games that Geoff and I played as we meandered across the country in 2001. I fingered the old paper, ripped and crinkled with rain drops, ballpoint pen faded yellow, and followed the long string of numbers until they petered out, final score 1,993 to 1,926. Geoff won. He was the one keeping score, adding numbers in his head beneath the labels "J-Pod" and "G-Pod." I smiled, because I didn't even remember referring to each other with that kind of nickname, and it was long before the days of iPod, but, either way, it was probably looked just as geeky then as it does now. But that was more than 120,000 miles ago; the Twin Towers still stood in New York and we were still innocent; or, at least, we hadn't discovered ultra-running and cycling yet.

Every time I approach a life change, I'm met with all sorts of regret and unrest. It's not focused negativity; it's just there, reminding me that, regardless of what happens, I can't return to the same situation as the same person. It reminds me that I didn't do things perfectly, that I don't always treat my life with the awe and love it deserves even as I struggle with powerless legs as the rain dissolves the snow and exposes a winter's worth of decay. That maybe Geoff and I haven't been spending as much time together as we should because we've been so caught up in our own lives. That maybe it will be strange to get in a small car and travel across the continent together, again.

But I found this old scorecard, and maybe now, eight years, 120,000 clicks on the Geo's odometer, and countless running, biking and hiking miles later, we can pick up the Gin Rummy game where we left off. There's adventure in that, too, in an innocent way that all the ultras we pour our hearts into can never fill.

Packing up

Date: April 14, 15 and 16
Mileage: 21.4, 58.9 and 44.7
April mileage: 587

It's been a tiring few days of hard riding, heavy packing, and trying to close up shop at the office. My to-do list seems to be getting longer rather than shorter. I've had a surprisingly Zen attitude about it all - not feeling the least bit guilty about cutting out in the morning for three-hour rides, purposely forgetting my cell phone and leaving half-full bins stacked up in the bedroom for days on end. I really did do my taxes at 10:15 p.m. Wednesday night. We just set up our storage unit today. We're set to board a ferry next Wednesday morning, and I haven't even gotten the oil changed in my car yet. Now I'm half-fried from riding hard in the afternoon on no food (tried to squeeze the ride in after a long string of errands, and it was a long time after lunch and a bit longer than I had planned), and I'm just sitting at the computer, frivolously clicking away at a keyboard. The Zen attitude persists. Come what may.

But in their own way, things are coming together. I got my Karate Monkey back from Glacier Cycles today. The Reba fork is back on, the studs are about to go, and it has a whole bunch of shiny new parts that are just screaming, "Ride me on dirt!" Around here, however, there's still none to be found. I have to settle for gravel-coated pavement and the occasional spur onto the beach.

But speaking of packing, I just received these great new bags from Eric over at Epic Designs. He's come a long way since I received my first round of winter bikepacking gear back in late 2007. The gas tank is streamlined for maximum space, and the bags are made out of what appears to be bombproof, waterproof material and zippers. Super sweet! I love that I can cull everything I need in this world from bins and bins that I have to haul to a storage unit, to only what I can fit in a few bike bags. I'm already trying to determine how many peanut butter cups I can fit in the gas tank. Geoff is going to take my Pugsley bags, which fit his mountain bike much better than they fit mine. We're hoping to take some overnight tours together in the next few weeks.

We also finally found a home for these little devils - my roommate's cats, Suki and Izumi. He's actually been out of town for the majority of the past year, and Geoff and I won't be around to care for them over the summer, so they had to go. Shannon found a nice woman who was willing (I'd go so far as to say excited) to take both of them, so they won't have to split up. Geoff's and my cats are going to stay with a friend who lives next door to open woods, so I anticipate they'll have a fantastic summer crouching in blueberry bushes and slaying voles. Everything's starting to come together.

Video blog: April snow biking

This may be my best video blog post yet. Seriously. I think I'll submit it to Cannes.

Music is "Read My Mind" by The Killers. Enjoy.


Snow biking - a great way to avoid doing taxes from Jill Homer on Vimeo.

Pondering platforms

Date: April 13
Mileage: 36.3
April mileage: 462
Temperature upon departure: 39

Ever since I removed the Look pedals from my road bike to accommodate my obnoxiously big overboots, I feel like I have finally been set free. I don't have clipless pedals on my snow bike. I don't have them on my mountain bike. And now that I am officially clipless free, I'm free to do anything I want - wear an obnoxiously big overboot over comfortable running shoes and/or sandals, place my foot anywhere that suits me, and pedal down the road.

I admit that I never became all that attached to my clipless pedals. I just didn't understand them. In most long-distance riding, emphasis is placed on relieving your pressure points. Use lots of different hand positions. Stand up and sit down in the saddle. And yet, people feel perfectly comfortable having their foot locked in one small place for hours at a time. I don't. Sometimes I ride with my heel resting on the platform. Sometimes I push down with my toes. Sometimes I even ride the proper way. The truth is, I move my feet all over the pedals, usually intentionally, as a way to relieve knee pain and foot numbness and generally just mix it up.

I won't even go into how much I hate cycling shoes. Yes, I know they make shoes that you can technically walk in. But those shoes are made by cycling companies, who don't seem to understand the first thing about walking. Their shoes start out uncomfortable and quickly deteriorate to shreds while the cleats are ground down to useless nubbins.

Then, what do you do if the pedals, heaven forbid, get unworkably clogged with mud or ice? Really, what do you do?

But the truth is, I've been thinking about converting my mountain bike to clipless for all the bikepacking I'm going to be doing this summer. I'll give clipless advocates the truths they hold dear - that clipless pedals do give the rider a power advantage (I happen to believe it's pretty marginal, at least it my case.) And, in extreme technical mountain biking, where accidentally slipping off the pedals at an inopportune moment could send a rider headlong off a cliff, clipless pedals can save lives (I've never come close to attempting this kind of extreme technical riding.) Still, while I'm willing to accept the advantages of attaching myself to a bike, I'm having a hard time overcoming the disadvantages.

How can I get the power advantage of clipless pedals while still maintaining my ability to relieve joint pressure by moving my foot around? I know they make platform/clipless hybrids, but those seem pretty spotty to me. And what about those horrible shoes? I don't simply want shoes that will work for walking in and out of stores. I want shoes that I can use to hike across the Grand Canyon, 25 miles with 7,000 feet of climbing, carrying a bike and gear on my back. I'm not saying I'm actually going to do this ... but I wouldn't mind having shoes that could handle it.

I really believe that platform pedals with Power Grips are the answer for me. Am I crazy?

Are there any other former platform pedal die-hards who managed to make the conversion and never looked back? I'm open to suggestions.

First hike

Date: April 11
Mileage: 34.2
April mileage: 425.7
Temperature upon departure: 43

I finished out my monthlong membership at the gym on Friday, rode for a couple hours Saturday and got this idea in my head that I really wanted to go for a hike today. I haven't hiked since before the frostbite incident. I still have a lot of soreness in my toes and they haven't taken all that kindly to shoes yet, but I've survived a few "hike-a-bikes" OK, so I thought a bikeless hike would work fine. I even brought my hobble sticks (some people call them trekking poles. I only tend to use them when I'm injured, so they have that association for me.)

The snow on Douglas Island is in great shape right now ... too soft for biking and too wet and condensed for skiing, but just right for snowshoeing. I worked hard going up the mountain because I wanted to cover a lot of terrain and hiking, after all this time spent almost exclusively biking, felt strangely slow. Even with just a single polypro layer on, I was dressed way too warm for a partly sunny Easter Sunday, and I was soon shedding a steady stream of sweat all over the snow. I could hear songbirds chirping. It's the first day this year that I can honestly say felt like spring.

But it didn't look like spring. Above treeline, I found myself traversing a naked ridge through rolling clouds. I had this sensation of snowblindness, scanning for the contrast of white on white until I had to shut my eyes, because I couldn't see. It's a disorienting condition, and somewhat scary when I was trying to stay in the center of the wide ridgeline to reduce my presense in possible avalanche zones. I couldn't tell whether I was walking on flat terrain or about to step off a cliff into a white void. Then, just like that, the cloud would roll away and I could see many dozens of miles into the distance with sharp clarity. It got to the point where I would just stop walking when a cloud rolled through, and continue forward when blue sky returned, knowing it would be fairly easy and safe to follow my own tracks back whenever I finally turned around.

When I finally did turn around, the skies were really clearing up and I had been walking for a long time. I still felt great, but I hadn't really planned for the fact that steep downhill hiking in shoes happens to put a lot of pressure on toes. After about a half mile I was in quite a bit of pain, leaning hard on the hobble sticks and limping slowly down the mountain. A couple of snowmobiles passed me and I resisted the urge to hitch a ride. I knew I was going to be fine. This pain isn't really a cause of long-term nerve damage; it's more of an effect. I'm already feeling much better - but it did take what felt like an eternity to wrap up that hike.

It's funny how when you are concentrating on your mP3 player to take your mind off a painful task at hand, all of the words in all of the songs seem written just for you. I think I've found my new theme song for the time being - "Extraordinary Machine" by Fiona Apple:

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes;
And I certainly haven't been spreading myself around.
I still only travel by foot, and by foot it's a slow climb,
But I'm good at being uncomfortable,
So I can't stop changing all the time.

I notice that my opponent is always on the go;
And won't go slow, so as not to focus, and I notice
He'll hitch a ride with any guide,
As long as they go fast from whence he came;
But he's no good at being uncomfortable,
so he can't stop staying exactly the same.

If there was a better way to go then it would find me.
I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me.
Be kind to me, or treat me mean ...
I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine.

Good mileage push

Date: April 8 and 9
Mileage: 47.8 and 101.6
April mileage: 391.5
Temperature upon departure: 39 and 42

Sometimes I fell compelled to apologize to my journal for the frivolous way I burn up all my free time. I mean, I consider myself an intelligent person. I have a good job. I have friends. Most of them are even real friends, not just, as Geoff calls them, "Facebook Friends." I have a great cat. I love reading newspapers, even though I work for one. I devour New Yorker magazines. Every so often, I read a book. I've had a variety of hobbies - snowboarding, drawing, going to movies ... OK, not that many hobbies. But these days, I pretty much just ride my bike. I'm sorry.

There's just this thing about me ... I can't really explain it ... I just really like riding my bike. People pass me on the street and later tell me I seemed to be smiling. Everyone tells me this. Do I smile every second that I'm on my bike? I don't know. That's what people say.

It's just that biking is so monotonous and repetitive and sort of pointless. I go out to a random point and then I return to my home. The next day, I go to another random point and then come home. Sometimes I take my bike to work, and then I ride home. Then I go out to the first random point that I rode to earlier in the week, and come home. Day after day after day. What's wrong with me?

Sometimes it's raining. Usually, it's raining. The wind blows hard from the south. Even though the temperature has been above 40, I still have to bundle up pretty warm to help keep my ultra-sensitive toes from freezing. The trails have turned to mush. The roads are covered in goo, but at least they're rideable. There aren't many roads in Juneau. I see a lot of the same terrain. Day after day after day. And yet, I never see it in the same way twice. Sometimes strips of sunlight escape through the clouds and paint streaks of green on the gray-washed mountainsides. Sometimes deer bound along the roadside and waterfalls roar with the weight of spring runoff. Yesterday, I stopped at Auke Rec and saw a man swimming in the bay. His long, neoprene-covered arms cast wide strokes over the smooth water. I watched him for a few seconds and realized he wasn't alone. Sleek, shadowy figures bounded in and out of the bay near him. I squinted and realized the shadows were dorsal fins. Porpoises. The man was swimming with porpoises, or, more accurately, they were swimming with him. Either way, it looked amazing, in a beautiful, terrifying way, and I wished myself out there with them. The man just kept swimming, calmly toward shore, as the porpoises danced around him. I got back on my bike and coasted down the road, smiling.

I was stoked to squeeze in nearly 50 miles before work yesterday. I wanted to go for 100 today. The bike did not make it easy. It was a "bad bike day." I got three flat tires, and at one point had to backtrack five miles to a bike shop to buy new tubes. I sliced my hand clean open on the razor-sharp derailleur pulley spikes and bled all over my patch kit. My rear brake pads finally wore to nothing. My rear wheel skewer kept coming loose on its own, which could have ended badly, but I kept telling myself it was my fault and it wouldn't happen again. Then it would. I was starting to remember why I gave up riding this bike last fall. It has a lot of problems.

But when I wasn't wallowing in a snowy ditch and fumbling with my rear wheel, the miles just flew by. Traffic was scarce and I did a lot of singing out loud. I decided I am a big fan of Clif Shot Bloks. It's taken me a while to come around to them. I used to think they tasted like sugar-coated wads of snot. Now I think they taste like energy-stoking wads of heaven. I like the "cola" kind. They taste like Pepsi.

On the outside, I'm just turning pedals and going nowhere, wearing soaked nylon and splattered in mud, probably with a big dopey smile on my face and Pepsi-colored Shot Blok bits lodged in my teeth. But on the inside, I'm drifting in a peaceful sea, moving freely between the past and present, and absorbing almost obscene quantities of beauty that I could devour forever and never be full.

I'm riding my bike.

I'm not sorry.

The (next) ultimate bike tour

Date: April 7
Mileage: 27.2
April mileage: 242.1
Temperature upon departure: 41

So I’m thinking about heading up to Banff on June 11 and lining up with whoever else shows up for the 2009 Great Divide (formerly known as the Great Divide Race.) I’ve actually been thinking about this since 2006. When Geoff decided to enter the race last year, I certainly didn’t feel ready myself and wasn’t at a point in my career where I felt comfortable just dropping everything for a trip south. I still don’t feel ready for such an extreme physical endeavor, but I am at a good place to hit pause on my life in Juneau for a few months. This may be the best window I ever get. Might as well go as far as I can.

Why the GD?
Since I first found out about the existence of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, back in 2003, I’ve looked to it as an ultimate bike tour. I started out as a road tourist and I’m not bothered at all by the fact that this route mostly follows gravel roads and jeep tracks. In fact, I prefer it. I appreciate a good piece of singletrack as much as the next mediocre mountain biker, but I certainly wouldn’t want to ride a couple thousand miles of singletrack, or even a couple hundred, at least not until I become much more comfortable with technical riding. What I do want to ride is large swaths of vastly empty space, beautiful mountains, stunning desert vistas, punchy snow, soul-crushing climbs and soaring descents. The GDMBR is set up in such a way that a person like myself with my talents (turning cranks, hike-a-biking, looking past pain and generally outlasting myself) actually stands a chance of succeeding.

But why the race? Why not just tour it and have fun?
One of the more rewarding things I’ve done in recent years is my 2007 “fast tour” of the Golden Circle. I set a time limit of 48 hours to ride 370 miles of remote Alaska and Canadian roads that I had never ridden before, all by myself. I packed light, rode well into the evening, slept in a bivy sack in bear country with tuna juice all over my hands, saw beautiful country, sweated in 90-degree heat, fought fierce headwinds, suffered a fair amount, sought refuge with friends, shivered through subfreezing mornings, and finally crested that last pass knowing I “could do it.” I met my goal. The fact that I had that time limit on top of the crushing distance, that I pushed and pushed and pushed and overcame the loneliness and hardships, made the ride so much more rewarding. It still look back on that trip as one of my best accomplishments, right up there with my first Susitna 100 and the 2008 ITI. The Golden Circle wasn’t even a race, but it had the perimeters and therefore challenges and rewards of a race. And I realize that it’s one thing to push yourself near the limit for two days, and quite another to try it for 25. But you never know if you don’t go.

Are you and Geoff going to ride together?
No. Geoff has several ultramarathons he’s been planning and training for the better part of a year. And I’m of the opinion that ultrarunning is his true calling and he owes it to himself to give it his best shot while he’s near the top of his game. The truth is, if he did decide to drop everything and join me, I’d be inclined to try to talk him out of it.

My reasons are partly selfish, too. I benefit most from endurance challenges if I go it alone. The solitude is one of the virtues I seek, although I also value new friendships and comraderie ... that’s one of the main benefits of lining up with others in the context of a race. And the fact is, it is a race. It’s hard to commit to riding with another person for the entire distance. Groups are only as strong as the weakest rider (cough, cough, me), and are almost guaranteed to never hit their highs and lows at the same time. While teamwork most certainly helps fellow competitors work through the low points, it can be tough on a relationship. I’ve joked with other endurance junkies about creating a couples race on the GDMBR. We’d call it the “Tour Divorce.”

So why the Great Divide and not the Tour Divide?
For those unfamiliar with the whole issue of the two races, the race split in two last year based on differences of opinion about the route and rules among its participants. It remains two races, and anyone who wants to line up with other people has to pick one. So that’s my answer. I had to pick one. The GD has a race philosophy I’m already familiar with. It also seems smaller and more willing to fly under the radar, and that’s probably a good place for an in-over-her-head competitor to be. Plus, GD starts a whole day earlier than the TD, and that one-day head start may give me more opportunities to ride with others.

And just how qualified do you really think you are?
Probably the best ride on my resume is a 2003 bike tour from Salt Lake City to Syracuse, N.Y. Sure, we only averaged about 50 miles a day on pavement (propelling about 70 pounds of bikes and gear a piece, mind you.) But no other ride I’ve done could have better prepared me for the realities of camping in ditches, having to find all of your food and water, pushing through the bad days and relishing in the good, and generally just living outside among strange people in a strange land for weeks at a time. The 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational, of course, helped me become more familiar with the realities of back-to-back 15 to 20-hour days of solid physical work. Life in Alaska has made me more comfortable with remote places and bear country. As far as endurance races, I’ve only done a couple solo 24-hour races and a handful of winter races. I’m of the opinion that race history does little to help a person finish the GDMBR. It’s really more about good planning, a healthy dose of luck, and heaps of mental fortitude.

So how do you plan to prepare?
Geoff and I leave Juneau on April 22. We’re heading to San Francisco so Geoff can run the Miwok 100K, and I’ll have some time amid the travels to amp up my bike mileage. We’re going to spend the month of May near Teasdale, Utah, where I can ride and camp in the desert and Boulder mountains and hopefully (hopefully!) adapt to heat and elevation, both big weaknesses of mine, living as I do in a temperate rainforest at sea level. I realize a month isn’t a lot of time to prepare, but it’s more than many people get. The idea for this forlough started out as being all about Geoff’s races and my fun forays into bicycle camping. I also wanted to spend more time focusing on my writing. Adding the GD as a big punctuation mark was a distant dream that started to make more and more sense. Who knows if I’ll be ready come June 11? The worst I can do is fail. But it will be incredibly exciting just to try.

What about your foot?
It's mostly better. My toes are still quite sensitive. I’m hoping the pain continues to wear off so I can start to walk longer distances more comfortably, but I am no longer in danger of doing further damage as long as I don’t freeze them again (possible but very unlikely on the GDMBR in June).

What gear will you take?
Super cool stuff! More to come ...