Blind spots

Date:Dec. 3
Today's mileage: 20.0
December mileage: 37.1
Total time: 2 hours, 4 minutes
Top speed: 26 mph
Temperature upon departure: 9

Today's ride was sponsored in part by Tracy in Iowa, and by The Old Bag. Two inches of new powder meant I didn't break any speed records today, but I did get some great lessons in maneuvering. My favorite part of the ride was blasting down a decent (probably 8 percent) grade on Skyline Drive. Powder clouds whipped around me as I coasted down the untapped shoulder, carving a perfect line in the thin layer of new snow. It was a single moment, but felt quietly flawless, like I was floating - like I was snowboarding. Toward the bottom of the hill, I met one of the few vehicles I saw today - a full-sized Chevy pickup buried to its sideview mirrors in a snow bank. Its path was carved in the powder as well - and was decidedly less pretty than mine. How a vehicle that size left the road is beyond me, but judging by the dirt and rocks strewn across a 20-foot radius, I could tell it was a mighty struggle. As I slowed down to go around the truck, three people in the ditch looked up from their hapless shoveling with the most forlorn look on their faces . They all had the exact same look, blank expressions with a tinge of desperation in their eyes. My heart broke for their plight, but, alas, I was not towing a 5-ton winch, and felt any offer of contribution by a rogue biker might only exacerbate the situation.

When I returned home from that adventure, Geoff and I went cross-country skiing. I am definitely worse at skiing than I am at cycling, but the flailing downhill stretches are always a good exercise in humility. For some reason, it was simply impossible for me to keep my skis parallel at crucial moments today. Those periods of sliding with my butt on the back of my skis really helped wash away any feelings of superiority I may have developed whilst passing that poor truck. I have to admit, I did feel a shameful sense of pride on my ability to outmaneuver a $35,000 vehicle down a hill. No more, though. We all have our moments. That truck could have just as easily been me, torso buried in the snow, a disembodied pair of legs with skis attached kicking wildly at the sky.

"Pain and suffering"

Date: Dec. 2
Total mileage: 17.1
Total time: 1 hour, 44 minutes
Top speed: 32 mph
Temperature upon departure: 11

Today’s ride was sponsored by Tracy of Iowa, donated very generously under the heading “pain and suffering.” Geoff and I left at the crack of dawn, and by "crack of dawn," I mean it was 9:30 a.m. We cruised up the packed snow of Skyline Drive and headed for Ohlson Mountain. I was having a hard time keeping my eyes on the road as a blaze of sunlight erupted all over Kachemak Bay, due south above a shock of whitewashed mountains. It hasn’t snowed since last weekend’s powder dump, and we had some pretty good speed going throughout most of the hilly ride – including a 32-mile-per-hour plummet down one ice-covered hill. You can’t do that on a skinny tire … or, at least, you can’t do that and live to tell about it.

I arrived home, drenched with sweat from overdressing. On this rolling glacial terrain, you can’t have it both ways – you either freeze on the downhills or sweat on the uphills. Geoff chooses to deal with the discomfort of warming up his digits after a frosty ride. I’d rather sweat a little or strip a few layers if I need to worry about being drenched on a long downhill. But either way, you learn to adjust. Eleven degrees doesn’t feel so cold anymore; the long darkness doesn’t feel like such a hindrance. We're products of our landscape, and so we move through it.

Geoff installed my new bicycle computer yesterday. This is the first one I've ever owned. I always resisted computers for various reasons - partially because I like the uncertainty of free movement, and partially because I don't want to become a clock watcher, straining to beat some imaginary time or speed while breathtaking scenery disappears behind my tunnel vision. But it is nice to have; today I was able to pinpoint a turnaround spot that would get me to work by noon, and thanks to the computer I estimated my time pretty close to exact.

I’ve been thinking more about my goal of riding the Susitna, and I’m feeling both nervous and excited about the prospect – a good combination, I think. I am prepared to do what it takes to get myself ready, and I really do appreciate the support. If you read yesterday's post and thought I might just be ranting again, I want you to know that I am good for every mile. I still need to tell Geoff about my plans, but I'll get around to that. He probably believes this will bring about alot more suffering than enjoyment for me, but I still feel a sense of purpose when I think about it. It gives me something to work for beyond the meager paychecks of employment and the simple pleasures of day-to-day life. Even after one day, I'm already finding support from all over. I feel like a one-woman-all-cyclists team. So, whatever happens, thank you!

Revisited

I spent an hour grinding away on my bike trainer today, staring at a fuzzy television program I couldn't hear anyway and thinking about how I'd really like to attempt the Susitna 100. Geoff is still talking about doing the Little Su 50K ... he thinks he may even run it ... but I don't know. If we're going to all that effort, why not go all the way? I know, I know. I've already had the "crazy" talk with Geoff. And I know I'll need to acquire some more gear and a little good 'ol Alaskan toughness and all of that. But still, I kinda want to do it. Why, you ask? Well, why cross the country on a bicycle? To see if I can.

I still have that other aforementioned problem of paying the entry fee. I came up with an idea while riding the trainer that may seem more crazy than wanting to do this race in the first place. In charity rides, people usually put some sort of monetary value on their miles and collect pledges. So here's what I resolve to do ... I set up a little paypal donation box in the sidebar of this blog. For every dollar, I'll ride one icy mile on my mountain bike before Dec. 31 (the payment due date). Even if I have to ride in the middle of the night in a blizzard to meet my goal, I figure that will do more to help me get ready for this race than anything. I'll keep a log of the rides and their sponsors on this blog, and offer regular updates of my progress. And, if I come woefully short of the entrance fee or if another unforeseen circumstance keeps me out of the race, I'll donate any funds raised to a worthy charity such as the Lance Armstrong Foundation. Is that too crazy of an idea? (Keep in mind I just thought of it a couple of hours ago while I was sweating buckets on my living room rug.) I don't know. I mean, I'm not a nonprofit and I can't offer tax deduction receipts, but I thought it might be worth a dollar or two to some out there just to read about the horrors of headwinds at -5 degrees. So I'm posting this idea it for now, and saying thanks again to all of the great bike bloggers out there.

Sunrise, sunset

9:45 a.m. I've been working for nearly three hours now, long enough that the room goes dark when I move my eyes away from the computer screen. My coworker walks in just as I stuff another handful of Fruit Loops in my mouth. "How long have you been here?" he asks. My shoulders go up in a halfhearted shrug. I answer with some loud crunching. "Well, you should go outside." I shake my head. "Why?" More crunching. He points to the digital camera sitting on my desk. "The sunrise is killer today."

4:35 p.m. I forgot my headlight again. I'm pedaling toward home, but at the last minute decide to turn left instead of right. Twilight's disappearing fast, but I want to get a good sprint in before the ride's over. The temperature's single digits ... again. I feel like I'm used to it, but the renewed wind tears into my eyes - the only body part exposed to it. I can barely see, but I'm not deterred because I know this road by heart by now anyway. I stop at the overlook because, well, you have to stop at the overlook. I rub my eyes until my hands feel warm, then look southwest. Remnants of sunlight reach into the graying sky, stretched so thin behind sunset that they appear almost desperate. I thought they were long gone, but then again, what meaning does a good hello really have if it never leads to goodbye?

Chasing sunset

So studs rule. I blew out of work today just in time to catch the last hour of depleted daylight - the 3:45 p.m. sunset and subsequent hour of twilight. Most of the ridge roads are packed snow and ice - a little precarious on treads, but as solid as pavement with studs. I climbed up a steep hill, one that's gravel in the summer and loose enough that you really have to throw all your weight on the back tire. Today I just cruised up it, standing, as sunset's shadow inched over the crest. I thought I could beat those last orange rays to the top, but the packed road quickly gave way to a soft snowmobile trail. I upped the RPMs but just kept grinding into the powder and falling over. I'm learning that when you're an ice biker, powder is bad. Especially when there's two feet of it, and a handful of snowmobiles do not a packed trail make.

Oops ... I forgot that I'm in Alaska now and need to call them "snowmachines." But I'm rebelling and keeping my native tongue. I'm from Utah, and I can say "fark" instead of "fork" and "crick" instead of "creek" if I want to. But to me, a snowmachine will always be one of those contraptions that spits powdery fountains of fake snow all over ski slopes when the real stuff ain't comin.' That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Becoming frozen

A four-day weekend means putting in a long, long, long day on Monday. I had to dig into the archives today for an illustrative photo - this is the Kasilof River, shortly after the first deep freeze. There were nearly two more hours between sunrise and sunset when this picture was taken - we're down to just over six now. Life does slow considerably in the winter, and the dark and cold seems to spark a subculture of people affected by SAD, or "Snow Activity Disorder." In Idaho, almost no one I knew ever even heard of ice biking - the only one who had said, "well, that's one way to ruin your tires."

My group of friends in the spud state went skiing occasionally; the hardcore among them tried ice climbing once or twice, but most curled up in the winter and watched "Survivor." Even with the Tetons nearby, I never found anyone in eastern Idaho who felt any urge to break a winter trail in knee-deep powder in the dark, ride a bicycle on a snowmobile path or go snowboarding if temps were approaching something even close to single digits. There are so many more people in Alaska who treat all those activities with the same blase participation that one might compare to swimming in the summer. It's just what you do. It's fun. They've all learned that if you wait out the weather in Alaska, you won't see much more action than "Survivor" can give you.

Since I started this blog 'lo those four weeks ago, I've come across a surprisingly supportive community of bikers and bloggers in cyberspace. Seems there's a lot of us out there who pedal vicariously - me wistful for the searing sands of the San Rafael Swell, others curious about the frozen north. I wanted to thank Gilby and Mark for the props; Tim in Anchorage for being a great ice bike mentor; John for being tough enough to live in Fairbanks; and Filtersweep for introducing me the Norway, future site of my dream bicycle vacation; and all y'all who come to visit. Drop me a line and tell me where you're riding.

Susitna dreams

Scenic drive back down the Peninsula today. A blanket of frost gave the trees a skeletal look and new snow oozed down evergreen branches like frosting; the air was as clear as a cold day and the sunrise sent steams of pink light down the whitewashed mountains. A rather rough freeze has transformed the Turnagain Arm into a boulderfield of ice. I looked out at the tortured seascape and instantly thought of Death Valley, a beautiful, rocky desolation born of heat, not ice.

We stopped at a bike shop in Anchorage and bought studded tires for our mountain bikes. And it looks like we'll have snowcover to practice on for a long time now. We returned home to nearly two feet of new powder on everything, as demonstrated by this photo - I call it "Geo Prison." We spent a better part of the clear and cold evening stamping through thigh-deep snow to find the snowshoe trail we've been working on.

Anyway, Geoff and I were so giddy at the prospect of extending the cycling season indefinitely that we picked up a brochure for the Susitna 100 and began planning our training regimen. We thought we were all bad because we even had thoughts of participating in a winter bike race that crosses snow-covered tundra during the deep freeze of subarctic night. But then we discovered the prohibitive entrance fee, regulating the races to those who have, well, a little bit more than blind gumption and gear. But (wink wink) if anyone out there - anyone at all - feels inspired to sponsor us in our efforts as virgin ice bikers tackling a decidedly hardcore bike race in the frozen north, we will proudly display your logo and our gratitude on this blog for as long as it takes. I'm not joking. Really. Why are you laughing?