Little tsunami

We had a short-lived tsunami warning this morning. A complete false alarm, but it lasted long enough to send the reporters at my office into a frenzy and release a steady stream of cars into town as they raced to get off the Homer Spit. Little earthquakes, little volcanoes ... does it end? Or do we just learn to live with it, like we learned to live with freezing rain and Kelly Clarkson, letting the threat sink into our lives until we scarcely realize how unnerving it should be?

I'm still haunted by a night Geoff and I spent bicycle camping in a little park in Chester, Illinois. Swirling clouds gathered in the Midwestern sky as blasts of hurricane-force wind tore through the deserted park, ripping down tree limbs and blowing through the rickety public restroom structure - the only building within sight. I sat in a "covered" picnic area, both arms stretched across a Rand McNally map to hold it down, my weather radio turned to high volume against the howling wind. Scratchy reports of tornado warnings (warnings, not watches, meaning tornados were imminent or were already happening) came in for nearby counties. Approaching counties. Then, finally, my county.

I remember being locked in a frozen sort of panic. Where would I go? What would I do? My best effort on a bicycle - even surging adrenaline - might reach oh, 35 mph. Maybe 40 with the wind behind me, although you'd have to knock off another 5 for the panic factor. Either way, not really enough to outrun shrapnel being shot out of a swirling vortex. So there I sat in the vertical rain, subdued by my powerlessness, and wondering how much better off I'd be if I just kept the stupid radio turned off in the first place. After all, the warnings only go as far as you can.

Not that I'm saying it's bad to have a good tsunami warning system in place - it's definitely better to create a little false hysteria than to risk loss of life. But it seems to also be true that we pay for this vigilance with increasing levels of elevated fear, even though the overwhelming majority of us will never encounter a catastrophic natural disaster. Still, some of us will. And I guess awareness is the price we pay for knowledge.

Earthquake II

Had the unsettling experience this morning of waking up to the bed jumping up and down as the bookshelf banged against the wall. High winds and warming had already sent huge slabs of snow on a 25-foot freefall from roof to ground throughout the night, but this was a much more prominent, much more sustained rumble. I couldn't tell what time it was, because the power had gone out several times already, and didn't even know what was happening in the black, inexplicable turbulence of it all. But either this Alaskan acclimation thing happens fast, or I'm more apathetic in the early morning than I even knew. Either way, I just thought "well, it's either an earthquake or an avalanche or the volcano finally blew its top over the entire Bay." Then I went back to sleep.

Turns out it was the former. At 7:15 a.m., a 5.3 earthquake hit about 18 miles south of Homer. A minor earthquake by damage standards, but large enough to be felt by people more than a hundred miles from here. And large enough to eclipse the all-time largest earthquakes of at least 10 states, according to a quick Internet search I did, including New Jersey and Indiana. OK. Not that impressive. Still, I hope this isn't a pattern that continues. Judging by the ruckus the bookshelf was making this morning, I think a 6-magnitude earthquake might just send it through the floor.

Geoff and I went snowshoeing this afternoon right before the Souper Bowl, which we missed the end of anyway in order the catch a movie (I actually missed pretty much the entire thing. It's amazing how much time a person can spend reading the Sunday paper when they're really locked into it.) Snow was deep and untrammeled, so it was a great workout for calves and quads. But the snowpack was warm and settling fast, which made for scary whoomps and thumps below our feet. At one point we watched a distinct fracture form across the gully we were trekking through. The hills around here are really mild as far as hills go, but you have to wonder - what could little avalanches do?

Little avalanches, little earthquakes. It's hard to keep on top of it all. At least one natural force is carrying out according to my evil plan. It's currently 37 degrees in Wasilla, where, as I type, the snow on the Iditarod trail is melting and settling and packing in tight beneath the weight of snowmobiles. If only the minor warmth keeps up for a few more days ... followed by the return of a deep freeze before oh, say Feb. 13 or 14 ... followed by clear, cold, sunshiney days with no new snow. Think I could will it so? It's worth a try.

End of the road, ma

Date: Feb. 4
Mileage: 63.4
February mileage: 109.1
Temperature on departure: 20

Well, according to some scratchy multiplication I just did, I rode about 102 kilometers today. If I were in Canada right now, I would have ridden a century. In Alaska, however, my ride was just a 63-mile slog against gale-force winds.

Today's ride was hard because I felt like I was in a constant battle with forces greater than myself - deep, uneven snow drifts across every road and trail, hills that seemed steeper than they probably actually are . And the wind. Oh, the wind. For most of the ride I was heading north or south with the wind right at my side, gusting to 40 mph and forcing me to lean like crazy diagonal biker woman just to stay on the road. Riding east, the chill would bring tears to my eyes, but at least I couldn't see my odometer registering its ridiculously low speeds. But there were the rare and beautiful moments riding west, skirting along at an even clip with traffic, feeling those oh-so-rare beads of sweat gathering beneath my layers. It was, after all, in the balmy 20s today. Felt much colder.

Also, my first experiment with the Camelbak thermal control kit was a massive failure. I made the mistake of neglecting to check my hose before I left the house. But I must have forgotten to blow the water out, because by the bottom of Diamond Ridge, 3.5 downhill miles and 10 minutes into my ride, the entire system was frozen solid. Because of the neoprene wrap around the tubing, I couldn't thaw it under my own power (by sticking the hose in my mouth) and I couldn't stuff it back into the protection of the pouch, where it would have been had I not purchased that false security system in the first place. The entire day, I had to drink straight out of the bladder, water slopping down my chin and raining onto anything below it (by the end of the ride, I had a fairly prominent frost bib down the front of my coat. Sad. Just sad.) I was really annoyed by the process. It caused me to never stay as well hydrated as I should have, and that combined with the pounding wind made for a really grumpy ride. I stuck it out to 5 p.m. because I promised myself I would. Under my training regimen, I could and probably should have gone further. Had I not been training, I would have turned around at the bottom of Diamond Ridge.

Oh well. I did have one bright spot during the ride. I took a little spur out from Anchor Point to a point that looked over the Cook Inlet. There, standing behind a mass of picnic tables buried in snow, was a sign informing me that I had just reached the furthest point west on the interconnected highways of North America. I had a short-lived but satisfying moment of standing somewhere important ... sort of like the time I stood at the end of the road in Prudhoe Bay (furthest point north), only this time, I was on my bike. That perked me up for at least two miles. Then, I remembered that it was really windy. Oh, the wind.

TGIF

Date: Feb. 3
Mileage: 32.4
February mileage: 45.7
Temperature on departure: 7

I took the "long way" to work today (if overshooting the distance by 27 miles counts as long). It was a beautiful morning - sun came out just after 9 a.m., stayed out for the first time in days and cut through the lingering cold snap that's on the cusp of snapping out of it. I was riding fast in hopes of putting in the full loop before noon. When I arrived at the cement box I had a stack of work and no snacks, so I ate a big piece of cheesecake for lunch (if there's one thing an office is always good for, it's copious amounts of free sugar.) The whole rest of the day I felt blah. I'm guessing cheesecake is not the best food for training.

So by that logic, the Subway sandwich, bag o' popcorn and diet Sprite for dinner was probably also not the best way to go. Oh well. It is Friday. I'm gearing up for a long ride tomorrow. It's supposed to be windy. That makes me feel blah, too.

Grounded

Date: Feb. 2
Mileage: 13.3
February mileage: 13.3
Temperature on departure: 0

So it's Groundhog Day. When I was a kid, I loved holidays. All of them. Not equally, of course, but I made it a point to savor every one. I never could wrap my head around Groundhog Day, however. Even as a kid who carefully planned my March 17 wardrobe so as to wear the most esoteric yet unarguably green attire, the Feb. 2 holiday always seemed so pointless to me.

But now, I don't know. After all, Groundhog Day is all about blind optimism in the face of unyeilding forces. Shadow or not, I don't think there's a person in Alaska who wouldn't love to believe that some semblance of spring will emerge before March 21. Of course, our hometown groundhog would have to burrow through about four feet of snow before peaking his little head out to the 0-degree, blowing blizzard outside. At that point, any pronouncement with the word "spring" wouldn't really qualify as optimistic - more like certifiably insane. That's probably why there aren't any groundhogs in Alaska.

We have a lot of snow. It's the cold, dry kind that makes for great traction when packed, but the trail riding is horrible. Impossible. Impossible in that you could maybe walk through it, if you had a pair of snowshoes and weren't pushing a 30-pound dead weight. Otherwise, you may as well just build an igloo and hunker down, because where are you going to go? Good thing they still plow the roads around here, so I can still ride. But the city never seems to plow my road until very last. It's a good thing my Geo Prism was a tank in his former life - busted right through nearly a foot of new powder this morning, bad clutch and all.

I actually had to cut my bicycle ride short today because I didn't dress thoughtfully enough and froze my toes on the early downhills. I got off my bike and walked for a while, but I couldn't get them to warm up much. Also, I've realized I don't have as much, um, "bladder capacity" when it's really cold out. So I turned around and rode back. I was going to do 30 more minutes on the trainer to get a solid two-hour ride, but when I came home, I discovered my road bike had a flat. How does a bike on a trainer get a flat? Those tires must have well over 2,000 miles on them, and this is the first flat they ever sustained. On a trainer. How undignified. Anyway, I was too lazy to repair two rear-wheel flats in two days, so I made a cup of hot chocolate instead. In the end, I guess I won.

Does goo freeze?

I just ordered a pair of Neos from Campmor. I was going to go with neoprene booties and gators. But after talking to some winter cyclists who warned me of the dangers of stream overflow, I gave the Neos more serious thought. It seems like every week I purchase some type of new gear and I'm starting to feel the financial strain - but $60 for overboots that are infallibly waterproof up to 20 inches is a lot cheaper than paying a doctor to amputate toes. I won't be able to use my cages anymore - but I generally just let them dangle anyway when the snow is soft. I need feet to catch my falls. Feet are important. I feel good about my purchase.

Another thing I gave some thought to today (it was an elliptical machine and trainer day - lots of time for wandering thoughts) was food. Up until now, I've had this vague idea of my race requirement to carry 5,000-7,000 calories, 3,000 of which I have to end the race with. But what to actually eat? This is important because I want to go light. I want to go quickly digestible. But most importantly, I want to bring things I can eat frozen. Powerbars, I discovered, turn to teeth-shattering bricks when they freeze. It takes more energy to bite and chew than you probably gain by eating them. But maybe I could bring those bags of Powerbar bites, which I could stick in my mouth and wait for the eventual thaw before chewing. I wonder what the freezing point of those carbo-loaded goos are. How about cinnamon bears? Jar of peanut butter?

During my eight-hour ride, I ate two peanut butter sandwiches and a baggie of Triscuits. These foods aren't as practical for a 100-miler, but I definintly want to bring food I actually want to eat, thereby increasing my chances of staying energized rather than reluctantly gnawing on a Powerbar before I pass out. However, I'm not sure what to bring. Bananas are out. I love peanut butter ... but once a peanut butter sandwich freezes solid, can you even bite into it? I always have the option of keeping food against my body, but I only want to do that as long as it's comfortable. Is there anything out there that won't freeze under daylong exposure to subzero temperatures? (One of my co-workers suggested Vodka. That's probably not a good idea :-) Hmmm. Today I learned about Neos. Now I have something to research tomorrow.

500

Date: Jan. 31
Mileage: 40.6
January mileage: 501.3
Temperature upon departure: 11

Well, it's the end of the month. Geoff already pointed out how close I was to 500 miles yesterday, so I had to go for it. Just had to. Why put so much emphasis on an arbitrary number (and, due to some guestimation during one ride, not even an exact number)? Why not 497? 481? I don't know. We're irrationally drawn to even numbers. Anyway, it got me out for a healthy 40-mile ride after work today. Plus, it beats going to see the latest Hillary Duff movie at the singleplex.

It's funny, actually, because I was not feeling good when I first set out in the blowing snow. I got out of work late and then had to spend 20 valuable daylight minutes changing a flat on my back tire (the valve tore. Tube creep is one of the perils of running bicycle tires at low pressure.) Snowfall was light, but there was a fierce headwind out of the east sending drifts everywhere. Plowing through the accumulation made for slow progress. But as I pedaled along, my mood began to improve. So I dropped off the ridge and made my move.

I spent about four hours on the bike today, navigating the unplowed roads, charging through snowcovered trails, and on (rare) occasion, coasting with a strong tailwind down reasonably clear roads. Most of that time was under night skies, and I finally burned out both my head and tail light batteries. But with all this trail riding I've been doing, even averaging 10 mph felt unbelievably fast. I can't wait to feel what it's like to get on a road bike again.

Someone asked me the other day if I could squeeze in some road rides to rack up my mileage. And I thought - roads? What are these roads that you speak of? I'm guessing the person was refering to a dry surface, generally smooth and covered in pavement. Such luxuries do not exist in Alaska in mid-winter. Even plowed highways are almost entirely covered with a thin layer of packed snow and ice, and usually a fair number of snowdrifts, for weeks on end. The gravel roads (of which there are many) might as well be packed snowmobile trails. When it snows, they might as well be an open meadow covered in moose-trampled powder. No one in town even dreams of running their vehicles without studded snow tires. We bikers feel the same way. I did get a few runs in on my road bike during an extended thaw in December, but it's looking like it may be a while before that happens again. For now, roadie sits on the trainer, dejected but probably thankful it doesn't have to incur the frozen abuse my Gary Fisher endures.

Sure, I miss riding my road bike. But, then I have days like today ... pounding through snow drifts on the Spit bike path as freezing spray splashes up from the Bay, facing the blowing blizzard and sucking up subzero windchill. And the best part - I'm feeling kind of good. Maybe even enjoying myself. After all, I think, I have this whole place to myself. I feel toasty in my winter gear anyway. I only have a few more miles to go and I may even get there.

Who needs summer?