Harassed

Date: April 23
Mileage: 63
April mileage: 364
Temperature upon departure: 36

I'm not a big fan of biking on the Sterling Highway anytime, but I've noticed that the further north I ride, the deeper the twilight-zone factor is. It's a strange land of driven unemployment; of rows of single-wide trailers that serve simultaneously as day-care centers/ kennels/ charter offices/ tourist lodging and summer coffee shops; of inexplicable architecture and fake flowers planted in the snow.

So when a white minivan blew by me today blaring its horn, I wasn't surprised. This highway has a wide shoulder with a rumble-strip buffer, so traffic isn't usually very threatening. I nearly had it out of my mind when several minutes later, a startlingly similar van approached from the oncoming lane and swerved toward me, blaring its horn and swerving back into its own lane. My heart was racing against the surge of adrenaline and rage, but I stayed the course on the highway. I just couldn't believe that this van would turn around and come at me again.

No sooner had I thought it when I heard that high-pitched horn blast from behind. Everything around me turned red. I mashed into the pedals and began sprinting as I heard wheels hit the rumble strip, slowing down, no more than a few dozen yards behind me. I pulled further right until I was practically bouncing through the weeds, now 10 feet from the lane itself, just as this van pulled up beside me. A woman who at quick glance looked to be about my age rolled down the passenger-side window and screamed at me. No words, just screamed - "Ahhhhhh." The van was straddling the rumble strip, rolling at my pace only a few feet away. I could have reached out and punched the woman in her ugly face, and I'd be lying if I said there isn't a part of me that savors the thought. But I knew for my own safety that all I could do was look ahead as if no part of me noticed, and pedal against the tide of boiling blood. Finally, after an eternal second, the white minivan pulled away and headed down the road.

That is the exact point where I turned around and pedaled the way I came. I had not quite reached my destination. I was 31.5 miles from home.

The minivan did not come back, but it took quite a while before I calmed down and started thinking other thoughts besides a vengeance-tainted resolve to hunt that minivan down and cut the brake line. Why is that if someone pulls a gun on you, you can call the police? But if someone harasses you with a two-ton minivan filled with adults who are probably driving drunk at noon, your only recourse is the pull off the road and hide in a bush, or put up with it. Next time I ride the Sterling north of Anchor Point, I'm bringing my bear mace. And not because I'm afraid of bears.

Herd mentality

Date: April 21
Mileage: 31
April mileage: 301
Temperature upon departure: 38

During the past week, I have come to learn that there actually are other recreational road riders in Homer besides myself. They seem to be enthusiasts - meaning they're sporting no visible cotton on their bodies and riding bicycles that most likely weren't manufactured in China. However, like me, they always seem to be traveling solo. Scattered. Alone.

It's still too early in the season to know for sure, but it seems that there's no bicycle organization in my town. No bike club. There wasn't even a bike shop until very recently. Today I was thinking about organizing all of the lonely pedalers I've encountered into some sort of cohesive group - if nothing else, to find occasional reprieve from the near-constant wind on the Spit.

But as soon as I thought of it, logistics and doubt began to creep in. For one, I live in a terrible place to start a road bike club because I live in a terrible place to road bike. There's a 17-mile loop of bike paths and light-traffic roads that can be enjoyable, but that's about it. We have the Sterling Highway going north (the only artery in and out of town.) We have East End Road going east (narrow, winding ridge road used mostly by crazy Russians with large trucks and a tendency to drive 60 mph.) We have short stretches of neighborhood pavement with potholes that could swallow a Subaru. And the rest is gravel. Lots and lots of gravel. It's dismal, really.

And then I have my whole herd complex. I am exactly the wrong person to organize group rides, if only because I am terrified of riding in groups. I have clusterphobia. Those who occasionally scroll down through this blog probably saw my gaping knee road rash a few weeks back (still healing.) I sustained that in a crash with the one person I was riding with. Put me in the middle of a peloton amping up to 30 mph, and I am likely to cause a pileup of catastrophic proportions.

Cast that aside, and I still have the whole politics of a bike club to deal with. I still remember a "friendly" road ride I showed up for a few years back, a 30-mile jaunt down a board-flat stretch of the I-80 frontage road near Salt Lake City. I arrived on my Trek 6500, knobby tires running at about 30 psi, and I was wearing - tsk tsk - a T-shirt. The pack dropped me before I even had a chance to learn anyone's name. I was stuck in the back with an older gentleman who rode beside me as I puffed along and lectured me on the values of good gear and regular training. I know he meant well, but about 12 miles into the ride, I had had quite enough. As we approached a muddy four-wheeler trail heading off toward the Salt Lake, I said "I think I'll check this out," and bounced away from Mr. Bike Snob and the distant peloton. After that, I always saw group riders as the "Cool Kids Club" that I was definitely not a part of.

Who knows, though. The sheer lack of pavement in my town means I am probably going to pass my fellow riders more than occasionally. Maybe the group thing will just happen naturally, like rogue ducks joining a V-line. I just probably won't be the rider out front. Probably best if I'm not in the middle, either, for the safety of others. Put me in the back, and I'll probably end up where I started - alone, but happy.

Just for the halibut

Today I was finally indoctrinated into tourism side of Homer, which is known far and wide as the "Halibut Fishing Capitol of the World." (Note the addition of the word "Fishing" to that motto. If you just want to eat a halibut around here, you still have to dish out $12 a pound.) I hooked up with the Chamber of Commerce crew to tag some "little guys" for the annual halibut derby. After we tagged the requisite number of fish, they let us catch a couple of our own.

Compared to the rest of the boat, I had an awful morning. I caught three cod, had four incidents of snagging other peoples' lines, and then nothing - for hours. I just stood out there in the wind and blowing snow, wielding a fishing pole that weighs as much as my road bike and practically tap dancing to maintain an on-board (as opposed to overboard) position in the rising swells. I had taken two Dramamines to ward of seasickness but wound up feeling pitched and druggy instead. After a while it was hard not to ask myself - "and this is fun, why?"

At about noon, I was reeling up what I was certain was another cod, and I was thinking about the Popeye forearm muscles I could build if I did this kind of fishing everyday, when my first flatfish finally surfaced. No sooner had I reeled him in the boat and dropped my line back down when I felt another familiar tap-tap-tap. Second halibut, within seconds. And just like that, I was done. Four hours of nothing. Eight minutes of fishing. Done.

But there is a certain satisfaction, a feeling of warmth and independence, in pulling up your very own "little guy" - one that will net you a cool 10 pounds of moist, melt-in-your-mouth fillets. It makes the whole morning of mindlessly bouncing a four-pound sinker with frozen fingers seem entertaining - even exhilarating. In this way, fishing can be a lot like bicycling. Or mountaineering. Or hitting yourself repeatedly in the head with a hammer. It doesn't feel good until you stop.

On the Arctic Blast

Date: April 19
Mileage: 18
April mileage: 270
Temperature upon departure: 29
On the iPod: "Grey Ice Water" ~ Modest Mouse

"You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you had yourself a crazy lover
becoming frozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

You're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the weather
you took the path of least resistance
on the phone cutting out talking
short to long distance

at home on a boat, it's a fish trap

you're standing by the grey ice water
out in the wind above ground out in the water
you had yourself a crazy lover
become unfrozen trying hard to forget her
you got a job up in alaska
it's easy to save what the cannery pays
cause there ain't no way to spend it

on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast
on the arctic blast"

Picture: Chris on the Sagavanirktok River; June 5, 2003

Me vs. All

Date: April 18
Mileage: 56
April mileage: 252
Temperature upon departure: 45
On the iPod: "To the Sea" ~ Razorlight

After several days of snow, it felt warm out today. Downright balmy. I forgot about windchill. Now my throat hurts. But I wasn't the only one who emerged for spring's first, best gasp.

Ever have one of those days when you feel like you're in a constant competition for space? I wanted to put in a 50-mile day while it was nice out, but I didn't have any interest in venturing into the great beyond just yet (North Sterling Highway. Fresh snow banks. Scary.) So I did my favorite 17-mile loop - thrice - with an extra 5 miles to say hi to Geoff. The problem with this strategy was that I had to ride out and back the Homer Spit, thrice.

It seemed like everyone and their dog took to the Spit today: the walls of walkers; the precariously swerving mountain bikers; the streams of cars; and the road riders donning their shiny new lyrca, which had obviously been stuffed in a dark closet since Christmas. I had the most fun with the road riders. They were probably out for their first or second ride of the year, whereas I've been riding all winter, but they don't know that. All they see is this awkward cyclist clad in baggy fleece and riding a roadie with flat handlebars, fat touring tires and a Subway cup full of watered-down Diet Coke stuffed in the water bottle cage. I must have looked ridiculous out there, which is why it was that much more fun to blow by the roadies, humming some silly song as if the process was effortless (although, I have to admit, I was huffing a little myself. Some of those fair-weather roadies must have indoor trainers.)

The pedestrians, however, often presented an insurmountable obstacle. When the Spit is busy, it's impossible to win as a cyclist. If you take to the road, cars will honk and swerve and generally act more aggressive than usual because There Is A Bike Path Right There. But if you use the bike path, you will undoubtedly approach a group of oncoming walkers, as I did today, strolling side by side and taking up the entire trail with no intention of moving out of your way. Today I approached four women on a narrow part of the trail, after a long straightaway - which meant they had a chance to see me coming for several minutes. Within about 50 feet of them, it became apparent that my only options were to: hit the guardrail, drop off a 15-foot embankment, slam directly into one or more of them ... or stop. I practically had my foot down on the pavement before one woman reluctantly slipped a little ways to the left, giving me about a 10-inch space to wedge through. Grrrrr.

I guess I can deal with it if it means the weather stays above 45 and sunny. It's not likely, but still - I'll take the pedestrian clog over sleet any day.

Easter ride

Date: April 16
Mileage: ~25
April mileage: 196
Temperature upon departure: 27
On the iPod: "Back to the Earth" ~ Rusted Root

When Dutch explorer Jacob Roggeveen "discovered" Easter Island in 1722, he Christened it with a name that evokes images of a springtime oasis with chirping birds and flowers. Then he wrote in his log:

April 5, 1722 (Easter Sunday) "We originally, from a further distance, have considered the said Easter Island as sandy; the reason for that is this, that we counted as sand the withered grass, hay or other scorched and burnt vegetation, because its wasted appearance could give no other impression than of a singular poverty and barrenness."

April 16, 2006 (Easter Sunday)
9:20 a.m. "The goal"
So the plan is to take advantage of the crust snow to find a trail through the wilds of Crossman Ridge to the oasis of Bridge Creek. All of the kiddies and their snowmobile-riding parents are down in town combing the muddy fields for half-frozen eggs and those individually wrapped marshmallow things that taste like glue. There should be no disturbances. I anticipate smooth riding.

~9:35 a.m. "No Water"
Still five miles from the trailhead, I realize in the midst of my first climb that I forgot my water bottle. Shoot.

~10:20 a.m. "Hit snow"
Long climb to the trailhead only to discover several hundred yards of thick mud before I can climb on top of the snowmobile trail. I find it to be glassy and as solid as concrete, if a snowmobile had torn through the wet cement prior to its hardening. It's a technical mess of ruts and divots, but it's fast. So, so fast.

~10:35 a.m. "So Fast"
Despite several snow drifts that stop me altogether, it only takes about 15 minutes to whittle away all the elevation I gained in an hour. I am bouncing and turning, rolling on top of ruts and dropping back in. I am unstoppable.

~10:50 a.m. "Hmmmm"
The snowmobile trail I was following has mysteriously petered out into the woods. I don't see any opening through the trees, so I'll have to turn back and find a different trail.

~11:20 a.m. "Hmmmmmmmmmm"
I've found remnants of a summer trail - an interpretive wooden marker. But no sign of a main trail. Just snowmobile tracks heading in every direction.

~11:30 a.m. "I forge my own trail"
I have an idea of the general direction of Bridge Creek, and the crust snow allows me to ride atop it through the woods. I weave in and out of trees but the woods become too thick. I'm off the bike and walking, tripping over stumps and the emerging skeletons of bushes until I arrive at an impassable ravine.

~11:45 a.m. "Climbing back"
I follow my own trail back to the snowmobile tracks I originally left, only to realize that they seem to go in all the wrong directions.

~11:55 a.m. "I pick the wrong trail"
Still hoping to find the magic route through the woods, I follow a single snowmobile track downhill, again flying, bouncing, having a great time ... until the trail dead ends.

~12:10 p.m. "I'm thirsty"
It's hard work walking back up these trails. They're steep and what little traction they provide make it nearly impossible to ride, so I get off the trail and mash my way through the breaking crust as I pedal uphill.

~12:20 p.m. "Snowmobile maze"
I begin to wish I didn't use the trails at all. My tracks are indistinguishable from the ruts and divots of the snowmobiles. I have no idea which trail is mine. I have no idea where to go.

~12:25 p.m. "I'm lost"
I begin think I'm not on my original trail. I'm veering way too far north. I think I may be dropping into another valley all together.

~12:40 p.m. "Definitely on the wrong trail"
Now I'm practically to creek elevation, in the wrong canyon. I thought the downhill would be a shortcut back to the reservoir but I was so, so wrong. Time to climb again.

~12:45 p.m. "I'm thirsty"
Need ... water.

~12:50 p.m. "I eat snow"
It tastes like dirt.

~1:00 p.m. "These woods are a wasteland"
I never really noticed how many of these spruce trees are dead, or how many skeletal branches clog up the woods. And what's underneath all this snow? Probably a bunch of dry grass that's going to ignite into massive wildfires come summer. But would it really be so bad for someone to build a cabin down here?

~1:05 p.m. "I begin to regain my sense of direction"
I'm pretty sure I'm heading due south, so if I can just push through these woods, I should come to the trail just above the reservoir. Just walk in a straight line.

~1:10 p.m. "I hit drifts"
Beneath the trees, the crust hasn't set up as much. I think the sharp ice shards are cutting holes in my pants; doesn't help that I'm sinking up to my thighs.

~1:15 p.m. "I find the Homestead trail"
Rejoice! Rejoice!

~1:25 p.m. "I make it back to the reservoir."
I pedal as hard as I can while mud splatters everywhere.

~1:45 p.m. "I make it home."
And drink about a gallon of water and weak Gatorade.

Happy Easter!

Enough already

Date: April 14 and 15
Mileage: 23 and 27
April mileage: 171
Temperature upon departure: 28 (Friday) and 33 (Saturday)
On the iPod: "Modern Romance" ~ Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Yesterday was Geoff's 30th birthday. Today is tax day and I can only hope my tax prep skills are up to par. Tomorrow is Easter. Talk about a strange holiday weekend.

I sure do get lazier on the weekends. I blame stressful weekdays. And late Friday nights. And disconcerting weather. I'm starting to understand why many Alaskans, even us soft-skinned southcentral types, start to become a little, well ... touched ... as time goes by. I mean, we do live on the edge of the world amid vast amounts of uninhabited space. But I think it's the whole nine months of winter that really gets to our collective psychological health. Pretend for a minute you're a person from California, approaching this place on a plane. Outside is a brilliant, burning sun, still hours from setting at 7 p.m. On the ground, you see people milling around in shirt sleeves, which makes sense to you because, well, it's April and it's an incredible sunny day. Then you see this crazy cyclist bundled to the nines in full winter gear and face mask, and that makes sense to you too, because, well, Alaska is known for its crazies. After the plane lands, you step outside to the full blast of gale-force winds whipping freezing spray off the ocean, the temperatures hovering in the low 30s, the 25 mph wind driving the chill to bone-freezing depths. Suddenly, your entire first impression is flipped.

What's the deal with those short-sleeved pedestrians? The answer: It's the driest, and therefore sunniest time of year in these parts. They've been bundled up in Carharts and flannel for seven months. So as far as they're concerned, it's summer. They'll thaw out their digits when they get home.

So what's the deal with that cyclist? She's fighting this freezing blast of headwind with just about every piece of gear she remembers using during some of her tougher December rides. Now that it's April, she has to admit that she's a little tired. She's learning to adapt to this cold place. She even thinks she's doing a good job of it, but she has to admit it's gotten to her, just a bit. She hasn't seen an outdoor thermometer reach 50 degrees since her first month in Alaska, in September. She came from a place where April meant new life, tons of green, chirping birds ... the whole package. Then she moved to a place where April means dry wind and dust and crusty snow that refuses to melt beneath a glaring sun that refuses to give warmth.

Maybe she just needs to get used to it. Maybe she, too, will be tooling around in minimalist clothing within the year. Maybe her problem is she's just not crazy Alaskan enough.